This week the final touches on my novel ‘The Sound of Money’ were completed. Money is about a struggling songwriter that gets mixed up with the mob. The label, run by Uncle Morty, forced Bruce to front an all-girl punk band. The following scene is Spyder and the Widows debut. In the dressing room prior to the show, Bruce takes a crosscut to the nose trying to break-up a fight between the drummer and the bass player. Victor, their manager, is reviving Bruce so that he can go on stage.
…Once the dressing room cleared, Victor kneeled over Bruce, whose eyes had fluttered shut; at least the bleeding had subsided. "Spyder, wake up." Victor slapped his face but got no response. He pulled an amyl nitrate capsule from his shirt pocket and split it under Bruce’s nose. "Come on, wake up."
Bruce’s eyes popped open. He felt like he was in a dream. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know where his mouth had gone. "Huh?" he muttered thickly, as if shot up with Novocain.
"You're Spyder," Victor said. "You're mad as hell, mad at me, mad at the ladies, you’re mad at Uncle M. It's time to get revenge. Go out there and kick some ass."
Bruce was oblivious, rubbing at a splotch of blood on his black mesh outfit. “Huh?" he repeated, remembering nothing of the fight or Carla’s punch.
Victor hollered as if Bruce were deaf. "You're Spyder. It’s time for battle." He yanked him to his feet.
Bruce staggered, wondering where his legs had gone. Victor led him down the corridor. He was a kite floating on a breeze, giddy, flapping around with no worries. The girls were already onstage at full volume. Angela, as Voo Doo, let loose a barrage of notes so loud the parking lot attendants needed earplugs. A microphone was thrust into Bruce’s hand, and he rode the gusts of Medusa’s drumbeat to center stage. The bright lights burned. His eyesight turned insectlike, the audience now a kaleidoscope of shape and color. He was surrounded by sound -- a screeching guitar, a thumping bass, pounding drums -- and in this sonic blast he found refuge. He spun around, moving to the beat, swinging his arms like a child. Here was safety, freedom, flight. Something deep inside triggered the words that came out of his mouth, yet he had no idea if he was singing. He raised a fist, he spat blood.
A small battalion of spiked punkers recruited by Victor stood defiantly by the front barrier. They shot their fists into the air like a volley of arrows and pelted Spyder with gobs of spit, but he felt nothing. He was soaring above the stage.
During the third song, “This Mess,” the band got lost – Voo Doo played the verse, Hell was on the chorus, Spyder was muttering the words to the bridge. The haphazard sounds exploded into chaos at one hundred and twenty decibels. Nobody noticed except Victor.
The fourth song was something Spyder had just written, “Crybaby.” The stage darkened, and the black light transformed Voo Doo into bones. The crowd went wild. The strobe flickered, and Spyder tripped over the microphone cord, falling into the audience. The crowd closed in like a school of piranhas. The band kept playing louder, and faster. Security beat back the attack and lifted Spyder up to the stage, his webbed shirt in tatters. His pale chest was scratched and bloodied, as if he’d slept on a bed of glass shards.
“Animal fuckers, die in hell!” he screamed. “Animal fuckers, die in hell!” It was a primordial roar, something from beyond the abyss. It wasn’t rehearsed, it wasn’t a lyric, it was channeled from the depths of his tormented soul. “Animal fuckers, die in hell!” he repeated, and the crowd echoed the chant.
The final number was “Teenage Lobotomy” by the Ramones, but nobody would have known that without the set list. It was so loud it was white noise. The kids went crazy, throwing bottles and whatever else was handy. Spit flew in all directions. A green lugey splattered Spyder. As he wiped his cheek, a bottle soared toward him, nailing him in the head. He tripped over another cable and crashed into the drum set. Everything went black.
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February 1, 2010
I spiraled downward this week. It’s pathetic because the survivors in Haiti are getting on with it, but I was down on myself because I hadn’t done anything significant to help. Boo hoo. But even worse, and much more telling, I was annoyed at a friend who had organized a benefit concert because he hadn’t invited me to play.
I’m not in ‘circulation’ the way I once was, but this friend knows I’d been down there, he knows I would have wanted to be part of his event; but he didn’t ask. I should be thrilled that he had the gumption to do something, and I am, but in the end it’s always about me.
The same year I went to Haiti, I was planning on going to Ole Miss to study with Barry Hannah, but I didn’t have the guts to sell my house and move to Mississippi. Instead I got caught up in working with CBGB. I love working with the club, but sometimes I get home so late, I plop down on the sofa and look longingly at my guitar, but have no energy to pick it up. When I do find the time, I feel like a shadow of what I once was.
There are two issues here – I need to get back to playing and I’m feeling helpless, caught in an economic vortex, unable to make a difference the way I once did. If CBGB were making money, we could have done something, but we have a partner with deep pockets and I did ask if we could help promote whatever they were doing – they weren’t doing anything.
That sucks and I told them that, but it didn’t change their mind. If I really had the guts, I’d publicly chastise them, but I still have to work with them, so I can’t. Chickenshit, I know. One day I’ll be in a position to say ‘fuck-you’ to people that can do the right thing, but don’t; for now I have to work within the system.
My insecurities and hang-ups are all crap. It has no relevance to anything that truly matters. When you lose your home and your means to make a living and your dearest friends and family, what’s going on in my head is hardly worth mentioning.
But I have to write this stuff down to remind myself to stop whinging.
Sodo - in the mountains beyond Port au Prince
January 25, 2010
The outpouring of Haitian assistance is awesome, but why did it take a massive earthquake to get people’s attention?
In 2006, I visited a doctor in a village six hours from Port au Prince. He was one year out of a Cuban medical school. His clinic, built by Concern Worldwide, received a medicine cabinet’s worth of penicillin and other drugs each month – appeals for donations to purchase more supplies fell on deaf ears. This clinic, and this doctor, was all the village had, a village of over fifty thousand. A village where over 50% are illiterate and most have no water or electricity in their homes.
In my town of Westport, there are hundreds of doctors -- population twenty thousand. The doctors here are graduates of some of the world’s best schools, most have extensive experience, not to mention access to the latest equipment and unlimited pharmaceuticals.
While I was at that clinic in Haiti, I saw a man who’s leg had been mangled by a farm machine. The accident had occurred three days prior. His sons had carried him four hours in ninety degree heat because left untreated he was a dead man.
A pregnant woman sat in a shady corner, cooling off after a six-hour walk. She told me she lost her first baby because she hadn’t seen a doctor. She wasn’t making that mistake again.
Concern was also in the area training teachers, sending engineers to address water sanitation; they were funding a micro-finance program. Concern did incredible work, but their effort was like putting a Band Aid on a gunshot wound.
I’ve heard some say the earthquake is a good thing, in the way that Michael Vick was a good thing for the dog community because of all the attention it brought to dog fighting.
Go f#*% yourself if you believe that.
In the weeks to come, we will grow bored with this story and we will shift our eyeballs to something else, just as we have done with every other natural disaster. We only have to look at New Orleans -- where many of the poorest areas are still in dire need -- to see the truth. After the press leave, only a few are left to give a rat’s ass.
I’m in awe of these people who dedicate their lives to helping others as they do. Several that I’d met at Concern Haiti are still missing, and yet each of those unaccountable wouldn’t have changed a thing; they were well aware of the dangers.
It’s foolish to think sending cash to Haiti compensates for our ignorance, but please don’t stop writing checks; they desperately need the money.
Haiti 2006
January 17, 2010
I’m heading to South Beach, but I’m thinking about Haiti. It’s only a few hundred miles from there.
I spent a week in Haiti in 2006. It was a train wreck before the earthquake, and yet, despite the awful conditions, Haitians are wonderful people and eager to improve their lot. It’s the system that has failed the country, not the people.
The group I went down with, Concern Worldwide, is in the trenches right now, providing shelter, food, and supplies to survivors. Anything you can spare will make a difference.
January 10, 2010
With the Phillies in the World Series, baseball didn’t end until the first week of November. I was just settling into football, but now its 'wait until next year' because my team, the Eagles, got pounded again in Dallas, concluding yet another season short of a Super Bowl.
There are, however, a few positives to draw from this abrupt ending. Friday I head to South Beach for a weekend getaway to celebrate my girlfriend’s birthday. Last year we had to watch the Eagles lose yet another NFC championship game in Key West. This year I won’t have to give up any beach time.
In the novel I’m working on called “My Year as a Clown,” I chronicle the Eagle’s 2003 season in parallel with Chuck Morgan dealing with divorce. ‘03 was pre-TO. The Eagles were coming off two consecutive NFC championship losses. Half-way through the novel, the team makes it to a third championship game, an accomplishment in and of itself, but of little consolation, when they lose yet again.
Chucks unwavering support of his team provided insight into how he handled his wife’s sudden departure with another man. I had concerns that an Eagle Super Bowl victory too close to the ’03 season, could water down the impact of this strategy, but as the years march on, that worry dissipates.
This Eagle loss stings, but the warmth of South Beach beckons …
January 4, 2010
A Marine from Westport, home for the holidays before setting off for Afghanistan, died in a car accident this week. The reason is still under investigation, but drinking appears to be the cause.
Few locals end up in the military because of the affluence here. I have no idea what motivated this Marine to join, or get blitzed with friends, but it’s tragic and ironic that he died here given the dangers that were waiting overseas.
The Underwear Bomber was a reminder, however, that it’s not as safe here as it might appear. I’m amazed that a suicide lunatic hasn’t struck somewhere at rush hour. It’s unrealistic to expect zero domestic casualties. Republican or Democrat, any expert knows that the intelligence system cannot prevent suicide bombers; anyone with an ounce of common sense could figure that out, but it’s unbelievable how many political careers are based on stoking this fire of fear.
On the flip side, this rag-tag group of fanatics living on the run continues to fight hard. How is it possible, given that the full might of the Western military has pounded the crap out of these guys since 9/11?
Last week I overheard several high-flying executive types complaining about the new airport security procedures. Are we that self-absorbed to not realize there’s a war going on?
Here’s another way to think about it -- today was the last day of the National Football League regular season. For some, like the New York Giants, the season was already over. They had nothing to fight for. These multi-million dollar players mailed it in. The Minnesota Vikings on the other hand, had been humiliated the past few weeks. They needed to right the ship before the playoffs start. The Giants were annihilated.
Sometimes I think we are the Giants and they are the Vikings.
In some respects, this is an unfair comparison. If we are a professional football team, these guys in Pakistan, Yemen, or wherever, are clearly not even Pop Warner grade. So why worry? In a game we’d kill them, but this isn’t played by conventional rules, there are no refs. To be honest, it wouldn’t matter even if there were rules that could be enforced; 'us' civilians act as if it’s the off-season. We’re in Miami sipping margaritas poolside while these rag tag glory fighters are on the field, suited up with fire in their belly.
If only we understood what the fuel was that made their guts burn so …
Perhaps that Westport Marine would have faced a different overseas assignment. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt compelled to drink himself into oblivion --
December 28
As this is the last posting of 2009, I wanted to share three friend’s stories:
Chris and Julie, had a baby, Evan, five years ago, diagnosed with Down Syndrome. Since his birth, these proud parents have been sharing their positive experiences as well as the challenges of having a child with special needs. They’ve spoken at marriage preparation courses, hosted medical students, and reached out to other parents with kids like Evan. According to Chris and Julie, Evan has brought an immense amount of joy and love into their home and continues to shatter preconceptions.
My friend Steve sponsored his 22-year old daughter on a cross-border aide program in Mexico. His daughter returned home urging his parents to adopt a five-year old baby that had been abused and beaten. His daughter had met this brain damaged boy at an orphanage. Earlier this year Steve’s family welcomed the child into their home.
At a holiday party, I reconnected with the woman who inspired a short story I wrote called ‘Coming Home,’ about a girl’s father getting released from prison. In the story, the mother had been killed by a stray bullet; the girl was living with her grandmother and an eight-year-old brother. When I met this young woman, she was working at HMV and raising her brother on her own. Today she’s head of HR for a global music electronics company, has two kids of her own; her baby brother is at community college. I was so proud of her. When I’d known her, she was just a kid trying to find a toe-hold in the world. Today she’s a remarkable professional woman with a family of her own.
At a time when hardship is everywhere, these stories have inspired me to do more in 2010.
I wish everyone all the best for the rest of the holidays and a happy New Year.
How do you send your cards?
December 20, 2009
Every year I get to the cards later and later. Here it is December 20th and I’m staring at the unopened boxes of holiday greetings still on my desk.
I receive Xmas mail from family and friends, business associates, acquaintances, companies like the local dry cleaner; I even get cards from corporations, some I haven’t done business with for years.
Cards come in many sizes with varying degrees of images and wit, but it’s not about being clever or flash, it’s about the degree of humanity inserted into the process of sending that counts for me. I want to know: was the sender aware of the addressee at the time the card was dealt with?
The hand written note is your best determinate, but the least common of those I now receive. An increasingly popular option is the preprinted card/label with no personal message or signature inside. Often this is sent untouched by human hands, or at least by a person that doesn’t know me (eg, a secretary or domestic servant). I grow more and more annoyed at this species of card. Okay, it’s better than the ‘one’ not sent, or for any e-card regardless of how many times my name is inserted into the greeting, but still, not by much.
And for the record: a card with a real signature, but no personal salutation, arriving in an envelope with a printed label is only a skosh more credible. Curmudgeons like me figure it’s an assistant doing the signing anyway.
It’s fashionable to slam the family letter, and deservedly so, but I know quite a few professional writers, and a deftly written note is a jewel, but still, it means a lot more if accompanied by a short scribble, as long as it indicates that I was thought of at some point in the process.
I used to be a stickler on cards arriving before the 25th, perhaps I’m mellowing in middle age. Effort counts, even if it’s late, but post New Years is pushing it, unless of course it’s a New Year’s card. The ‘response card,’ however, is another thing entirely. That’s the one that comes because you’d sent them first; then again, every year I’m guilty of doing that a few times too.
Despite this annual grumble, it’s great to find something besides bills, magazines, and junk in my mail box; to be honest, in the deep chill of late January, even a preprinted card in a labeled envelope is a welcomed sight.
CBGB exhibit at NYC Annex
December 14, 2009
Last week the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Annex announced it was closing. The economy has been tough on lots of businesses. The location wasn’t ideal, but something this good should have found its place in NYC. This is a tragedy for rock and roll lovers, but what’s more tragic, is how so many here in NY that work in the industry never made it down to check it out.
The two-hour experience was operated by Running Subway, the folks who managed the Bodies exhibit – it was programmed and curated by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. CBGB had a terrific exhibit – we even had a urinal by the Annex bathrooms. If you looked closely you’d see blood on the lower right side.
Over the past year I’ve taken lots of friends, musicians, and business associates through. Everyone loved it, in fact, it far exceeded expectations. But many also said that they had no idea it was here.
No doubt there were marketing challenges to the location, but it wasn’t as if there was no press or advertising. Some say that cities like NY are too big for such an exhibit, but I don’t buy that for one second.
Word of mouth is often the most powerful marketing tool, and who best to talk up the Annex than those of us in the music business, and yet, if there was one thing not talked about this year, it was the Annex.
Yes, the economy and location were factors in the Annex’s demise, but the industry did not embrace this effort – from musicians to those in the executive offices, it was as if the Annex was a wounded horse that needed to be put out of its misery.
Come January, that shot will be fired.
The value of a gig ...
December 6, 2009
It took six hours to get back from Philly in the cold, ice and rain, schlepping a guitar and some gear for a gig I did Friday night at the Burlap and Bean Coffee House. We had a modest turn out and my share of the tips was ten bucks; after gas, tolls and food: negative twenty.
Despite all that, I had a great time. I got to play music with a handful of good friends I don’t see often. I met some old pals in the audience, made new friends too; most important, it was a chance to get back in touch with the singer-songwriter I often lose sight of now that I’m so busy with CBGB.
Ironically, I am writing, playing, and singing better than ever. The output is small, but the quality has noticeably improved. Having a community of writers and musicians to tap into has helped a lot. Many have become real friends. Friday’s line-up was comprised of people I’d met back in 1999 at a Jimmie Dale Gilmore workshop.
I’d played with this same group last year: Gerry, Charlie and Becky. In August Becky was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She’s been through hell and back since, but her treatment is working. This was her first gig since undergoing chemo – she sounded great and it was a lot fun for all of us to hang out and play music.
Becky’s situation was a sober reminder to make the most of every moment. Having real friends is also so important. The love that surrounds Becky is a key reason why her treatment is working. Music has the power to heal too, but we all know she’s not out of the woods yet – nights like that, however, certainly help.
November 29
This week Joey Ramone’s brother, Mickey Leigh, releases a book about Joey called “I Slept with Joey Ramone.”
To help promote it, I produced and filmed a series of interviews with Mickey and Legs McNeil, his co-author, hosted by Arturo Vega, the band’s artistic director – the episodes are popping up on various websites.
I’ve been working with Arturo for about a year and each time we get together I learn something new about CBGB. We filmed in his loft on Joey Ramone Boulevard. Arturo has been there since ’74! Everyone hung out there from Debbie Harry to Joey. Arturo was at every Ramones show except two, but even he said he’d learned a lot from this book.
I was in California through much of CBGB’s hey-day. I got involved with the concert board at San Diego State, and soon was running it. I booked the Ramones three times from ‘79-‘81. We sold out each of the Montezuma Hall shows (one thousand capacity). The concerts were intense and chaotic, but the band was easy to work with. They showed up on time, behaved themselves; they put on a great show. You couldn’t say that about all the punk bands of that era. According to Arturo, “We loved coming to San Diego, the girls were so beautiful.”
The last punk show I booked was 999 and The Dickies. We lost control of the crowd that night and at some point the stage started coming apart. We had to stop the show and I grabbed a microphone and told everyone to step back to give us room to reassemble the stage. Everything but the kitchen sink was thrown in my direction. The show went on, but we had a few minor injuries and the school banned punk.
At that time punk was on the outside of everything going on in the music business. It was raw and original, it was dangerous and it was banned from campus despite my best efforts to defend it.
The filming and editing of these interviews brought back lots of those memories this week. Word is, they’ll be making a movie of this soon, in the meantime, check out webisode number one: Big Brother.
Purell Mad
November 23, 2009
Mary’s son has swine flu. He’s the first human I’ve talked to with the virus. He sounded good on the phone, considering. His mother was holding up well too.
The flu is running rampant through the Norwalk school system. According to the Westport papers (adjacent cities), swine is not nearly as widespread, but vaccines are still in short supply across the state. Last week the town received an allocation and parents with children lined up for hours outside in the cold – not everyone went home innoculated.
This week more vaccine arrived, but only for the very young, susceptible children and the elderly. Because the illness appears to be easily identified and treatable, there’s no panic, but just imagine if this flu was as deadly as first advertised:
- States debating who has priority
- Counties and towns erecting border crossings
- Those of influence doing what is necessary
Then again, some believe the vaccine to be just as dangerous.
It’s difficult to know what to believe. Last week women were told mammograms were not necessary until the age of fifty, and yet many experts continue to advise starting at forty.
In Woody Allen’s ’73 film, “Sleeper,” Miles Monroe wakes up in the future and discovers that scientists have declared eating hamburgers and smoking to be part of a healthy lifestyle. Was there ever an age where we had consensus amongst the so-called experts?
The big winner of this Swine Flu pandemic is Johnson & Johnson, the makers of Purell. Dispensers are popping up everywhere: at the gym, the supermarket, in the lobby of office buildings. If I had a little cash, I’d buy J & J.
I do wonder though, after scrubbing my hands with that gel, what affect does the residue have? What happens when those sterile hands touch food? And what’s the downside to all this anti-bacterial soap I’ve been using? If it kills bacteria, what else does it attack?
Mary’s son got the regular flu shot last month. He practiced good hand hygiene, took vitamins, he ate right and still got Swine.
Maybe Woody Allen had it right -- pass on the Purell, smoke, have a burger.
An early version of the novel bundled up for the cold realities of the market
November 16, 2009
Earlier in the year I sent yet another draft of The Sound of Money to my editor for review, a novel I wrestled with for eleven plus years. She felt it was close but still required work. She gave me detailed notes and for the last eight months I’ve been working on these changes.
I cut 10,000 words and then rewrote most of the remaining 90,000. The result was a much improved story about a struggling song writer who gets mixed up with a mob-owned record label.
That version got the thumbs up from my editor, Joy Johannessen. We met at a songwriter seminar back in ’02. At the time I had no idea that she worked with major writers like Alice Sebold (The Lovely Bones). I offered to help her with a song that she was working on. She reviewed an early draft of my story.
“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much,” she had said, “but there’s something here.” Joy suggested that I attend the annual Community of Writers conference at Squaw Valley, a gathering of authors, publishers, agents, and aspiring writers in the Olympic Village. Admissions are based on a writing sample. Most are rejected, but for the hundred or so in attendance, it’s an opportunity to workshop material, mingle with industry folk, and hang with authors.
Amy Tan, Michael Chabon, Alice Sebold, and Joshua Ferris are a few of the writers who were discovered there. Squaw is the Sundance of fiction if you think ‘Sundance’ long before anyone had heard of it.
I didn’t get in the first year and was devastated, but it just made me more determined. The following year I made the wait list and got the call at the last minute. I didn’t strike a deal that year, but I learned a lot and made the most of the contacts I met. Most valuable: the other attendees.
I joined a writers group, reviewed manuscripts; I kept writing. Soon I was a finalist in the Raymond Carver Short Story contest, followed up quickly by two other published short stories. I generated a lot of heat on the novel too, but I never placed it. I grew frustrated and tucked the story into a desk drawer. At about the same time, my marriage fell apart and I fell into a funk.
Several years later I rejoined the living with a new novel completed, My Year as a Clown. I attended the two other premier writers’ conferences – Sewanee in Tennessee and Bread Loaf in Vermont. Barry Hannah at Sewanee fell in love with My Year as a Clown. He introduced me to a number of people, but I still failed to sell it. Barry invited me to Ole Miss to study with him. He got me a scholarship, but I had just finalized the divorce. A tornado had torn through my heart and wallet. I wasn’t thinking straight, nor did I have the guts to move to Mississippi for graduate school in my late forties. I was an idiot for not going, but at least I didn’t stop writing.
I still believed in Clown and after yet another revision, I sent it to a few agents. The office of one major agency responded with this email:
I've spent the last two days completely absorbed in your novel. Chuck's candid, raw narrative left me breathless; I felt as if I were mourning with an old friend in the comfort of my living room. I'm originally from Redding, so the entire setting was familiar to me.
This is a quick note to spread my encouragement to you and let you know that I'm passing your manuscript on to Mr. X. I will be in touch with you soon.
A few weeks later she wrote back that her boss had felt differently.
I put Clown back in the drawer and sought alternative means of income. I started a consulting business and quickly grew the company. It was in August of 2007 that CBGB became a client.
Coincidentally, several scenes of The Sound of Money took place at CBs, so I dug the manuscript out of my drawer. The time off had given me perspective. I realized Money was pretty good, but I could also see a gazillion ways to improve it. I asked Louise Staley, the person who booked CBGB shows since the 80’s to review those very scenes. I started revising.
Two years later, here I am.
What happens next is anyone’s guess. Of course I want it published, but the market is fickle for novels. If nothing comes of it, I will be gutted yet again, but with no regrets. Writing got me through my dark period, opening up internal doors never accessed before. Through one I learned I was many things including a writer.
Front row seat -- Berlin
November 9, 2009
Three weeks into the job at HMV (a division of EMI Music Group), I stood in for my boss at the East/West music conference at the Grand Hotel in East Berlin. The Grand was one of the last vestiges of the Politburo extravagances – Renaissance Art hung in the lobby, Hungarian down duvets covered mahogany beds, gold-leafed faucets adorned the bathrooms; one was greeted by white-gloved valets.
Months leading up to the conference, protests were mounting throughout East Germany. Earlier in the year, a protest in China ended violently – Tiananmen Square. Nobody knew how things would unfold here in the German Democratic Republic. Meanwhile, I had a speech to give.
We heard there were protests going on in the city and this guy from Sony and I ducked out one afternoon despite warnings to stay close to the hotel. The park near the Unter den Linden was packed, it was like a rock festival with speeches and music, but the perimeter of the gathering was wall-to-wall green Polizie vans. We half-expected the police to start firing their AK-47 rifles, but most stood with weapons slung across their shoulders smoking cheap cigarettes.
Back at the conference, I gave a twenty minute talk on how western music retailing techniques could help in the East – the speech was translated into six languages simultaneously, including Russian.
The conference was really about making deals, unfortunately for the Eastern bands desperate to break in the West, nobody was interested. Let’s be honest here, this was about selling more Michael Jackson and Bruce Springsteen into the Eastern Bloc. In those days state run record companies licensed an album and paid an upfront fee – they’d buy a 50,000 unit license and print hundreds of thousands – piracy and corruption were rampant.
The night the wall fell, I was eating dinner in the five-star restaurant at the Grand with several senior EMI executives. Four Eastern Bloc bands showcased that night. They tried so hard to make an impression, but nobody cared. To be fair, they had nothing original to offer.
Around 10:30 people on the streets appeared more animated than usual. For thirty years, locals walked with their heads down, careful not to draw attention to themselves, but that evening faces were aglow, kids were jogging; something in the air was different.
My friend and I headed to the wall, about a mile from the hotel – what we saw made Times Square on New Year’s Eve look tame.
The next day I was back to London via Tegel, the airport in West Berlin. The hotel driver was probably one of the only Easterners upset over these events -- his smuggling days were over.
Checkpoint Charlie was chaos – cars and people clogged lanes. We were in a bullet-proofed Mercedes limo. Our driver drove with confidence, a man who knew that even today, he was still untouchable on this side of the wall. He honked hard, and if a vehicle didn’t move, he rammed it.
In the car beside me was a guy who ran international for one of the major labels, another was a big-time film soundtrack producer. We’d all seen crazy stuff being in the music industry, but nothing like this.
That journey was twenty years ago this week.
November 1, 2009
October 31st may be a day of witches, goblins, and candy corn, but for me, it will always be a reminder of my Nana. She would have been 99 on Halloween.
Born in the year of Halley’s Comet, 1910, she lived through two World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, Gulf I & II, and 9/11 – she died in 2008.
London during the war was prime time for my Nana. Although she and her daughters were evacuated to the safety of the suburbs, her husband, my grandfather, stayed in town. Grandpa was a drinker and a great piano player – you could count on finding him at the upright in the local pub.
Nana had two young girls to look after and wasn’t happy with her husband cavorting late at night, but the struggle to survive kept the family together. The post war years improved their lot. Grandpa stopped drinking. Nana and her husband ended up running a successful coat and jacket business.
It’s easy to look back, knowing that the Nazis were defeated, but living in that era, not knowing the outcome, it must have put an edge on even the mundane – imagine dashing out to the grocery store, needing to get back before an air raid struck.
I was in Vegas recently and that reminded me of Nana too because Sin City was one of her favorite places. She loved the spectacle, the energy, the gambling. Her adrenalin pumped. She loved the shows and got so amped up, she couldn’t sleep. Often she’d play slots until dawn. Maybe Vegas came closest to generating that war-time intensity – that feeling of each second carrying weight because everything was on the line.
Nana witnessed my early success – I lived in England for several years in the 90’s with a job that had me jetting around the globe, but she was a tad perplexed when I dropped out to be a writer. I was just getting involved with CBGB when she passed away.
Most people Nana knew, did what they had to, not what they wanted. I was the first kid in the family to graduate from college. She was proud of what I’d accomplished and pleased that I enjoyed what I did, regardless of how lucrative or not it might have been.
Despite the vampires and ghouls roaming the neighborhood in search of candy this weekend, I was preoccupied with a different sort of spirit -- Happy Birthday Nan...I love you.
Veterans Stadium Opening Day Program
October 25
The Phillies will be compared with the best through the ages if they win just four more games this season. But those four are the toughest in baseball.
It’s hard to get my head around dynasty and Philadelphia in the same sentence after experiencing nearly a half a century of losing. The closest Philly ever came was the back-to-back Flyer Stanley Cups in the early 70’s, but that got overshadowed by the Islanders four-spot just a few years later.
I now get why Yankee fans never tire of winning – I used to say, just one, that’s all I need, but once you get a taste, it’s like crack and you’re hooked.
I knew we had a good shot to repeat back in April because the team was young and we hadn’t lost any key people. But none of the pundits picked the Phils and I had to assume that was because they thought last year was a fluke – we beat Tampa Bay – never mind that they’d beat the Red Sox and had given the Yankees fits – it was the Devil Rays.
The Mets certainly believed they’d win the division this year, and to be honest, after the money they spent in the off-season, it was difficult to see how they couldn’t – the Phillies added Raul Ibanez, a 37-year older from Seattle; nobody seemed to care.
My team doesn’t write the big checks, but they find the right players at a price that makes sense: Rollins, Utley, Hammels and Howard are home grown. Cliff Lee and Pedro -- pretty nice mid-season additions...
But I know all too well how much 'luck' plays into this. It’s a long season. Injuries happen, even now. Weather will play into it too. Last year, one World Series game was in a torrential downpour. And who knows what calls the umpires will blow?
And yet watching the Phillies in this post-season is different from any Philadelphia team I have ever seen. These guys play like winners – they know how to deal with the cold, wet conditions, the media circus, the pressure -- they are defending champions for a reason.
Still, the years of heartache linger, so I must remind myself that no matter what happens they’ve had a great year – there are only two teams left and one of them is mine. I’m going to enjoy the ride.
The Big Lie -- no drugs in school
October 18, 2009
A group of high school girls attending this year’s Staples High School Homecoming game were rushed to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. A letter was sent out from the principle imploring parents to be more vigilant, as if that would make a difference.
Talk to any recent Staples grad, and they’ll tell you booze and pot run rampant through the halls of Westport’s 100 million dollar high school.
At first glance this ritzy bedroom community has it all – fabulous beaches, a classic New England Main Street, quality theater overseen by Joanne Woodward, and of course, the recently renovated high school often cited as best in state; probably top 20 nationwide.
There certainly was a drink and drug issue in my day at Cherry Hill East in New Jersey. At that time, East was considered a very good school too, but from what I’m hearing about Westport in 2009, the drug scene is broader, deeper, and more problematic, with only Greenwich High (20 miles down the highway), worse.
In a community of such abundance during an era of such hardship, it’s difficult to understand what causes kids to obliterate their consciousness to such extremes. Experimenting is part of adolescence, but in a town where children don’t have the worries others might, there must be unspoken truths that drive this behavior.
John Cheever wrote of the debauchery behind closed doors in these well-to-do neighborhoods back in the 1950’s. Tune into ‘Mad Men’ and watch the Drapers infidelities capture the essence of Connecticut in the early 60’s; and then read Rick Moody’s ‘The Ice Storm,’ which brought to light the area’s contribution to the 70’s swinging scene – the Key Party (or rent Ang Lee’s film). Clearly there’s a proud tradition of over indulgence in Fairfield County.
Could it be that folks here believe themselves to be untouchable, true masters of the universe? Is it any wonder that some of those responsible for the collapse of our financial system reside here? You see, in their mind, the rules don’t apply, they have no worries because no matter how messed up things get, they’ve got enough cash to pay off whomever.
But kids aren’t stupid. They see their parents screwing neighbors and secretaries, drinking to excess and popping prescription drugs. Still, a certain decorum is upheld. As long as Dad keeps his job, or at least his status at the country club, and Mom looks beautiful, works out, and does her charity work with a smile, who’s going to care if Dad is shtooping Nancy from across the street, and Mom’s doing her personal trainer.
So it’s not much of a stretch to say as long as our kid’s test scores are good and college bound graduates remain in the ninety percentile, who cares if they blow off steam with a little weed. Lots of Westport’s children attend leafy colleges, so how bad can the substance abuse be?
Breaking the decades of decadence with letters from the Principle is a farce. I’m sure that there are other activities going on to address the problem, and I don’t want to demean their intent, but until folks are prepared to honestly talk about what’s really going on, nothing here will change. Let’s face it, until a kid dies, the big lie will continue, unless of course some parents have the guts to start talking turkey now.
October 12, 2009
I want to help others, but I am all too often consumed with myself to find even an hour a week to help anyone. Pathetic, I know, and so when I meet someone that has dedicated their entire life to helping others, I am in awe. Father Aengus Finucane was one such man. Last week, sadly, he passed away.
I had the good fortune to work with him on a handful of projects including the piece I wrote on Somalia that raised a lot of money for kids that played soccer for peace.
I spent a memorable evening at one of Father Aengus’s legendary dinner parties at his Dublin home. I had assumed, given his age, the festivities would end early, but once the bottle of Jameson’s broke out, the talk and laughter went deep into the night.
A native of County Limerick, Aengus devoted his life to the Finucane family tradition of public service. In his first assignment as a young missionary as Parish Priest in Uli, Nigeria, Aengus found himself in the midst of the bitter civil war between Nigeria and Biafra in 1968.
Aengus, alongside his brother Jack, worked tirelessly to bring aid to hundreds of thousands caught up in the conflict. At the height of the crisis in the summer of 1968, it was estimated that 6,000 children were dying every week due to lack of food and medicines. Aengus and his brother turned to their home country to raise awareness of the seriousness of the famine. The response was extraordinary. Out of that effort, arose Concern Worldwide.
There was a rock and roll side to Aengus too – Concern was beneficiary to the awareness that came out of George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh. Father Aengus traveled with Bob Geldoff to Africa in the 80’s to help disburse funds generated from Live Aide.
In 2000, I worked with Concern to create Rock for Refugees, a show scheduled for Madison Square Garden to benefit refugees in Bosnia. I had momentum for the event: Pearl Jam, U2, and the Smashing Pumpkins were interested, but that effort got swept into a bigger musical event sponsored by the United Nations and Cisco called Net Aid. That project had grand ambitions; unfortunately Net Aid fell well short of expectations but at least a few bucks fell into Concern’s coffers.
Father Anegus had a huge heart and he was a great inspiration to me even though I didn’t spend that much time with him. His total commitment to helping others is an example of the power of what one individual can wield when their spirit is pure and their commitment unwavers.
Father Anegus will be missed by many around the world. Please visit Concern to see firsthand his legacy.
Why did it take so long to crack quality instant coffee? Technology surely was capable of improving it to the point where Starbucks could declare: you can’t tell the difference.
Then again, if that’s true, why bother with brewed? And what does that mean to Starbucks core product line?
My mom still prefers instant – Folgers. I remember as a kid drinking it. For my parent’s generation, instant was a massive leap forward from the percolator – a cumbersome contraption that only got pulled out at my house on special occasions.
I get why instant became so popular, and I understand why my age group sought out real coffee when we grew up – instant was awful.
For my mom, it wasn’t about taste, it was all about convenience – no more mess or fuss. Sounds ridiculous until you look at today’s iPod world where sound quality takes a backseat to access.
Isn’t the modern age marvelous?
But if Starbucks claim that VIA is as good as fresh brewed, maybe one day the iPod will sound as good as vinyl played through a Marantz receiver and JBL speakers. And yet, I doubt Mom will be lured to pay four times the price for VIA when Folgers has served her so well after all of these years, and as for me, I’m still kicking myself for selling off the lion share of my vinyl when I moved to England back in the late 80’s.
September 28, 2009
Wednesday night was the spectacle of U2 at Giants Stadium. Saturday was the Good Folk Café in Rowayton, CT. I played a couple of songs, the Kennedys headlined. The duo have been at it since ’95. They met in Austin, playing in Nanci Griffith’s band. Today they’re one of the top acts on the folk circuit, playing all the major festivals – not Bonnarro or Coachella; Falcon Ridge, the Philly Folkfest, Newport.
I loved the U2 show, but too often the stage overwhelmed the music. Saturday night it was all about the song. When I showed up at the United Methodist Church, Pete and Maura were hauling in equipment, food, and the PA. I rolled up my sleeves and pitched in.
There was no green room, roadies, or security. Fans appeared during set-up. When I played my songs, Pete worked the sound board.
This is the Good Folk’s 20th year -- the price of a ticket got you dinner and the music. While food was served, Pete and Maura mingled with the audience; after the show, Maura worked the merch table, Pete broke down the equipment.
Their set featured songs from across their career as well as more recent solo projects. Individually Maura had the freedom to channel Patsy Cline; Pete, John Lee Hooker. Together their harmonies and guitars nimbly straddled the folk, singer/songwriter, and country worlds. During the encore, Pete picked up a Ukulele and played Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.
It turns out the Kennedys played CBGBs Gallery a number of times over the years too.
At a time when the music industry is upside down and the gap between the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ continues to grow, it’s comforting to see that the grass roots scene thrives, not because of the cash it spins off, but because the love of music triumphs over almost any obstacle, even a busted music industry.
September 20, 2009
I would trade iPod convenience for hi-fidelity and vinyl any day, but the serendipitous shuffle mode often pulls unexpected gems out of the archives. Yeah, you could always grab something out of your collection, but you’d have to think about it first – with Shuffle, its serendipity, and it rarely disappoints because it’s pulling from your collection. If you have lots of tracks, like I do, it’s always an unexpected, but pleasant journey.
Last week Prefab Sprout’s ‘Bonny’ popped up. It’s from one of my favorite 80’s Lps, Steve McQueen. It immediately transported me back to the UK, and my first week at HMV. It was playing in the office and they couldn’t believe that I’d never heard of them – the year was 1989. I quickly discovered that the UK import section of my local record store back home had represented only a tiny percentage of what was available in England.
It was truly a feast for me those first months, especially with the employee discount. Today, charts are global – availability instant. In the old days imports were exotic, something to bring out at a party to impress friends. My Parlaphone versions of those early Beatles Lps worked miracles with the ladies...
While I’m on the subject of music, it was a blast to share the stage with Michael, Colin, David and Charlie Sunday afternoon. I want to thank everyone that came out. I’ve been so busy with CBGB, it’s hard to find time to play and write, let alone perform, but I made the mistake the last time I got caught up with the industry, of forgetting why I was there. I went fifteen years without playing guitar. I won’t let that happen again.
September 12, 2009
Friday I attended The Cult/Living Things show at Terminal 5 in NYC. The Cult never played CBGB, but they used the club as a location for one of their videos. The crowd at Terminal 5 was aging metal heads, mostly male. I’d missed The Cult during their heyday, but they were impressive and powerful.
Truth be told, I’d come for the opener, The Living Things. Lillian Berlin, the lead singer, is doing the lead vocal in a song I co-wrote for CBGB, called ‘These Walls Don’t Talk.’ The song is the backdrop to a video of our virtual club tour, interspersed with classic photos from the 70’s taken by Bob Gruen and Hilly’s daughter, Lisa Kristal.
Because we were guests of the Living Things, I was in the VIP section with my girlfriend. There was a decent crowd on the floor for them, but the VIP section was sparse. By the time The Cult took the stage, the VIP balcony was packed. A couple with a ten-year old asked if they could share our table and we welcomed them to join us.
After the first song, a good looking blond tapped my shoulder. The music was cranking and she screamed in my ear: These tables are mine.
“Huh?” I replied, turning back to the stage.
She kept nipping at my ear. “I had all these tables reserved for my friends. You have to move.”
I pointed to my VIP pass and shrugged. She hollered back, “These are my tables, that pass just allows you to stand here.”
I took a deep breath and gazed up at this annoyance. The woman looked like a supermodel, but several years past her prime. She wore a sparkly dress, cut very short; her high black heels supported lots of leg. I wondered if she could even name the album The Cult was performing tonight.
I told her I couldn't help. She grew frustrated and moved to the next table. At one point I noticed she’d wrangled some seats free. Throughout the set it was difficult not see her fluttering about, gazing at her Blackberry and air-kissing friends, men and women, all who looked privileged and coiffed. Her sense of entitlement reminded me of the song I’d written for the CB’s video.
Here's part of a verse:
People want to buy the magic
The magic that happened here
They want to know how to act cool
They want to wear the right gear
I don’t know who this woman was, but I do know she and her pals were there to be seen, not to listen to the music. That was one of the great things about CBGB – there was no velvet rope. Yes, they reserved tables for parents of the bands and some industry folks, but the people there, for the most part, were there for the music.
The last time I attended a show down on the Bowery – free beer drew a decent crowd, but most in attendance had bought their cool. When CBGB was there, kids earned it the old fashioned way…
September 4, 2009
The visit with the folks is now over -- this week I made a video about their visit, aptly titled: The Visit.
Vick and Kennedy
August 31, 2009
Vick didn’t deserve a standing ovation for returning to football on Thursday by Eagle fans, but the man does deserve a second chance because he served time for his crimes – Kennedy, on the other hand, paid no price for his bad decisions, and in this mourning over his death, everyone appears to have forgiven, in the same way that Nixon was canonized.
While the accolades were overflowing from around the globe this week, all I could think of was that poor girl’s family – what must they be thinking?
Ted Kennedy was many things, but there is no doubt that this man was a privileged punk who would have spent a substantial time behind bars if not for his pedigree.
What would have happened if Kennedy had gone for immediate help late that night and taken responsibility? It’s unlikely he’d have saved her life, but he might have become president, then again once you start playing the ‘IF’ game, you quickly veer into ‘highly unlikely’ territory.
No doubt his guilt fueled determination to pursue healthcare reform and for that we should be grateful, but the mean never justifies the end. His dubious motivation taints his public service record and we should never lose sight of that.
If you or I had committed such an act, we’d have paid a severe price, and probably never have had a shot at redemption. I know forgiveness is something that we all deserve, but one has to admit culpability to be forgiven, not run to relatives in expectation that they can make it all better.
The Great Clean
August 26, 2009
My mom and stepdad came up from Florida this week. They haven’t been here in four years. The house hadn’t had a thorough cleaning since. I guess their impending arrival forced me to do what should have been addressed ages ago.
The Great Clean actually started three months ago with minor repairs to various parts of the house – a broken drawer, cracks in the walls, paint touch-ups. I also went through cabinets and closets throwing out bits and pieces that I haven’t used in years – suits from the nineties, thin striped ties, oxford shirts with dated collars, pots and pans that hadn’t seen a stove-top in two decades, aspirin that expired in 1988.
I hauled a bunch of other things to Goodwill – perfectly fine sweaters I never wear, jackets that haven’t seen the light of day for years, shoes that I never wore (long story).
Last weekend it was two full days of scrubbing, dusting, and washing. My girlfriend came over with a bucket, rubber gloves, and Murphy Oil Soap. I told her it wasn’t necessary to help out, but she insisted. At first I didn’t want the help – partly because it’s easier to do stuff on my own nowadays, a lame excuse, I know. But I have my own ways of cleaning and I didn’t want her going through my dirt – who knows what secrets are buried there? I also like to crank rock and roll when I’m in this mode. Her help could turn into a hinderance.
I realized that I was being difficult and annoying, but I also recognized that she works hard through the week: why should she have to ruin her weekend because my mom’s coming? To my girlfriend’s credit, she ignored these protests. She had no problem with the loud music, there aren’t any secrets in my dirt anyway, and it turns out, she’s a better cleaner. In the end I really appreciated the extra help; in fact, without it, I never would have completed the job.
Is it odd that at my ripe age of fifty, I’m still worried about what my mom thinks in regards to how I live? Perhaps, but maybe I'm not that only one that feels this way.
Maybe it doesn’t matter how old you are, you’re mom is always your mom, and you’re always trying to make sure she’s happy with what you’re up to. Some things never change. I guess that’s a good thing too.
August 15, 2009
My first reaction to the news of Michael Vick joining my team, the Philadelphia Eagles, was shock, disbelief; then anger.
Betrayed, I felt; but now I had a reason to kick the habit of annual heartbreak. I saw a world free of football and pointless Sundays watching men pound each other senseless on the gridiron.
How could my team do this?
Since the owner, Jeff Lurie, took over fourteen years ago, the Eagles have been competitive and one of the best run franchises. They also have better than average community outreach. We haven’t won a Super Bowl, but only one team wins each year – ask the Mets about luck in sports. All you can expect is a competitive team as often as possible, and since Lurie took over, the Eagles have been at the top consistently – five NFC championship games in ten years.
What could he possibly be thinking, taking this guy?
Coach Reid has a great reputation as a leader too. He’s a smart football guy and a good person – that’s a rare combination – winners like Bill Parcell and Bill Belichick, are well-known jerks.
Then there’s Donavon. I liken him to Patrick Ewing – a pariah when playing for failing to bring home a championship; nowadays Knick fans long for what Patrick brought to their team.
McNabb has had a similar experience in Philly -- but the man's a class act, committed to the community, and a great teammate – McNabb kept quiet years after TO had left the team, despite that douche bag still yapping about the Eagles.
And yet even Tony Dungy is behind Vick; Dungy is considered a Saint in the NFL.
That makes bringing a dog killer on board all the more vexing.
If Vick was on any other team – I would have looked at Friday’s PR circus as just that, a joke. He’d no doubt been advised by the very best on re-entry. Yesterday’s press conference was exactly how you would script it.
Its true Reid’s sons were in jail for drug dealing and gun possession – and yes, they deserve a second chance – but Vick’s crimes are different.
On the other hand, dog fighting continues in this country at alarming rates. Banishing Vick from football does nothing for the dogs that continue to die – is dog fighting tougher to flush out than a potential terrorist cell? Apparently so.
If the Humane Society can leverage Vick to make a difference in neighborhoods that are in turmoil because of the economy, corruption and broken schools, then maybe his return is a good thing.
I’m still unsure if I’m drinking the Kool-Aid because I’m an Eagles fan; perhaps I’m putting too much faith in the team’s ownership and the coach.
I probably will come around on this, but not because I trust Michael Vick; it’s going to be because I believe in the judgment of the men making the decision to bring this guy to the team.
There’s a lot more riding on this than just a Super Bowl, but if this guy's for real, then it could be a win for everyone. Here's hoping they're right.
August 10, 2009
According to the New York Times there are signals that the Great Recession is coming to an end. Before policy makers in Washington break out the champagne, they should get out of the Beltway to see how the rest of us live.
Reaction to my blog last week was overwhelming – friends and strangers sharing more difficult economic stories than mine, but all thanking me for reporting from the frontlines of my bankbook.
Last week I was told I earned too little for a loan modification. This week I learned that I had too much equity in my home to qualify for the government refinance program. Since I don’t earn enough to qualify for a refinance with or without the government program, I can’t lower my interest rate or get cash out of my home to pay off credit cards and medical bills.
I’m stuck; well, not exactly.
The bank and the government are really saying we don’t care that you lived in your home for sixteen years, or that you didn’t overextend during our economic period of irrational exuberance. Sell your fucking home; get over it.
And I could, but I love my house – it’s a modest home, a perfect size for me, two cats and my recording studio – Should I have to sell because the government didn’t regulate, banks issued loans and bonuses they shouldn’t have; and people bought homes they couldn’t afford?
The government bailout only helps those that caused the problem. That’s unfair, unjust, and unconstitutional.
I called the bank and complained loudly. They are now considering refinancing me if I pay 7k in fees; apparently a lower threshold of income and documentation exists; they’ll even loan me the 7k. Funny that -- earn too little, but we'll still loan you cash for our fees.
There’s one other catch: they won’t allow me to take equity out to address my credit card debt and medical bills. It also means I can’t take advantage of the Cash for Clunkers program.
Speaking of Cash for Clunkers, just for giggles, I went to the Toyota dealer to see what a Prius would cost. According to a sales guy named Al, “We’re not participating in that program anymore. We did twelve deals earlier this summer and the government still hasn’t paid us.”
I called the Honda dealer to find out where they stood with the program. They were in. I then asked, “How’s your hybrid compare to the Prius?”
“I don’t even bother to look anymore,” he said. “We’ve been blowing them out of the water for awhile. They’re actually chasing us.”
My heart beat faster. I drive a ’94 vehicle that gets 12 miles to the gallon. A $4500 rebate could make a five-year payment plan manageable. If by some miracle I could pull off a deal with the bank, or if one of my other ventures came good, maybe I could buy the Honda Hybrid with a rebate.
I Googled the Insight to verify the salesman’s claim that their hybrid was in fact kicking the Prius’s butt. Here’s the headline from an article that ran in the LA Times last week:
Honda's Insight hybrid stalls in sales race with Toyota's Prius
The Japanese automaker had high hopes for the retooled Insight. Instead, all it has delivered is a flurry of bad reviews and four months of dismal sales.
Is it any wonder that this weekend I opted to do nothing on the car or mortgage, deciding instead to catch a serious weekend long buzz…
Bailed Out and Making Money Again
August 2, 2009
Many of you know that I’m still working on a couple of novels, writing music, and trying to relaunch CBGB. All three activities are merging together in a way that will propel them to where I can make a living wage. I have no doubt that if the economy was better, I’d already be there, but for now, I’ve got to hunker down, keep expenses low, and work even harder to make things happen.
One effective means to address my situation is to take advantage of the government mortgage modification program. I’ve been in my home since 1992 – I’ve never missed a payment, but the way things are going, my perfect record might not stand much longer.
I applied last December and last week the bank finally got back to me – they told me that I didn’t make enough money to qualify for a loan modification. They said since I have equity in my house, I should refinance.
“But I don’t make enough money to qualify for a refinance. I thought that was the point of a modifcation.”
They said, “It’s not our responsibility to sort out everyone’s problems.”
It took a lot of restraint not to respond.
I was hoping to get a modification, sort out my credit card debt, and take advantage of the “Cash for Clunkers” program. I drive a ’94 vehicle and could easily qualify for that, but without the modification, I’m caught in that classic Catch 22.
My poverty is temporary, not systemic. I need a short-term cash infusion to address the impact on my business due to economic issues beyond my control. I have no doubt that when things improve, all my projects will produce. My track record demonstrates results, but trying to convince someone who is simply entering data into a formula is impossible.
What’s more annoying is that when I come out of this mess, the government will tax me at a higher rate to pay for their bailout that I did not qualify for.
Recently I’ve been watching David Simon’s ‘The Wire;’ in sequence, season 1-5. This is by far the best television series I’ve seen. It provides an insightful, realistic view into the workings of a city – the politics, the schools, the police, the drug world.
One can see why Republicans have no faith in government, but the problem with that ideology is that the free market is just as corrupt.
The problem drills down to the very nature of our humanity – greed trumps all. Regardless of which ‘ism’ is operating: capitalism, socialism, or communism; greed appears like a weed and takes over.
What if an economic system rewarded love. Think of how the quality of education would improve if good teachers earned like bankers.
You can say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will live as one.
Last week I was at a writer's retreat at the Omega Institute
July 26
Last week I presented a song for critique at the writer’s workshop – ‘Not Ready to Lay Down.’ When I first wrote it, I loved it – but as I began to tweak, the shine started to dull. Still, I liked the melodic pace and the economy of the lyric. Here’s the first verse:
A morning whistle
Louder and louder
It calls – It blows
Cries out I’m late for a train
Falling behind in the race
Fallen out of grace
The first two lines came easily, but I had to work for the next two. At one point it went:
it calls me, it mocks me
I cut ‘me.’ I also tried several other verbs. Examples included: toot, hoot, haunt, taunt, rock, cries.
The fourth line was:
Tells me I’m late for a train.
I replaced ‘tells’ with ‘cries’ from the third line, providing room for ‘blows.’
Here's the chorus:
I’m not ready to lay down
I’m not ready to face
I’m not ready to lay down
I’m the rock broken free from a hard place
The last line was the out of the ordinary line, the fresh turn on something familiar. But the narrative needed to move forward and repeating the ‘hard place’ line in the next chorus had the potential to be too much of a good thing. That meant finding something even more intriguing in the next chorus. But first I needed a 2nd verse:
A distant rumble
Louder and louder
It rocks – it rolls
Shivers me down to my toes
Knocks me out of the flow
Don’t know I don’t know
Notice how the two verses have consistent structure:
A morning whistle - A distant rumble.
It cries; it blows - It rocks; it rolls.
Here's the 2nd chorus:
I’m not ready to lay down
I’m not ready to go
I’m not ready to lay down
I don’t need status in the quo
I liked this ending better, but in last week’s session – everyone thought the ‘hard-place’ line was stronger. I preferred ‘status’ because of the shades of interpretation.
The song originally had no bridge, but it needed something to break up three verses. I added this brief musical break and lyric departure to get the job done:
Temptation fuels this fire
But I’m doing my best to control my desire
The third verse introduced a character:
A stranger calling
Louder and louder
He stalks – he taunts
Wants me to walk in fear
Needs me to sign his deal
Make my dreams real
Notice that I kept to the same verse structure.
Here's the final chorus:
I’m not ready to lay down
I’m not ready to yield
I’m not ready to lay down
I don’t spin cause I’m not a wheel
At the critique session someone felt that the last line was clever, but lacked the depth of the other two. Another said there was nothing wrong with the ‘wheel’ line, but compared with ‘hard-place,’ it fell short.
This week I tinkered with that last line. One night I was sharing with my girlfriend some of the new ideas. She’s not a songwriter, but she loves puzzles. We started spit-balling lines. At one point I broke out a rhyming dictionary. She said, “That’s cheating.”
Mechanics use tools to work on cars. Writers have the dictionary and thesaurus. Why not songwriters? However, a common problem with the rhyming dictionary is the potential for a rhyme to drive the line rather than the rhyme helping to push the narrative forward. One has to step back and ask: what the hell am I trying to say?
In this verse the stranger represents temptation, money, success; perhaps even the devil….
We started exploring church and bible references. First we swapped out 'yield' with 'kneel,' to evoke the sense of servitude. We then tried to make heal or ideal work, even appeal, steel or ordeal. We finally came up with:
I won’t sin just to make this deal
But I already used ‘deal’ in this verse, so we had to rewrite that line:
A stranger calling
Louder and louder
He stalks – he taunts
Wants me to walk in fear Tempts me but he won’t reveal
Make my dreams real
Later that night, I realized something wasn’t working. The last line of the chorus didn’t have the twist of phrase that the other two did:
I’m not ready to lay down
I’m not ready to kneel
I’m not ready to lay down
The devil’s the detail in this deal
Here was the slight twist in the familiar that fit the context of this verse. Maybe I nailed it; maybe I didn’t.
In a few weeks I'll revisit to see how it feels, until then here's a simple guitar/vocal demo of the track.
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July 19, 2009
I’ve made the trip to Rhinebeck, New York to attend workshops by Jimmie Dale Gilmore dating back to 1998. Jeep Rosenberg, the retro-alt-Americana artist I produced a few years back, remarked that returning there reminded him of the family trips of his childhood – passing familiar landmarks, crossing the Stateline; visiting that same highway rest stop or country general store; all coupled with the anticipation of reuniting with old friends and family.
As soon as he said it, I got it. My trip over the weekend evoked a similar feeling; maybe because I know some of the participants here better than some of my family. One thing never changes, each time I arrive there with a mix of emotions – mostly good, but still with that fluttery feeling in my gut, wondering what will transpire.
That first year there was a rumbling amongst several in attendance that the class lacked details on how to actually write a song. I harbored some of those feelings too, but got enough out of the week to come back.
I wasn’t a great songwriter (although I seemed to think I was); but in reviewing my notes from that year I did recognize that what the workshop lacked in craft details, it more than made up for with philosophical depth.
I knew the craft of song writing but little of the soul of a song. I also had no idea how to go about finding my own voice.
A lots happened over the years and I see the tremendous growth in my creative output; the same can be said about the people who have stuck it out here over the years. But we’ve all gotten a lot more out of the experience beyond better songs.
Writing about things that matter requires an environment where one can take risks. To get at something really good, you’ve got to put yourself out there in a place of vulnerability. That’s not easy, and Jimmie has created a safe context for us to push out of our comfort zone.
I’ve been so busy with CBGB that I often forget that I’m an artist. This year I’ve been working hard to not let go of the writing. And yet I was still surprised at how much positive feedback I got over the weekend, mainly because at the moment I’m surrounded by people at work that have no idea that I even write songs.
Everyone knows that there are lots of crappy songs on the airwaves, but in the same way people equate the quality of wine with its price tag, folks often don’t separate the commerce of art from the purity of expression. Since I’ve made little money out of my art, some think (and to be honest me too sometimes), I’m no good.
This weekend I heard a lot of great music – much of it will never make its way beyond the fringe of a small community, but that doesn’t devalue its power and beauty. Hopefully I can rely on this energy to keep at bay the inner critic that pops up on occasion to tell me that my writing sucks.
July 13, 2009
In Mandy Stein’s film, Burning Down the House: the story of CBGB, the director, Jim Jarmusch walks the emptied shell of 315 Bowery, searching for remnants of the club. Like an archeologist exploring the picked over remains of a significant ruin, Jarmusch grows animated when his flashlight illuminates the scrawl on concrete by some unknown patron, or a scrap of a flyer still stapled to a beam.
European archeologists in the late 1800’s scoured the Middle East for artifacts from the old world; much of what is in Western museums and private collections was simply taken. Fortunately for CBGB, Hilly Kristal recognized the significance of what he had. He removed the bulk of the club, shipping it to a storage facility in Orange, Connecticut. He had hoped to take much of it out to Las Vegas; tragically cancer caught up to him in the summer of ‘07.
The club has been sitting in trailers ever since.
Last week I took a ride out there with Louise Staley, Hilly’s right hand man for over 20 years, and Ger Burgman, Hilly’s son-in-law.
We emptied all three trailers with the help of a theatrical moving company. We pulled out the most interesting pieces to bring back to our Brooklyn warehouse for cataloging and preservation.
I’ve made periodic visits the last two years to the facility. Up until this point, the trailers have been dry, but with all the rain this year, mold has reared its ugly head. I contacted one of the curators at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and they’re referring us to a preservation specialist.
Parts of CBGB are already in the Rock Annex in Soho. Other pieces are headed to the Hall of Fame in Cleveland. We are also creating a traveling exhibit that will be part of a three-week nationwide fall club tour later this year. Think: If CBGB was open today – what bands would be booked? Stay tune for details in September.
We have other plans for the artifacts, but for the time being it’s all about making sure that they’re preserved properly.
Last week we uncovered graffiti covered walls from the dressing room, tables and chairs, speaker cabinets, mixing boards, mics and cables. One speaker cabinet had two unused condoms stuck to the cone. Fortunately we found no dead rats. Legend has it that Cujo lived in the basement (seriously). They say when the club closed, he hid in one of the boxes because he had no interest in staying in the basement of an expensive clothing store. Once when we opened the trailers I really did think I heard something scurry out and tear off in the direction of the surrounding wood.
We didn’t see Cujo last week, but I’m sure wherever he is, he’s glad to be out of the Bowery –nowadays it’s just not the sort of area rats or real musicians hang out at anymore.
Forty Days - Forty Nights - Rain...
July 6, 2009
For a few moments on this Independence Day, 2009, I sat on my deck and felt the warmth of summer. Then the clouds blew in, a breeze kicked up, and I retreated inside for a sweatshirt.
It seems as if it rained every day in June – I realize that other parts of the country are baking at the moment, but here in the Northeast, summer refuses to settle in. Last week at Jones Beach, I’d arrived in shorts, not an unreasonable move in late June. When the inevitable grey clouds rolled in with the rain I was wishing for jeans and a jacket.
The only things that thrive in this dreary summer are the weeds. They’ve taken over my flowerbeds as if they were the Taliban. I took out a slew of new sprouts Thursday; they were back on Friday. It’s going to take 24-hour patrols to eliminate these leafy-green terrorists.
Last week the New Yorker featured an article on James Hansen, the NASA scientist who predicted global warming back in the early 70’s. His new research indicates that carbon emissions have already exceeded levels that will destroy the planet. He believes that if we don’t eliminate coal burning now, in twenty years it will be too late.
Even Obama is reluctant to embrace this message given the politics required to make such a fundamental shift in energy policy. At a time when folks don’t have jobs, it’s difficult to think about the planet – but without the earth, what good is a job?
Ultimately our kids are the ones who the need to do something because us old folks have demonstrated an inability to think beyond our self-interest despite all the enlightening drugs and eastern philosophy we swallowed in the 60’s and 70’s.
I’d love to write more on this, but it’s raining again; I’ve got to dash inside before I get soaked.
After the deluge and a 2 hour delay, the show went on.
June 29, 2009
A whirlwind trip back from LA had me on the red-eye Thursday into Friday. I grabbed a few hours of shut-eye at home and then headed out to Jones Beach to see Aerosmith. I always liked this band, but it was far from my favorite back in the 70’s.
Not that as a kid I contemplated which groups would carry forth into the future, but if I’d had such a thought, it was unlikely Aerosmith would have been included. And yet there’s no denying on the heels of a successful Guitar Hero alliance, this band might be at its pinnacle.
I saw them twice in 1975. The first time Journey kicked off the evening (that’s pre-Steve Perry). The headliners were Ian Hunter and Mick Ronson – Hunter had quit Mott the Hoople the year before and this was his first tour as a solo artist.
Six months later I saw Aerosmith headline with REO Speedwagon and Ted Nugent in support.
Thirty-four years later Aerosmith is a much better band. The show Friday night wasn’t burdened with that new material classic rockers try to hawk as their best in a decade. Besides Bruce and Neil, I don’t want to hear new songs by aging rockers anyway – not even from Sir Paul.
Classic Rockers dance a fine line and often end up coming off as a cheesy Vegas revue. That was far from the case with Aerosmith. This isn’t a balding, fat, group of has-beens. Tyler is a great front man and he can still hit the notes. They all looked terrific – Tyler defies time in a way that Bruce and Mick don’t despite being fit and energized.
The stage, sound, and lighting was 21st century spectacular and this tour features songs from my favorite Aerosmith Lp, Toys in the Attic.
And then there’s Joe Perry. He’s no Clapton or Page, but over the years he’s distinguished himself as a leader in that 2nd tier of guitar slinging sidekicks – also in that category: Slash and Sambora (Keith has a class all his own).
Although Aerosmith has found a new generation of fans through the video game, it was still a predominately older crowd. Opening was ZZ Top, a Texas trio that headlined arenas back in the day, but time has ravaged this band, there’s mildew on those furry guitars; perhaps they were never very good. They’ve got a groove, but not much else, and after a few minutes, I found it challenging to pay attention. Turgid at best, these guys exemplify why I mostly avoid classic rock shows.
Earlier in the week I was at the Roxy in LA on Sunset for an industry release party for the indie songwriter Pete Yorn. Yorn has a handful of songs that are catchy and work well live. I wanted to be knocked out by the show, but wasn’t. Three rhythm guitars muddied the sound. Pete’s first position strumming didn’t help matters. It was also difficult to hear the lyrics. I was thinking that was more Pete’s singing than the engineer. After catching so many stimulating performances by new bands at Bonnaroo, this was a disappointment.
Last week I was also in the studio working on a song for CBGB – I was laying down a drum track at Acme in Mamaroneck with Greg Trebandt – Greg’s got his own teaching studio now, but has banged the skins on the road as Tommy Lee’s drummer. Gerry McKeveny co-wrote the track and Dave Hammond swung by to provide an extra set of ears.
I’m in the studio over the weekend cleaning up the tracks and getting ready for vocals. I’ll tell you more about that in the coming weeks. Until then – Dream on…..
June 24, 2009
Off to LA this week for meetings with television writers. We’re looking at a one-hour drama centered around CBGB. I’m not in a position to talk about the specifics, but I’m really looking forward to the trip.
Ten years writing fiction and attending various workshops should give me the necessary background to talk turkey. I’m reviewing scripts and watching shows in preparation.
Okay, someone has to do it, right?
I love California. I lived there from 1977-1986. The state still holds a special place in my heart, despite how screwed up it is economically. I was living in Monterey when they passed Proposition 13, a revolutionary bill that eliminated property tax. I was too young to understand the impact of this legislation. Apparently those with a piece of the Golden State didn’t realize either.
Back then California had great public schools, an amazing college system, and a highway and city infrastructure envied by the rest of the nation. Today the roads are a shambles and the public schools are a mere shadow of what they once were.
I’ve never considered writing for TV even though it pays better than fiction. They say TV is a young person’s game – I guess it is because most of what’s on prime-time baffles me. I’m the last person on earth to know what will commercially work; in fact, if I like it, odds are it’ll never have a shot.
I loved EXTRAS, by Ricky Gervais, the guy behind the OFFICE. In EXTRAS, Ricky ends up in a crappy sitcom that does really well – Ricky’s character longs to do serious film, but he’s forever pigeonholed, that is until he loses it on one of those B-celebrity reality shows.
Every once and awhile quality catches fire in tv, film, music and fiction; for example: Mad Men, Slumdog, Krauss/Plant, The Lovely Bones.
All I can do next week is remind myself that we must remain honest to the emotional truths of the people who hung out at CBGB – everything else is up to the programming Gods.
June 14, 2009
One of the few positive trends to emerge during my music business hiatus has been the festival experience – Coachella and Bonnaroo are at the top of the heap. Last weekend I had the privilege to attend as a guest of the Bonnaroo folks. The point of our trip was to check out the scene to see how CBGB might pop-up there next year.
From a purely business perspective, the operational logistics are mind-boggling. From housing, security, to artist hospitality and performance requirements, it’s a complex challenge that those responsible make appear effortless. The festival is a city of 100,000 that requires feeding, sanitation, housing and entertainment. I’m sure behind the scenes there were moments of mayhem, but all I saw was outstanding crowd control and on-time performances. No doubt the set-up and departure for the average camper required patience, but I met several friends there camping having the time of their lives.
From a musical angle, the only gripe was my indecision on whom to see – at one point I had to choose amongst Al Green, TV on the Radio, Lucinda Williams, and Ani DiFranco.
There wasn’t just music to choose from: comedy (Jon Stewart’s crew was there, but I never made it); film (a Lebowski fest – I’m pals with Jimmie Dale Gilmore, and most folks don’t know that the Coen Brothers decided to cast Jimmie after catching his CBGB gig), but alas I never made it there either.
There was also the typical arts and crafts stuff, fun carnival foods, even a Ferris wheel; there was even a Silent Disco – kids dancing under the splash of a mirrored-glitter ball, each wearing headphones, grooving to the sounds from a DJ.
Obviously there were lots of great musical moments. I’m sure everyone has their own list. Here are just a few tid bits from my list:
I was up close for two performances – Al Green and Phoenix. Al’s band is so tight and he still hits all the notes – there’s no auto-tune in that sound. I hadn’t seen Al in a very long time, so this was a real treat. On the other end of the spectrum was Phoenix, one of these hot indie bands with a bullet – they’ve got a bit of Cold Play in them, and they’re from France (but don’t hold that against them). I was in the photographer’s pit for that midnight performance and they blew my mind.
Bonnaroo’s roots are in the jam bands and I was looking forward to seeing Phish, a band I never really got. It was great to finally see them; but I’m afraid it didn’t slay me – it was mostly the vocals that didn’t work for me – obviously they are monster musicians, and my view is definitely in the minority. I liked Government Mule better, but it was Moe that stood out for me in this category. I also heard they played until six AM one night – that’s cool.
I enjoyed MGMT, another hot group at the moment, but by three AM I was fatiguing and didn’t have the energy to fight my way into the crowd to get close enough for the real experience.
I was sitting in the VIP bleachers for Bruce and forty minutes into the show, I dragged my girlfriend out and we headed into the crowd. In 59 previous Bruce shows, I’ve never sat for more than a song or two, certainly never for the opening volley, but the folks here had a hard time getting off their asses. During ‘Born to Run’ I turned around to see how the section was doing and the majority of them were still on their rumps. But by then we were center stage in front of the mixing board surrounded by a young crowd who appeared to enjoy themselves, even if it was their first time seeing him.
The show was a mixed bag, not coming close to the Jersey show last month, but it was still great to experience him in this environment. I would have liked to have caught his cameo with Phish Sunday night, but we were already gone.
Speaking to kids after the Saturday show I heard things like: I can’t believe the energy he has considering how old he his; or, it was a good show and I can see why people of your generation really love him.
I’m beyond cringing at such statements – and to be fair, it was much easier for me to distance myself culturally from my parents, so I empathize with the challenge kids have today – a typical Jersey Bruce show averages age wise 45+ -- Dave Mathews 35+ -- this was roughly a 25+ audience; but that VIP bleacher section skewed older and I have no explanation as to why they weren’t dancing in their seats.
Although it will take a few days for this old man to catch up on the lost sleep, it was well worth the trip. I want to thank the folks involved for their gracious hospitality and effort – they put in a ton of hours and I’m sure they’ve got a ton of work still to do before this year’s event is a wrap.
I look forward to figuring out how CBGB can be part of next year’s show.
June 15, 2009
Spent the weekend south of Nashville attending Bonnaroo. It's the first festival I've attended in years -- the last one was in the UK at Knebworth. I'm not a huge crowd guy anymore, but I've been looking forward to attending this for months.
Bonnaroo is considered one of the world's top music events -- this is the ninth year and it as evolved from what was just a jam band get together, to a multi-cultural gathering.
Part of why I'm down here is to see if it makes sense to recreate CBGB for four days -- we'd recreate the space and program the stage with bands that makes sense -- mostly new -- but some familiar names too.
Springsteen is one of the headliners this year - of course I'm pumped to see him again, but I'm more interested in seeing some of the newer acts -- Phoenix, MGMT, Bon Iver, TV on the Radio -- names that the younger generation have been into for awhile, but for guys like me, this will be virgin territory.
End of the line for the record superstore
June 8, 2009
These are the last days of Virgin Megastore. On Friday I walked through their Union Square 50,000 square foot location. The place had been slashed to a single floor – everything was for sale from the cash registers to the lights. The downstairs was already a construction zone. The loud clang of shelves being dismantled competed with the DJ's voice-overs: everything must go.
In the early 90's I was flying around the world, playing a key role in a three-way race to open music super stores – HMV, Virgin, Tower. I went to Paris, Tokyo, Sydney, Berlin – I was also researching such exotic locales as Moscow, Budapest, Buenos Aires, and Mexico City. I had a hand in opening amazing stores in NY, Montreal, Toronto, Tokyo and Sydney.
Virgin's Champs Elysees may have been the most dramatic store anywhere; Tower’s Sunset had that Hollywood cool.
We all knew one another well, but the competition was keen. HMV’s chairman forbid us to fly Virgin – which was too bad because they were way cooler than British Airways or American.
I had an insane night of drinking in Budapest with the guy who ran Tower International – it was a 24-hour truce in the global war for record dominance. There I was drinking and eating with the enemy – discovering we had a ton in common. BTW: HMV came very close to buying Tower in 1998; that was another interesting project I worked on.
If someone had told any of us that in less than ten years the game would be over, nobody would have believed it. And yet, I was on a digital downloading taskforce in '90 with EMI and Phillips. Everybody understood where it was ultimately going. But no one figured piracy would become this pervasive.
Although HMV is still doing well in Canada and the UK, and music is as popular as ever, there’s no doubt the days of physical product are numbered. But that doesn’t mean the game is over, it just means the rules have changed.
This week I also attended the first annual Billboard Music and Advertising conference. It featured ad agencies, brands, and independent musicians. To be honest, I had mixed emotions, given that when I was growing up, the idea of my favorite artists aligning themselves with toothpaste or a car would have turned my stomach.
The conference was packed. And yet conspicuously absent were most record labels, music publishers, and the performing rights organizations ASCAP and BMI (SESAC was around). There were, however, a lot of bewildered indie artists walking around trying to figure out how to get someone to listen to their music.
Today bands showcase at ad agencies and labels fall all over themselves to get their artists a shot at writing a song to sell deodorant. I don't believe much gets done at these conferences, but for those on the outside that aren't bashful, it is a way to establish contact, and with the right follow-up, anything is possible; truthfully though, you might have a better shot with a lottery ticket.
At the conference I learned that Proctor & Gamble have started their own record label (pause to puke). And yet, I’m not shutting off the possibility that brands and bands can coexist with integrity.
The key is for everyone involved to keep it real. Artists should work with products they use. Brands should only work with artists that really believe in what they stand for. Forcing a relationship will ultimately feel contrived and the fans will know.
‘My Drive Thru’ produced by Pharrell Williams, and written by Pharrell, Julian Casablancas (The Strokes), and Santogold, for Converse worked because the artists had worn Chuck Taylors long before they did business with the brand. There was also no requirement by the company to force a tagline or even mention the product name in the song. What’s most interesting about this track is that a brand became the catalyst to bring an artistic collaboration together that never would have happened otherwise. According to those involved, Pharrell may just do something else with the Strokes in the coming months.
Now that’s a future worth sticking around for. In the meantime, hats off to Virgin for making it as long as they did. With Tower gone, they were the last in NY.
No matter what anyone says, you can't replicate wandering the aisle's of a great record store on-line. Let's hope Amoeba in California can hold on.
Ain't built like they used to
June 1, 2009
This week I broke down and bought an HDTV.
:)
My threshold was under 500 for a 42" -- ended up compromising on size -- went with 32" for 400. Actually it was 350, but it required a fifty buck HDMI cable. I know it doesn't have the latest specs -- but compared to what I had, this is a huge improvement, and it was at a killer price!
There was a time when I was the early adopter, the one who had the gear first; not the laggard I am now. I had a Dolby Pro Logic surround system with laser disc back in 1992 -- people would come over and I'd blast a Criterion Collection laser disc and jaws would drop.
HMV in NY had one of the best selections of laser-disc on the planet and despite having to flip a disc half-way through a film, it was quite the experience.
I saw an HDTV demonstration in France, sponsored by the European Community in 1990. I was working on a task force with folks from EMI and Phillips. I was blown away by the color and reproduction. My mouth watered and I hungered to have one, but nobody could agree on a world-wide standard and that's why it took another ten years for HDTV to be commercially viable. If someone had told me then that it would take until 2009 for me to have high def, I'd have said they were nuts.
When I was kid I had a Marantz Receiver -- that thing was built to last a lifetime. And it delivered everything I needed for over three decades. Today home electronics are built to fail fast, but the price is right, and the new features make upgrading essential. Is this progress? Maybe.
My television sound has improved dramatically over the years, my music sound has diminished; A two-hundred dollar i-Pod docking station doesn't come close to delivering the fidelity of my college system; go figure.
People want convenience over quality -- it's a shame we have to make that trade-off. I enjoyed displaying my cartons filled with Lps -- I liked the routine of cleaning the vinyl with Discwasher, but I also like having access to anything I want when I want it.
Well, that's my rant this week. I'm gonna make some popcorn now, kickback and watch an HD movie from the comfort of my own living room; see ya...
Born to Play
May 25, 2009
Saturday night in Jersey with Bruce Springsteen, the last stop on this leg of the tour. This was the second night in the promised land -- his home stomping grounds. I've had the good fortune to see Bruce here a lot.
Not a huge fan of the Brendan Byrne Arena or as it's known now as the Izod Center, formerly known as the Continental Airlines Arena.
Other things have changed here in the meadowlands too: they dolled up the outside of the building, there's a new Giants Stadium going up, an indoor ski center is under construction.
I doubt it's going to be a destination like Madison Square Garden or Yankee Stadium is, but it should be an improvement.
There's nothing like the Garden, and Bruce shows there are great, but it ain't Jersey, is it?
Backstreets.com provides a great blow-by-blow of the show, so there's no need to recap it, but here are a couple of observations that probably didn't hit that website: There were signs plastered about for the Danny Fund, the new foundation in the name of Bruce's long-time organ player, Danny Federici, who died last year.
These posters made me think of what the future holds and it made me appreciate this moment, this show, even more, given that Clarence isn't looking that strong. He was never the greatest player, but he adds an intangible dimension to the band that a more sophisticated player wouldn't.
It wasn't that long ago that Clarence and Bruce engaged playfully on stage. Clarence is still an undeniable presence, but it's not the way it was; but then again, it never is.
Several years ago I wrote about the yahoos at the Shea Stadium show -- the fans that came on board during the 'Born in the USA' period. Anything pre-'84 and they're off to the bathroom or yapping. On Saturday night I had to turn around and tell people to quiet down during 'E-Street Shuffle; and then again during 'Incident on 57th Street' -- two rarities from the early days. Fortunately they'd left by the time 'Kitty's Back' was played in the encore.
I never tire of hearing 'Born to Run,' but it's these gems that make the show, and it never ceases to amaze me that people can come to a Springsteen concert oblivious to the unique moments where the magic really happens.
Standing in the far-right corner: me at the John Lennon event
May 17, 2009
In my twenties the ratio of weddings to funerals was roughly 50:1. Nowadays that ratio is 1:100. I’m not sure when that shift occurred, but it took three death events and one wedding this week for me to make the connection.
The only actual death was a friend’s father. You can’t believe how many friends parents are now dying. As my buddy spoke to the congregation, it reminded me of when I had to give a similar speech for my father. I don’t think there’s a tougher public speaking event, and yet it’s ironic how many laughs such a speech generates.
Looking back on the week I realized I had two other death related events – the first was the opening of the John Lennon exhibition at the Rock Annex in NYC. This is a powerful presentation of John’s work and personal life. Yoko was in attendance and it was amazing to literally be standing next to her while looking at various Lennon artifacts.
After the opening speeches including one by Yoko, we watched the movie that kicks off the Annex exhibition. I’ve seen it several times, but it still gives me chills. It has great footage across the spectrum of rock from its roots to its closing number with U2. But watching the film and catching Yoko’s reaction when images of the Beatles at Shea Stadium appeared was something very special.
The exhibition isn’t just about John’s music or art; there's a photograph of the blood splattered glasses John was wearing the night he was shot – you’ll also see the brown bag from the hospital containing the clothes he died in. Kudos to Yoko for making this part of the experience, a reminder that guns kill – John would have loved that.
I was back at the Annex on Thursday for the posthumously re-induction of Joey Ramone. The Ramones entered the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2002; Joey died in 2001. The night of that ceremony Joey’s family was not on stage and his trophy was left on the podium. Some blamed band mates for the oversight, others the Hall of Fame. This event was a way to make amends to Joey’s family.
The week ended with our twenty-six year old assistant telling me that she was off to a wedding Sunday. I recall those summer months when I went to a lot of weddings. It’s something I did in my twenties and thirties, but it petered out in my forties.
Quite the week – I’m looking ahead to Joey’s birthday bash concert – we’re also having an auction on Ebay of various items including a microphone used at CBGB – all proceeds are going to Joey Ramone’s Foundation for Lymphoma Research. You can find the details at CBGB.
Mom, 2 grandmothers & me
May 10, 2009
I appreciate more and more the challenges my mother faced raising two children after she got divorced in 1969. I remember how awkward it was telling my friends about the divorce at a time when families rarely broke up. I can’t imagine what it was like for her.
Society wasn’t set up for single moms – there were no career paths for women, no equal opportunity anything as far as females were concerned; there certainly wasn’t day care.
Mom went to work for an insurance company in her late twenties. They sent her for computer training and six months later, she was teaching the class. She worked full-time, but somehow still managed the household with two small children.
But it wasn’t working. A year later she was divorced. The three of us moved into an apartment; I was twelve, my sister nine. Mom drove into center city Philadelphia every day. She didn’t get home until well after six; I was supposed to keep an eye on my little sister, Lisa.
In the summer of ’72, mom set off for a six-week trek across the country with the kids. She drove, I navigated. I wonder how many single women with kids would consider such a journey now, let alone back then.
I’m sure if I had kids, I’d have a greater appreciation of what my mom did for me and Lisa. I have a couple of cats, and whenever they go outside, I worry because of the cars, and the coyotes that occasionally roam the neighborhood. I’m relieved when they come in. I can’t imagine how I’d be with kids.
I’m sure even today, Mom worries about me and Lisa. There’s not much I can do to assure her that everything’s gonna be fine, but I can let her know that her love and concern is appreciated well beyond what I put into words.
Mother’s day is a time to recognize moms – but it’s important to also let them know that every day we appreciate how lucky we are to have them around. Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there.
I was too young to party...
May 4, 2009
It’s been a year since my nana passed away. She was 97 and lived in England. Although there was a vast body of water between us, I treasured what time we did share.
Everyone thought she’d make a hundred, but in the end, she’d outlived her contemporaries, and the health began to fail. Her living situation wasn’t great either.
My parents hailed from London. They moved to the US in 1957. I was the first US born. Although there were other relatives in the states, we never saw them.
I made two memorable trips to the UK as a child – the first was in 1964; I was five. Jet travel required stops in New Foundland for refueling. There was engine trouble over Ireland and the plane dropped 10,000 feet before recovering. I thought it was a cool roller coaster ride, but Mom said it was the worst air incident she’d ever experienced.
My parents got divorced in 1969. My sister and I were shipped off to the grandparents for the summer while they sold the house. That time in England was a ton of fun. I was at Hyde Park for the Rolling Stones concert a few days after Brian Jones died; but to be honest, I don’t recall much of that. I do remember taking the Underground by myself, spending time on the piers in Brighton (think Quadrophenia), and being confounded over the fact the country only had two channels – and BBC 2 didn’t even start broadcasting until late in the day.
We never got together for the holidays with family or took long summer weekends to aunts and uncles, but Nana did come every few years, staying for several months. These were regal visits. We’d drive up from Philly to JFK and watch the Pan Am flight land. She’d emerge from customs with an arsenal of suitcases; one was always filled with English biscuits and chocolate. In those days, few international brands were available here – I loved the white chocolate called Milky Bars.
I got a sense of my extended family when I lived in England: ‘89-‘92. My grandfather died during that time and hundreds of people came out of the woodwork. It was strange to be connected to so many strangers.
I went back to the UK several times a year in the nineties, always finding time to visit Nana. She made a couple of trips to Florida to see my mom, and I made it down there whenever she came. She was a pistol and even in her early nineties, it was hard to keep up with her. For her ninetieth birthday she went to Las Vegas. My sister caught her sneaking out of the hotel room at three AM to play slots.
The last few years weren’t pretty. After her death it got even uglier, not that there was much money to argue over, but enough to stop her two daughters from speaking to one another. I’m sure Nana wouldn’t be that surprised.
I have few regrets in regards to the time I had with her, but if there was one wish, it would have been to see her and my grandfather in their prime. Word was, if someone hummed a tune in a pub, Grandpa could play it on piano. I’d have loved to have pulled up a chair, share a few pints and sing some songs.
This weekend I downed a few in their memory.
April 27, 2009
Caught the premier of Mandy Stein’s documentary ‘Burning Down the House – the Story of CBGB’ at the Tribeca Film Festival Friday night. I’ve been deep into the politics, passion, and possibilities of the brand for the past two years, so I’ve met many of the characters, and know most of the stories – but almost every week I Iearn something new.
Stein did a good job of weaving several narratives:
-– the history of the club
-- the Save CBGB campaign, spearheaded by Little Steven
-- post-closing archeological survey with the director, Jim Jarmusch and the writer, Luc Sante
-- the life of the club’s owner, Hilly Kristal
The four narratives drove to the inevitable closing of the club and Hilly’s death.
In the end it was a battle between the club and a homeless shelter. The film did a good job of portraying that clash, but there are many truths, and just when I think I’ve learned the whole story, I discover something new about those ending days. It was convenient for the larger forces at play in the neighborhood to have a homeless shelter be the villain. I’m not saying they weren’t a major factor, but there were several villains including Hilly himself, who often shot himself in the foot. He could have bought that building in the late 80’s for almost nothing.
Walk down the streets of the Bowery today and it’s clear that a club like CBGB doesn’t fit anymore. Whether fifteen-dollar glasses of wine and three-thousand-dollar suits are sustainable in the depression era of ’09 is still to be seen.
I knew the day I agreed to get involved with the club that it was going to be an awesome responsibility; this film only confirmed that. The club was significant on so many levels. It was gratifying to see that many people close to the club stated on camera that CB’s could live on in a post-Hilly era. When I think about why that is, I believe it’s because CB’s represents something much bigger than just the club or Hilly. In a world where American Idol, Larry King, and Susan Boyle dominate the cultural consciousness, it becomes apparent that CBGB is in need more than ever.
Mandy’s film is a great tribute to the club and Hilly. I hope that the festival enables it to gain wide distribution so that more people can see it.
April 19, 2009
My girlfriend called me last night and said, “What ya doing?”
“Long, rough day,” I replied, “I’m winding down watching hockey.”
“You like hockey too?” she asked incredulously.
For the record, this is the woman who patiently watched the World Series with me as my Phillies finally delivered a championship. While on vacation in the Florida Keys we pulled into a bar to catch the Eagles lose in the NFC Championship. Admittedly, she was only mildly amused at my interest in Syracuse’s NCAA basketball tournament run. She never made a snide remark, but I felt an undercurrent in her tone; still, I have to cut her a break, she’s been a great sport.
I do wonder what she’d think if I told her that the 76ers made the playoffs this year too – those games start next week. Would I have to explain that the Sixers had another tough year, but on occasion show potential. They’ll be lucky to win a few games in the first round, let alone, get to the second.
"I thought basketball was over now," she'd say.
"That was college -- this is professional." As if that would explain my obsession.
Sports is an indulgence, a habit that I recognize can get out of control. It can also be vexing. Last night the Flyers were up by a goal with four minutes left, but lost in overtime – now they’re down two games in a best of four series. During the OT I was thinking about how exhilarating hockey is. It was the first game I really watched this season. I recalled those glory days of the 70’s when the Flyers won back-to-back Stanley Cups. But when the Flyers blew a power play last night and then got two penalties, I knew we were done. I asked myself why do I put myself through this?
Sports is a way to connect with people, albiet mostly men. I didn’t realize how essential it was to my core vocabulary until I lived in London. Often I was left out of conversation, unable to establish a rapport with neighbors, people at pubs; most important, with fellow workers and my boss. I forced myself to learn the basics of rugby, soccer, and cricket, as well as which teams and players were hot. It didn’t take long to be able to talk about last night’s game, but that only took me so far. I didn’t know the over-arching narrative – the history, the storied rivalries, the heroes and goats, the classic games or key records that today’s players try to break.
“So it’s not pure indulgence,” I told my girlfriend when she asked how many sports I actually followed.
“Look, the third period is about to start. I’ve got to get back to work.”
The mistress in the Springsteen Affair
April 13, 2009
This week’s accusations against one of my all-time hero’s, Bruce Springsteen, came as no surprise. Several months ago I’d heard Bruce was quite the flirt with the young ladies in Jersey. Then somebody told me Bruce had two houses; Patti only calls one of them home.
What happens between two people is nobody’s business but their own; but Bruce had set the bar so high with his music. He’d spoken out on so many issues from local food banks to politics. If anyone could rise above his humanity, I guess I was hoping it would be him.
Both parties are now denying the story. There’s a big difference between flirting and having an affair, and it’s not like I saw any of this first hand. Still, I don’t want to think of Bruce as a fuck up like me.
When I learned of all the crap in David Crosby’s life back in the 80’s, I was shocked. The disconnect was so great – guns and crack filled his world, and yet he wrote about love, peace and harmony. When an artist ignores the demons, the creative output becomes contrived.
Loudon Wainwright III wrote the song Father/Daughter Dialogue, with his daughter, Martha, about this very disconnect between what a singer sings and how the singer lives.
Martha opens with a verse about how different he was as a father compared to how he portrayed himself in song. She ends the verse with:
Dearest Daddy with your songs
Do you hope to right your wrongs
Loudon’s answered her question in the 3rd verse:
Darling Daughter can't you see
The guy singing the songs ain't me
He's someone people wish I was
What I can't do this dude does
And if the songs seem slightly pat
I know life's messier than that
They're just songs and life is real
They're just my version of how I feel
I often use writing as therapy. I explore alternate universes. Unconsciously perhaps, I try to right wrongs too, but I don’t give thought to how people think of me through these words. I try to stay true to my version of how I feel. If I accomplish that, I’m good; but sometimes that gets me in trouble, especially with women.
Ultimately it is unreasonable to expect even the likes of a Springsteen to live the perfect life. But how one handles things when they go wrong in many ways is the true test of character. It’s a tougher challenge when you’re a public figure; all the more reason for Bruce not to nuance the facts the way Bill Clinton and Roger Clemens did.
No doubt there will be more to the Springsteen affair in the coming weeks. I’m sure he has a publicist and a lawyer advising him. Regardless of how it plays out, the true litmus test will be how it shows up in song.
Dropping like flies here in Westport
April 6, 2009 Each day I drive through town it seems as if another business has shuttered its doors. Last month the Cadillac/Pontiac dealership closed – it had occupied a choice parcel of land on the Post Road in Westport for over thirty years.
Several restaurants have bitten the dust, even the corner newsagent where I bought milk and a paper went dark. It had been there since I moved into town back in 1992.
At the time Westport was still recuperating from the ’87 crash. The Post Road commercial strip was much different. The building that Blockbuster now occupies was an abandoned hardware store. The old motel became condos. Many of the strip malls underwent a facelift. A collection of homes between the train tracks and the highway became $3m town homes that were never sold.
The post 9/11 boom also brought new restaurants, clothing stores, home decorators and antique shops. Those pesky McMansions kept spreading through town like weeds.
In those halycon days “For Hire” signs hung in the windows of almost every Westport retailer – now many of those same places are empty with real estate vacancy signs. There aren't even jobs at the Stop and Shop – the poster by the front entrance advertising $8+/hr positions with benefits is gone.
I hear people talking about sacrifices here, but I wonder if that means simply downgrading from first class to business.
One thing that’s got me peeved – my favorite store, Trader Joes, has turned into the local hot spot. On weekends you can’t find a place to park. When the Joe first opened folks paid almost twice the price for similar items at Balducci’s and Whole Foods; not anymore.
I love the Joe, so I’m happy they’re doing well; but I long for the good 'ol days when I could get in and out a lot faster.
Warren Buffett, Ani DiFranco, Radiohead????
March 30, 2009
I’m reading Warren Buffett’s biography – it’s a monster weighing in close to a thousand pages – truth be told, I’m skimming.
It opens with Warren being shamed by the internet tycoons of the late 90’s – the bandwagon claimed Warren had lost his touch, he was too old, his reign was over. We all know that in the end he had it right. What some might not realize is that in 2002 he was talking about the toxic mortgage mess; pretty much nailed it. So how on earth did his voice go unheard?
Early in the book he posed a question that I tweaked for this essay: would you prefer to be the world’s best musician even though everyone else thinks you suck, or would you rather be awful but everyone thinks you’re the best?
Warren was asking himself whether he drew strength from within or externally. The point was: when everyone said he’d lost his touch, he was not seduced away from what he knew to be right.
Reality, of course, is never as cut and dry. We are all affected to some extent from both the inner and outer voice, even the all-mighty Buffett.
When I look at my choices, I see a pattern of drawing from within. I’ve often taken the path least traveled, paying a price for this independence; but I’ve also reaped a great bounty along the way.
In 2009 not maximizing my earning potential over the years has caught up to me. Rather than sulk or second guess, I’m relying on creativity to generate options. In normal conditions this has never failed me, but these are extraordinary times, and on occasion I hear the external voice, fueled by doubt, trying to worm its way into my thoughts.
I admire Buffett’s convictions, but it’s easier to stay the course when you don’t have everything on the line – his net worth took a major hit during the Internet boom for not embracing technology, but it wasn’t like Warren went hungry or was about to lose his only home.
Consider the artist who refuses to compromise even when it’s the difference between making it or not – a musician that stays the artistic course is literally singing for his life. That’s real courage, true grit.
In these difficult days I'm turning toward the uncompromising artist for inspiration, a person like Ani Difranco, who put it all on the line without a safety net. Once established, she refused to sell out despite abundant opportunity to do so. Radiohead is another good example. They continue to reinvent themselves with each new collection of tracks regardless of the commercial consequences. Like Warren, they stay true to themselves regardless of what anyone says.
Some of the crew at the Sunday Night Jam
March 23, 2009
This week I organized a walk-through of the Rock Annex for friends. Afterwards we headed back to someone’s house to play music. These were musician friends, folks that I hung out with when I was part of the singer / songwriter crowd.
Some in the group make a living playing music. I experienced firsthand how difficult that was and I’m in awe of anyone that puts it all on the line. It’s the ultimate gamble, to put your career on the come through art in hopes of not crapping out.
Knowing what I know now, no one in their right mind would place such a bet – of course artists are not in their so-called ‘right’ mind. That’s what makes artists with that purity of intent so compelling.
Honesty + Talent + Perseverance = A Great Artist
You need at least two to have a shot – an artist with all three is undeniable.
I tried to find time this week to practice. I used to play several hours a day (perseverance was never an issue). I wrote all the time. Now I squeeze moments in on the commute, or five minutes before I dash out. Sometimes I sneak in a song before bed. It’s frustrating to pick up my guitar and not remember how to play one of my own tunes.
At least I’ve accumulated enough hours under my belt that even in a pinch, I can crank out something and not embarrass myself; but I hear the difference. All I can do is embrace where I am and move forward.
The good news is that I’m still experiencing music through CBGB. I’ve also kept up a habit from my writing routine -- I journal as much as possible – honesty took me awhile to crack – it’s much harder than it first appears.
I did find a few moments to practice this week, but not nearly enough. Playing is more physical than you think: my hands cramped. Fret maneuvers caused searing jolts to my fingertips because I’d lost the calluses. I even felt discomfort under my right arm where the body of the guitar rests.
At the end of the day even full-time musicians must juggle various hats. Few generate cash only from playing – many teach – some moonlight in other professions.
The crowd I run with doesn't judge a song based on its ability to generate cash – it’s about how it moves us emotionally – does it make us laugh, cry, think (talent, I’m still not sure how much is in my tank – I certainly wasn’t born with a lot).
But there’s nothing better than hanging out with friends sharing music.
Despite the hardships and roadblocks, each of us finds our own way to keep writing because it’s who we are. It’s what we do…
Philly Steaks -- Orange Men
March 15, 2009
Most folks know I’m a die-hard Philadelphia fan, but when it comes to college basketball, I follow Syracuse. I spent my freshman year at SU back in 1976.
It was a fluke how I ended up there – I blew my SAT score because I opted to wait in line for Who tickets – box office opened at 8 am – test started at 9:30. It seemed like a good idea because I got second row center seats; but camping on the steps of the Spectrum in Philly for five days was not the ideal way to prep for the most important exam of my life.
Thank God I had decent grades in high school. Syracuse also offered a good financial aid package.
I turned eighteen the first week of school. David Bromberg played the quad the first night and I felt immediately at home. That year I wrote a novel. I played a lot of guitar. I smoked too much weed. I also did work for the Concert Board, which that year was run by Rob Light. Rob went on to become a major player in the music industry. He now runs CAA’s music division.
I dropped out because I couldn't afford to stay. I had six grand in loans from that first year -- back then that was a ton of dough.
I had no business trying to put myself through Syracuse when I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and yet, that time spent on the concert board changed my life. A few years later I was in charge of a similar group at San Diego State, booking many of the bands that played CBGB including the Ramones. At the 999 and The Dickies concert, the crowd went nuts and left Montezuma Hall in tatters -- punk was banned from campus. I valiantly petitioned to fight the ban but lost. Here I am now trying to bring CB's back to life.
This time of year I am often reminded of that brief period of my life because of college hoops. The Orangemen were in the top ten the year I was there and I had gone to most of the games.
Although I headed to California from there, I never stopped following Syracuse. In many ways, the team was like my Philly squads: often competitive, but rarely in position to win it all. It took Carmello Anthony in 2003 for them to finally win a championship.
Rooting for them now is not easy becuase I live in the heart of Huskie territory. UConn has a tremendous program. They’ve won more championships.
This week’s six-overtime epic will go down in history, but it means nothing if Syracuse has a poor showing next week. What they need now is rest.
But they had a great run in the tournament and have as good a shot as anyone. At the very least, it’s got me juiced for March Madness.
March 6, 2009
Last week my four-year old washing machine crapped out. Unfixable the repair man said.
“Shouldn’t a washer last longer than that?” I asked.
“They don’t make them like they used to,” the guy said, “but you still got ripped.”
I trudged back to Best Buy, the place where I bought not only the washer/dryer, but in ’08 two computers for CBGB, and a Nikon D-80 digital camera.
A young Latino woman worked appliances. I told her my story. “If you’d bought our service policy,” she said, “it would still be covered.”
Fair enough, it’s not like Best Buy made the damn thing. I’d bought a Whirlpool, albeit their cheapest model for $250. The lowest price model last week was $400 bucks, a price rise of 60% in just four years.
This salesgirl was no more than twenty-five. She probably made ten bucks an hour with no benefits. I decided to beg. “Can’t you cut me a break? I’ve been a great customer. The last one you sold me was a lemon of sorts.”
“I wish I could,” she said.
I never buy the service policy, but I was feeling vulnerable and desperate. I said, “Could you at least cut me a deal on a five-year plan.”
She shrugged. “Can’t.”
Washer 399. Service 149. Delivery 30. All in: 578.
My dad used to sell appliances. They were called white goods in his day. Back in the 60’s it was a union job. He had great health benefits and a pension. If you hustled, you could make a decent living, but things changed. He did thirty years with the same company. By retirement, his health benefits were a shadow of what they were; his pension had converted into a 401 (k).
I tried a different tack with the Best Buy girl. “It’s tough out there with this economy. I wasn’t expecting to have to buy a washing machine.”
“You’re telling me,” she said. “I still live with my parents.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll take the washer at full price. I’ll buy the service policy too, but you can at least throw in free delivery.”
“I wish I could.”
It was clear this kid had no decision making authority. “Call the manager.” I said.
A few minutes later this slightly rotund man greeted me wearing a headset. He was thirty at best and had worked there less than a year. I put forth my case like an attorney. I showed him receipts for all the stuff I’d bought.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but if I cut a deal for you, where do I draw the line?”
“I understand, but when something goes wrong to a good customer, you make it right. I’m even buying the service policy. All I’m asking for is free delivery.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t.”
“I know you guys are feeling cocky now that Circuit City has gone out of business. But…”
He cut me off. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Fine,” I said in disbelief. “You just lost yourself a good customer.”
I took a few steps toward the front of the store, then turned around. “I can’t believe you’re letting me walk. You guys suck.”
He looked at me like I was the crazy one.
I drove to the local appliance store on the Post Road in Norwalk. At the front desk were five or so sales people, mostly older. If my dad were still alive, this is the place he would have ended up. Sadly, there wasn’t a single customer in the store.
I bought a GE washer there with several more features than the one I would have gotten at Best Buy. I didn’t take the service policy, but the machine with the rebate, was the same price, so in the end I came out slightly ahead.
Dad used to complain about his company taking away benefits and cutting staff. I didn’t understand then that my father was a microcosm of a major restructuring of our economy.
Productivity is about achieving greater efficiency. Squeezing labor, though, is a redistribution of wealth -- executives are bonused on the savings, shareholders enjoy higher stock value, consumers get lower prices – the poor schmuck on the sales floor loses out.
No doubt companies had fat to trim. In the old days if there weren’t any customers, Dad and the other sales folks would read the paper and smoke cigarettes. In the later years they were repricing, taking inventory, and sweeping floors. Dad used to say, “I’m a salesman, not a janitor.”
You might not have gotten Dad to clean the store as well as the kids that work at Best Buy, but he would have known that the lifetime value of a customer was worth more to the company than the cost of delivery.
Of course with Circuit City closing and the bad economy putting pressure on independents, Best Buy, or as I like to call them now, ‘Worst Buy,’ could be the only place left standing when things recover. I guess if that happens, they'll become ‘Only Buy.'
Ugh.
March 1, 2009
What would happen if we also brought home the troops in Afghanistan?
It does seem poetic that the wealthiest country in the world finds itself in this quagmire, searching for men in turbans who live in caves.
I just finished the book, Three Cups of Tea, the story of Greg Mortenson. It sheds a different light on this area of the world and the war against terrorism. Mortenson was a climber who failed to reach K2. He stumbled into a village barely alive. He was nursed back to health in Korphe, a speck of civilization in the Karakoram Mountains of Pakistan.
When Mortenson’s health returned, he discovered that the children had no access to education. He pledged to return to help build them a school.
And he did. Then he built another, and another, and then kept building.
The story details the immense challenges. Several times he was accused of being an infidel with an agenda, but he stayed true to his commitment. His schools had no western angle or Christian agenda. His work was reviewed by various tribal leaders and challenged by religious fanatics. The schools were his defense. The purity of his quest kept him safe.
Mortenson was a hero, and a legend to these people -- there was no inherent hatred of Americans amongst them.
After 9/11, the US began bombing these remote regions in search of Taliban leaders and Al Qaeda. As civilian casualties grew, Mortenson’s job grew more difficult. An influx of Saudi money to build schools with the intent to leverage this American angst fueled religious fanaticism in the region.
But Mortenson soldieres on with the pen, paper and books. Each time a Mullah claimed that Mortenson should be banned or killed and his schools destroyed, the people of the area defended Mortenson. But each time a civilian died by US bomb, Mortenson faced tougher opposition.
Mortenson’s story calls into question the United States role in this region. Fighting terrorism is a global issue, not uniquely American. It’s as critical to a poor villager in Afghanistan as it is for someone that lives on Park Avenue or the Champs Elysées.
Three Cups of Tea should be mandatory reading for anyone with policy decision authority. All high school seniors should read it too. If the United States intends on continuing as a world leader, its citizens should know geography.
When there is no hope, life is cheap, and young recruits are plentiful. Provide education, food, and shelter. Do it without propaganda and the people will know the truth. They will make the right choices.
Baseball, the stimulus, and the media
February 23, 2009
Pundits beat to death the debacle at Yankee camp this week as if the entire season rested on the outcome of A-Rod’s apology – barring a significant suspension, what transpired will have little effect on the team. This barrage of hot air has no consequence, it simply doesn’t matter if the sports reporter gets it wrong. But when the media plays Monday morning quarterback on the economy every hour of every day, it creates unnecessary angst that is putting the country on edge.
The beauty of baseball is the length of the season: 162 games. And yet an opening day loss is declared significant minutes after the final pitch by the media – every play dissected and debated, until of course, the next game. This reactive approach to daily results is how the media covers the economy. It’s the cash equivalent of a fire -- Coming up: an exclusive segment based on an unsubstantiated report from an anonymous source gathered second hand – you won’t want to miss it.
This endless analysis has contributed to the psychology of the downward spiral. Providing endless updates from so-called experts to last week’s stimulus package was pointless. The results of this program will take at least a year to work through the economy, if not longer.
Last year nobody predicted my favorite team, the Phillies, to win. Even in mid-September, most pundits didn’t see them making the playoffs. Can anyone recall these media experts saying twelve months ago that the entire global economy was on the brink of collapse?
If everyone sits on the sidelines like Chicken Little waiting for the sky to fall in, it will.
How about giving the Obama programs time to work. Gauging their merit by the irrational reaction of a skittish market is ridiculous. It’s time to tune-out the punditry and get on with the business of our lives. We need to earn. We need to invest and spend.
But it takes time to regain confidence. It begins with baby steps. My first move is to tune out the news pundits and turn on baseball. Odds are, no one but me is picking the Phillies to repeat.
February 16, 2009
I don’t care if the answer to fix the economy comes from the right or left, and nobody else should either. The situation is so bad, and the system so vast and interconnected globally -- nobody knows what to do. For either side to act as if they have all the answers is arrogance and hubris. It’s the primary reason why we’re in this mess. At this point, no party occupies the moral high ground.
At least Obama admitted that the stimulus might not work. But it wasn’t surprising that Karl Rove weighed in that this debate had reenergized the Republican Party. Watching FOX News this week, I saw one republican after another talk with such confidence, almost gleeful, as if they had all the answers.
Is it possible that some people would rather see us suffer for the next two years to ensure that they get reelected in 2010?
Since 9/11 we’ve been told that the threat to the nation was the Taliban. Ironic that what did us in is the greed on Wall Street and the incompetence within the beltway. Unfettered capitalism is as dangerous as religious fanaticism.
One good thing that might come out of this mess is the creation of vital music. Whenever the kids start feeling the pressure, they rebel, they speak out, they create great art. Over the next few years we should be witness to some mind-blowing sounds from what is truly the first 21st century generation, kids barely aware of what was going down when 9/11 happened, but now completely aware of how fucked up their parents have made the world…
It won’t come a moment too soon…
Back by necessity
February 8, 2009
I'm sitting by the fire because an early February chill continues to grip the Northeast. There's lots of sickness around – coughing, wheezing, sniffling. I’ve had a cold for weeks too. With the frigid temperatures and the 24/7 news cycle of depression, who wouldn’t be ill?
I know there’s plenty of reasons why the economy has failed, but ad nauseum analysis and hype only exacerbates the problem. The psychology of the market is important, and at the moment the country is being pummeled with non-stop doom and gloom.
This week’s democratic missteps bring to mind that classic Who song, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’:
Here comes the new boss, same as the old boss.
Why public servants don't err on the side of caution in regards to taxes is beyond me. Yes, Obama apologized, but it took too long.
How dare they think:
Daschle was the most qualified, and healthcare is so critical, therefore we can afford to look the other way on his tax transgression.
If that’s the case, what if the ultimate economist with the ability to cure our economy just happened to also be a murderer.
I’m sure some would advocate looking the other way, but where does the line get drawn when the rule of law blurs?
Speaking of how the economy is affecting us, Spam is back, sales are up big time.
I caught an ad this week and the processed meat almost looked appetizing.
I’ve been living beneath my means for years, but I’ve taken further steps recently to stretch a buck:
I rarely eat out nowadays
I delay trips to the grocery store by rummaging through my cabinets and by being more creative with combinations of ingredients
I eat more pasta
Sadly, I buy less organic
Trader Joes is my favorite store, not only do they have a great assortment of natural products, their prices are amazing. The Connecticut version of a Joe pales in comparison to the California stores, but it’s still a joy to shop.
Another thrifty move is to utilize the public library. I’m fortunate here in Westport to have an amazing facility which also happens to have a killer selection of DVDs – you can’t beat the price.
Well, the fire’s going out, so I better put another log on – that’s another way to cut down on oil use. Thank God I didn’t lock in at 4.79 a gallon this summer, if I had, I’d be freezing my ass off.
Hope you’re warm wherever you are. Thanks for reading.
February, 2, 2009
Thursday Night I was at Amoeba Music, Sunset and Vine, Hollywood -- one of America’s last great record stores. The massive three-story building has an open plan and the browsers were crammed with product from one end of the store to the other. Concert posters lined concrete walls. There was a separate area for Jazz, Classical, and a loft for video.
It was almost closing time, it wasn’t crowded, but the kids that were there, some tattooed and pierced, wormed through the aisles, searching for gold.
The store felt a bit like the old Tower chain – cement floors, hand written signs; the staircase heavily graffitied, a la CBGB, but there was also mall-store tackiness – all of the CDs were housed in those annoying plastic security casings shaped like the old long box. Dubbed coffins, they were created to prevent theft, but they were also shaped to make the CD fit in the old Vinyl LP fixture.
I grew nostalgic looking at Amoeba’s stage. A bevy of speaker cabinets hung from the ceiling. It reminded me of the stages at HMV – we were the first to add them to the in-store experience. We also had DJs, listening posts, separate environments for Classical and Jazz – back then, nobody had that stuff.
The late 80’s was a boom for record stores as consumer converted vinyl to CD. Tower, HMV and Virgin, raced around the world to place bigger and more exciting stores in Berlin, Tokyo, Sydney, and LA. I jetted about, sniffing out locations, doing deals to put great stores on several continents. I had just turned 30.
Twenty years later, the landscape has changed. I don’t get out much nowadays, so it was great fun last week to hit four cities in six days as one of the owners of CBGB – Chicago, LA, SF, and Sacramento, which incidentally is where the first Tower Records appeared.
Russ Solomon’s dad owned the Tower pharmacy back in the 50’s; Russ sold singles besides the malt counter. Today an indie store occupies part of what was once Tower – a small park, café, and theater fills out the rest of the complex. The city had the good sense to landmark the building – too bad that didn’t happen in NY for CBs.
At one point in the late 90’s, I was involved with EMI’s attempt to buy Tower. Even if that acquisition had happened, I doubt the brand would have survived.
My first experience with a Tower was in 1978 on Sunset – I’d head for the new release stacks, wander through their canyon of vinyl, my mouth watering, trying to figure out how best to maximize the ten bucks in my pocket.
I’m not sure how much longer a place like Amoeba will last. There’s a purity to their positioning – they had little merch, it was all CD, Vinyl, DVDs. At HMV we used to say that as long as a record store remained exciting, people would come because shopping was a social experience. Kids want to share discoveries, engage one another. At that time, the Internet was a solitary experience.
Nowadays it’s all about the on-line community. People are sharing up the gazoo. Jill just took a dump. Dan is stuck in traffic. And yet, until technology delivers Star Trek’s Holodeck experience in the home, the internet can’t replace face-to-face engagement, and even if I share my playlists with friends, it’s still not as cool as sitting around in a dorm room, smoking weed, listening together.
But each day technology entices a child to spend ever more time away from the real world, and if places like Amoeba expect to be around next decade, they’ll have to provide something that kids don’t get on-line.
In 2009, I'm happy to say that the Amoeba experience can’t be replicated even if it is a venue in Guitar Hero.
Not everyone is enjoying the lower oil prices...
January 26, 2009
If we could create from scratch the ideal person to run the country, Barack would come damn close. But there’s nothing he can do to keep folks from losing their jobs in the short term. It’s hard to believe that things got so bad so fast. And yet, last weekend in South Beach – there wasn’t a hotel room to be found. Kids crowded the streets at 2am trying to get into clubs along Collins. I have no idea where they get the cash, but there appeared to be no shortages or hardship.
As I headed north along Miami Beach I found a handful of rooms at the Best Western, the Days Inn, a Marriot Courtyard – not the hot spots like the Delano or the Palms – but these motels were still asking 200 bucks and that didn’t include parking.
I was also in Key West and there was slim pickings in the Historic District too – when I asked waiters and concierges how the economy was affecting them they said it hadn’t.
On the flipside, when I came home to a bone chilling Connecticut, my boiler crapped out mid-week. According to the service man, when it’s in the teens, you burn a lot of fuel and that often jams up the nozzle. Fortunately, it happened while I was home so the situation was easily remedied.
We got to talking about how lucky I was not to lock in at 4 dollar plus / gallon; many folks did this summer. At the time, there were rumors that oil might hit 7 bucks. He told me some people can’t afford to fill their tanks. There are programs to help out the poor, but not enough for everyone in need. It’s hard to believe that in a country like this, people are going without heat.
I’m optimistic about our future with this new administration. When Kennedy challenged America to take on the Russians in the race to the moon, somehow we rose to the occasion. I am hopeful that President Obama's call for all Americans to pull together will achieve a similar result.
January 16, 2009
A few days before Thanksgiving I agreed to a January jaunt to Florida with my girl friend. At the time my beloved Philadelphia Eagles were in a tailspin – Donovan McNabb had been benched, his replacement was no better. Heading into a Thanksgiving showdown with the Cardinals there was little to be hopeful for.
And yet before I bought the plane tickets I checked the National Football Playoff Schedule to see what games were on – it turned out to be the conference championship weekend. Not in a million years would I have expected that the Eagles would be one of four still alive for the Super Bowl. Vegas odds must have been a million to one back then. There was no way the Eagles had a shot at even making the playoffs, the Giants looked awesome, the Cowboys were hot; my birds were cooked. I booked the flight.
And now here we are, conference championship weekend -- the Eagles are playing the Cardinals for the right to play in the Super Bowl.
Imagine my trepidation when I told my girlfriend that we’d have to find a bar somewhere to catch the game on what was to be our first official holiday together.
To be fair, she’d already suffered through a handful of games this season – she even watched my Phillies make their play-off run, although truth be told, she read Oprah’s magazine with only half an eye on the game.
She even acted interested when I told her the saga of the long-suffering Philly fan, but all she’s known is victory. She doesn’t get why I’m always waiting for disaster – that final World Series game, for example, the one that played out over three days – I was convinced that the sports Gods had intervened to ensure that Tampa Bay won. She thought I was overly paranoid and negative, but she knew nothing of this Philadelphia burden.
Even with the World Series win, I expect something awful to happen to the Eagles – like that year the team went to Chicago with a hot team led by Randall Cunningham – that day the fog rolled into Soldiers Field making visibility beyond five feet, zero; watching the game on TV was literally a white-out. The fog nullified the Eagles passing game allowing the Bears to win easily.
There could be only one thing worse – an Eagle victory this weekend and me not able to watch it.
Still, a girl friend only has to be reasonable for so long, there has to be a line in the sand somewhere. Having to watch a game while on vacation in sunny Florida was probably it.
For the record, we both enjoy a lot of the same movies – we loved ‘Slumdog’ and ‘Rachel Getting Married,’ but we differ in mindless entertainment – she loves sappy romances like that awful Richard Gere film I wrote about earlier in the year, I watch SportsCenter. I’m sure most women scratch their heads at the fascination men have for 24-hour sport updates.
My ex-wife certainly didn’t understand it, but she was fine with me watching whatever I wanted as long as she didn’t have to be in the room. That worked for me until she took off with some guy who wasn’t into sports or music.
But that’s ancient history, as apparently the losing in Philadelphia. And too, so it seems, having to worry about whether I can watch the game. My girl friend didn’t flinch when I asked -- there were no strings (short of going to a place where she could sip strawberry margaritas).
So the next time I’m in the cinema watching the latest Richard Gere film with her, I pledge to keep my mouth shut, to even find something nice to say, in fact, I might even enjoy it. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
January 12, 2009
Friday evening, Grand Central, commuter train back to Connecticut
Had a long day and was looking forward to a warm fire, some Chinese take-out, and a rental movie with my girl friend. About half way home on the commute, the train stopped, and we sat for an hour, told only that there was police activity on the line.
Then the power went off and this packed Friday night train groaned. The lights were out except for the glow from the emergency back-ups. The circulation fans went silent. Calls rippled through the aisles: “Still on the train. No, don’t know why or when we’ll get home…”
Twenty minutes later a conductor walked through the cars announcing that the train had hit someone, that a coroner had just arrived on the scene – homicide was already there, the Metro North Police too. Protocol required that a new engineer be brought in. Our train could not be moved until the investigation was complete.
More phone calls were made – still no idea when we’ll get home…
I figured it was a jumper and it made me think about Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone episode called “A Stop at Willoughby,” about advertising exec Gart Williams, who cracks under the pressure of his job. He commuted on this very line and got off at Westport.
Serling lived in town and wrote those classic episodes here – back then, ad execs (think Mad Men) were like bankers, the ones who McMansioned Westport over the past decade.
Gart hated his job and longed for a simpler time, but his wife kept pushing him. At one point he said to her, “I’m tired of living in a pretentious big house that we can’t afford.” Serling had indentified that same suburban lust and malaise that is still endemic throughout the county.
As I sat in the dark on the very train tracks of this Twilight Zone episode, I wondered if the person dead had suffered like the guy in the story?
Gart lost himself on a similar snowy winter ride home, conjuring up in a dream the fictitious town of Willoughby, dating back to 1888 where barefoot boys with fishing poles strolled dirt roads alongside horse and buggies. This dream grew more real with each ride home as his boss grew more demanding and his wife less sympathetic. In the final scene, Gart Williams gets off in Willoughby.
“Welcome Mr. Williams, the boys say, a fresh catch on the end of their poles.
The scene shifts back to modern day, the Metro North train has stopped on a snowy, cold evening, much like the one I was experiencing. Outside I spotted police flashlights and the blur of red sirens. In the episode, Gart had killed himself and here I am thinking perhaps in this era of Bernie Madoff and subprime mortgage scandals, that the same narrative had repeated itself on this very train.
I must admit that I was also thinking, “Just my luck, if I’d only caught the 6:11.”
Turned out it wasn’t a jumper, the train had killed a rail construction employee.
For your consideration – my one hour commute turned into four hours, a nightmare, perhaps, but really just an inconvenience, but for this dead man’s family, the journey into the Twilight Zone had just begun…
My Dad with Danny Glover
January 5, 2009
Eight years ago my father died. He’d been diagnosed with lung cancer in late August and passed away less than six months later. The so-called cure is what did him in, and looking back, I wonder if it would have been better if he’d skipped the chemo and gone on a two-year party and travel jaunt. It’s easy to look back now and say that, but at the time, chemo seemed prudent.
I recently wrote about my friend Sloan, whose husband had a bone marrow transplant in hopes to lick cancer – for awhile, it looked like the right decision too, but last week he took a dramatic backwards turn, a few days later he was dead.
I still believe that positive energy and thoughts make a difference. I also believe that music and community can ease the suffering, but at the end of the day, when death comes a knocking, there’s not much anyone can do.
The big lesson I’m drawing from this is that there’s no time to waste – life is for living now. When I think of all the moments I’ve frittered away, all the negative energy expended on needless reactions to situations that have no consequence, I cringe. If there’s one resolution to declare this year, it’s to eliminate thoughts that lead to a downward spiral.
When death comes to my doorstep I don’t want to think about all the time I squandered moping about for no reason, harboring ill-feelings towards people that I care deeply about, or beating myself up for stuff that couldn’t be helped. Starting now, that’s got to change.
My father wanted to be an actor in the worst way, but for too many reasons to go into here, it didn’t happen until late in life. He’d dabbled with being an extra (just like Ricky Gervais) for years, but once he retired, he put his name out there and went on countless auditions. The very month he was diagnosed, he got a gig in an A&E special as Alfred with Adam West as Bruce Wayne and Frank Gorshin as the Riddler. Dad only had a few speaking lines. I remember dropping him off at the set, the excitement on his face, the sparkle in his eye. That night he was driven home in a limo.
During the chemo the phone started ringing off the hook for more work, but he was already too weak.
I know if he could tell me something now, he’d probably say, don’t waste even a second of your life, you have no idea what’s around the corner.
Heavy thoughts, I know, for the start to a New Year, but what better time to change bad habits than now.
Classic Xmas Songs to make anyone smile
Santa Baby -- Eartha Kitt (bless her soul...)
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer -- The Cadillacs
Deck the Halls -- Jackie Wilson
Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto -- James Brown
Silent Night -- Dr. John
Jingle Bell Rock -- Bobby Helms
Frosty the Snowmen-- The Ronettes
Anything by Nat King Cole
On Saturday night I caught Westport natives, The Tom Tom Club – Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz, at the intimate Fairfield Theater Company. These Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductees dug in for three nights and blew the roof off the FTC.
I’ve known Tom Tom’s singer Mystic Bowie for several years – he’s got his own reggae band and in the summer you can hear him at festivals all over the region. I co-wrote a dance track once for an aerobics instructor and I brought Mystic in to sing with Jen Durkin, who fronts the Bombsquad, another kickass Fairfield County band.
Tom Tom’s guitar player, Fuzz, is another friend. I knew him when he and his wife were fronting a band called Rolla – his new band Caravan of Thieves opened the show – this post-retro gypsy ensemble was Django meets the Beatles, a unique combination that is well worth checking out.
When I was going to Nashville a few years ago, Fuzz and I talked about co-writing some tracks, but we never got it together. We reconnected last night and hopefully ’09 we’ll make it happen.
As many of you know, I've been frustrated at not having enough time to write, but it was interesting to see last night how what I do with CBGB collided with my writing. Chris and Tina were part of the very fabric of what CBGB was, they were there virtually at ground zero, and as part of Talking Heads, changed music forever. And here, at the end of 2008 as the Tom Tom Club, based in my home town, several friends of mine are in the band. It’s pretty cool and I’ll take that as a good sign for what’s ahead.
It’s also interesting to note that last week’s post was added to the CBGB MySpace page. It generated a great response, but one person wondered what Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Rosanne Cash had to do with CBGB – a damn good question. Most people don’t know that the Coen Brothers asked Gilmore to appear in their film, the Big Lebowski, after seeing his CB’s show. Rosanne never played the club, but always wanted to – Alan Jackson loved his appearance at 315, and of course most of you know that Hilly Kristal, the founder, had intended the club to be a Country, Bluegrass and Blues venue…
Back in the late 70’s I was at San Diego State, booking concerts for the college – my most memorable show was the annual Ramone’s gig – speaking to Arturo Vega (the so-called fifth Ramone), who I met back then (of course he didn’t remember me) – the boys loved playing San Diego, the women were so fine…
I booked lots of punk acts, keeping a close eye on what CBs was doing, but when we lost control of the crowd at a 999 and the Dickies show, punk was banned from campus. When I look back at my so-called mishmash of a career, it’s been a blend of business and art, with music the common thread in both.
Heading into 2009, nothing has changed.
December 15, 2008
In these days of retribution for excess and greed, music matters more than ever. Ten years ago I walked away from the industry executive suites to rediscover why I had forgotten that. Now I’m back with the awesome responsibility to keep the spirit of CBGB alive. Last week we opened an exhibit in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Annex in NYC.
Ten years ago, I was laid off, got a fat pay-off. I turned down several offers to rejoin the fray because I’d lost sight of why I was in the music biz. I had risen too high up, I was too far from the sounds, the sweat, the beat. I might as well have been selling tooth paste, and as far as I could tell, many of the decision makers at that time would have been better off doing just that.
I set out to wander the trenches, to rediscover what had driven me music mad in the first place. I took guitar lessons from a guy who apprenticed with Dave Van Ronk. I played open mics. I attended the Kerrville Folk Festival. I hung out with bands and songwriters that had no hope of putting a dent into the national scene. Even with their flaws in song structure, melody and performance, these musicians persevered without regret, excuse, or apology. They had a passion and a commitment that burned bright in their eyes. It wasn’t money that drove them, it was human connection. They might not have had a buck in their pocket, but they put smiles on faces, they warmed hearts.
I also got to hang out with Jimmie Dale Gilmore. He taught me a lot about music and song, but more importantly, he taught me about myself, my humanity. I also had the privilege to do a retreat with Rosanne Cash, not as some record honcho, but as a fellow writer, learning how to dig deep into oneself for truth and honesty. These experiences helped me find my voice again.
On Saturday I saw the Sloan Wainwright family Christmas show in Bedford, New York. Fresh off her annual Carnegie Hall performance with Rufus and Martha, the Bedford show featured the folk side of the clan including The Roches and Sloan’s sons, Sam and Gabe.
Sloan is the least known of the Wainwrights, but well worth hearing. She’s built a strong, independent following. What she lacks in commercial success and notoriety, she’s made up for in the community built around her music. Her personal connections are strong, vibrant, real.
I met Sloan ten years ago at Summersongs, a songwriter camp. Sloan was the vocal and song coach and we’ve stayed friends since. She sang on my last CD, we did a songwriter night last year at the trendy Rockwood Music Hall.
Our paths haven’t crossed much lately because last year her husband was diagnosed with cancer and he had to have a bone marrow transplant. As a general contractor they had no corporate insurance coverage. Forced to improvise, they cobbled together a network of friends to navigate a treacherous US healthcare system.
Sloan’s musician friends hosted several benefit concerts to provide supplemental funding. I doubt the money raised made a dent in the medical bills, but the pooling of love, the coming together through song, the creation of community, not for fame and glory, but for the purity of human connection, that’s what kept Sloan and her family sane through what can only be termed a nightmare of epic proportion.
This ability for music to inspire and connect us is what had drawn me to playing in the first place.
Now that I’m back working with CBGB, I survey a music landscape vastly different from the one I left. I don’t pretend to know what or how to fix the industry, but I do know that music matters now more than ever.
In the early days of CBGB, the club gave voice to those who could not get the ear of the music industry. CBGB was real, in your face. The sounds coming off that stage might not have always been pretty, but it was honest.
No matter how bad the economy gets, honest music will always be in demand. Whether it comes from international pop stars or from a neighborhood gospel choir, music is the universal language, it’s a language that I had forgotten while I was too busy making money selling CDs. It’s the language that I’ve spent the last ten years relearning, and I suspect, it’s the language many who currently occupy the executive ranks of what is left of this industry, have never known.
This Christmas season, I urge family and friends to come together in song, to heal, to save, to love. The future is bright for those with song in their hearts.
By the way, Sloan's husband, George is coming home for the holidays too, the power of music, the power of community.
Happy Holidays
December 8, 2008
The very week the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Annex in NYC opened with CBGB artifacts, I had my first gig in over a year. Although the gala party was not CBGB’s responsibility, because I worked on the first Hall of Fame in Cleveland, I helped shape the event.
The gig had been in the books since the summer -- I'd canceled a June show due to my studio accident – I’ve had a hearing issue ever since.
I’m making slow progress, everything seems louder than it is, and often, I wear silicone earplugs to mitigate the impact – but the plugs throw off my intonation and timing – for this show, I was determined to overcome the additional challenge -- canceling again was not an option.
About three weeks ago, I started preparing. My voice was a shadow of what it once was – I could feel the lack of depth and tone, I was often flat, my range, never great in the best of days, had narrowed.
I broke out the vocal exercises, but things at work got busier – often I couldn’t find even ten minutes to practice. I grew depressed.
I put the vocal CDs in the car forcing myself to practice on the ride to the train station, the grocery store, wherever. I even hummed scales on the streets of NYC -- nobody noticed since everyone talks on cell phones.
On weekends I played a little more, and by the holiday break I was feeling good.
Then this week hit. The Annex overwhelmed everything, I didn’t touch my guitar until Thursday, but the practicing had paid off, then on Friday morning, I woke with a sore throat. I hadn’t been sick in over a year. I’m sure it was stress related, but nonetheless, there I was, confronted with the malady. I was playing with three other writers, people I’d known since 1999 – this was as much a reunion of friends as it was a performance, I was bumming because I wanted to be able to talk with my musical companions.
I nurtured the voice through the day, drank a lot of lemon honey tea, but it was a struggle. I figured by show time I’d be completely without voice, but somehow, just before we went on, the voice eased up – perhaps it was all the vitamins and tea I’d taken, perhaps it was just being in the company of good friends.
You have no idea how great it was to do the gig, hang out afterwards, catch up with the gang. It was grounding.
I was also reminded of when I was a young music biz exec, working crazy hours to climb ever higher on the corporate ladder, back then I stopped playing altogether. This week I was glad that I didn't yield to the pressure, or bail from the gig, it's a mistake I won't repeat again.
December 1, 2008
Jane works at a mid-sized company that’s been around thirty years – for as long as she and her co-workers remember, the company has given pies to employees at Thanksgiving – this year there was no pie.
Weeks leading up to pie day there were rumors, whispers in the coffee room, covert discussions in the parking lot – would there be pies or not?
Pie day came and went and not a word was uttered by management as to why, it was as if the pie tradition had never existed. It became the great unspoken, the pie that wasn’t in the room.
Clearly they should have communicated to employees, it was a lost opportunity. Everyone knows companies must hunker down, tighten ship, do what it must to survive the maelstrom. Cutting pies as part of a series of belt buckling activities could have gotten everyone on the same page. But hey, it’s not personal, it’s business, there’s no need for a company to act as if anyone has feelings.
The problem is, it’s always personal – when you’re asked to work late and forced to miss Junior’s little league game, that’s personal, but today, corporations are gutless. The belief in the board room is that employees will do what they’re told because they’re damn lucky to even have a job; if they don’t, the rising pool of unemployed are waiting to replace them.
Fear is often the most expeditious means to motivate, but when a company squeezes the soul out of their employees, what is left? We have taken the humanity out of our economy, distilled it to maximizing quarterly profits at any expense regardless of the ethical consequences – as long as shareholders and top management profit, who cares?
At the end of the day, what else explains this economic debacle?
It won’t take a miracle by Barack Obama to fix the mechanics of our economy, but to restore the heart in our system, that’s another matter. To rediscover the intangible that produced the innovation of an Apple, or the glory years of the American automobile industry, that’s going to take a lot more than just throwing money at the situation.
This isn’t about returning to the era of long lunches, uncooperative unions or hallways populated with deadwood, but it is about reconnecting to a time when people mattered, when results were determined over the long-term, when both employee and employer expected to be together for more than just a few seasons.
Free market principles must remain the foundation of our economy, but there has to be referees, rules, consequences. We failed to learn the lessons of the late 80’s, we missed the opportunity during the Enron fiasco, so it isn’t any surprise that here we are again.
My mother used to bake pecan pies for the holidays, she also used to say a little common sense and honesty will take you far. Perhaps that’s part of the recipe the Obama brain trust will use, it certainly would have made Jane’s management think twice about saying nothing when they stopped pie day this Thanksgiving.
November 24, 2008
Monday night I headed out of the city around seven. It had been a long day and I had worked through the weekend, so hadn’t had a chance to hook up with my girlfriend. We decided to get a bite to eat in Stamford, at PF Changs – I’d never eaten there and we thought of treating ourselves – we also figured that with the economy getting worse, we’d be able to pop in quick. It was just past eight, but the place was packed – there was a twenty-five minute wait.
You might be seeing the economic effects in your home town, but around here, folks are clearly still in denial. Of course many of the people responsible for this mess, live in Fairfield County -- they’ve still got a ton of bonus money, but I have no doubt that unemployment will rise over the next twelve months even here.
Unfortunately, I believe that all of us are in the same boat -- if we’re fortunate enough not to lose our jobs, then someone close to us will, and it won’t be surprising if we have to reach into our own pockets to help.
Ever since I decided to take a shot at making a living as an artist, I’ve been existing below my means. Even when I was making a comfortable six-figure income, I squirreled away cash. Living without spending is something I’ve practiced.
One trick I mastered is bartering skills and services. We all have talent at something, and we all have friends with their own special abilities -- swapping services is a great way to stretch hard earned dollars. A musician friend of mine runs a lawn service – I give him studio time, he cleans out my gutters – no doubt you’ve got something that someone will value in exchange for something they can do for you.
I see one possible silver lining in all of this economic suffering. Perhaps shedding ourselves of this consumption habit will put us more in touch with what’s really important --- family, friends, neighbors. If this downturn forces us to be less materialistic, more communal, that can only be a good thing. When things turn around, and I have no doubt that they will, hopefully we won’t forget the lessons of how we got into this mess, or the simple pleasures of good conversation, reading a book, helping someone in need…
Port au Prince 2006
November 17, 2008
I wonder how I’ll get by another year with my ’94 car and whether I should delay that trip to the dentist, I’m thinking: how bad is it really going to get? Each month it’s a scramble to pay the bills, but somehow, knock on wood, I’m doing it. But the days of flipping my credit card debt for a zero percent promotional period has probably run its course.
I’d heard that the mortgage companies and the credit card people have received federal funds to write-off bad debt. I called both, thinking I might qualify given the lack of income I’ve generated the past several years. When I asked, this is what they said, “The only way to qualify for this program is to go into default.”
“I don’t want to do that,” I told them. “I pay my mortgage every month, but it’s a struggle, a hardship.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Williams, you’ve managed to pay your bills, we can’t help you.”
“So you’re saying that you’ll write down debt for those who never should have taken a mortgage in the first place, or to those who opted to go on vacation with a credit card versus paying you, but for me, a guy who does what is necessary, even if it means wearing clothes that should have been taken to Goodwill ages ago, or drives an old clunker, you won’t help me.”
“Yup.”
That's why I'm against a car bailout that doesn't come with serious strings -- starting with top management: gone; top labor leaders: gone. Then we can discuss a bailout.
But while I sit here in America, licking my fiscal wounds, there are Americans abroad who have dedicated their lives to helping others, sacrificing wealth, comfort, and security. Stephen D. Vance was one such person. On Wednesday he was assassinated in Pakistan – 52, a US aid worker, he married a Mongolian on assignment, had five children. He’d spent his life working in the world’s worst places to ease the pain and suffering of those who could not help themselves.
When I was in Haiti back in ’06 for Concern Worldwide – aid workers were being kidnapped in a handful of unstable areas of Port au Prince. We kept away from those places, I didn’t walk any where alone, I traveled with a local driver. I so admired the expats based there, folks who dedicated their lives to inhospitable conditions for nothing more than the satisfaction of making a difference.
I wish I had such courage.
This weekend I wanted to recognize all my friends at Concern who work so hard, for so little, I truly don’t know how they do it. Any hardship here at home is nothing compared to what these guys go through every day. This year they will need financial support more than ever – literally, lives are depending on them. This holiday season, with cutbacks on everybody’s mind, perhaps we can spend a little less on ourselves, and find a way to give to folks like Concern.
Regardless of whether the stock market is up or down, the poor always need help.
November 10, 2008
I was on the train the day after the election, heading into the city, and I picked this off my Blackberry email: Psychologist's chilling analysis of Obama
It was from a musician friend, a known republican, a bright guy, married to a Lebanese woman. He feels as if he’s got an insight into the Muslim world that I don’t; he probably does. We go out for a beer, play some music and debate politics a couple of times a year. On occasion he sends a mass, hyped-up republican email like this one. I didn’t bother reading the body of the email, I simply shot back this retort:
Stop it John (name changed for privacy). Give him a chance to right the ship you guys sunk.
Don't go on about the democrats had the house and senate the last two years. Bush was the worst ever. Give it two years and then see.
We need to work together now -- both sides need to give.
We need to show humility
Not blame
You need to work with us
We are one
If you want to divide, then we're guaranteed to be a 2nd rate country
His response:
Who sunk the ship? You, my friend, are deeply in the thrall of the lies told by your own propaganda lords. Everything you think you know about Bush is a lie, demonstrably so.
Meanwhile, specifically what do you know about Obama?
Hey, I will give Obama and Biden as much respect and co-operation as you and your guys gave to Bush and Cheney for the past eight years. Fair enough? Actually, I will probably give them more respect and co-operation, because probably we won't go so far as to commit acts of treason to undermine their policies. And then again....
Let's argue over a few beers sometime. That would be more fun.
My response:
You're nuts. I don't need to be told anything about those guys, I just have to look around:
Ten percent unemployment in Bridgeport
Failed banks
Iceland bankrupt
Ireland in turmoil
Bush has the lowest approval ratings in history
McCain and the party did everything they could to distance themselves from your boys Bush and Cheney
But I still love u
This country must come together
Obama will bring republicans into the administration in ways never seen before
If Warren Buffet says Obama is the man, then I’m for Obama
His response:
You're a towel.
But I still love you, too.
I don't buy into your post hoc or ad populum arguments, but it's too much work to argue, epecially since we are not likely to agree, regardless. The risk/benefit does not pan out.
Business is not good for me. The high-tax Democrats who run everything drove most of my manufacturing customer base out of the northeast region and into the south and midwest.
Oops. That was an unfair of me to take an indirect shot like that. Sorry.
----
Whew – something, heh?
I didn’t ask what he meant by a towel, but it couldn’t have been good.
The reality is that many Americans feel just as John does – there was an electoral landslide, but the popular vote was closer than one might expect given the conditions. In a few areas, Republicans actually picked up votes.
There’s no point to the blame game, too much to get done to dwell on the past. We’ve got a clean slate and at least twelve months before the next election cycle – at this point it’s not about words any more, it’s about doing – governing.
Obama can’t solve everything in a year, the objective should be to turn this ship around, get it headed in the right direction, show folks that change really is attainable.
For the first time in a very long time, I’m feeling optimistic about this country’s prospects. I’m proud again to be an American – for those who think that’s an unpatriotic statement – well, that’s what makes this country so amazing, the fact that we can live peacefully side by side, despite differences. Of that, we must never lose sight…
The right change versus the left change
November 5, 2008
Several people called today saying I was on a roll – first the Phillies, now Obama – guess folks that know me well, know that I often back losers. I was nervous down to the last pitch of that World Series, and the same could be said for last night’s election.
But with victory comes responsibility and humility. This is the time to reunite the country, not wedge a further divide. We have a unique opportunity to make this a game changer, but democrats in the house and senate must reach across the aisle, not rub the republicans’ noses in their shit.
Obama’s speech was flawless, McCain’s was great too, but I saw Spike Lee on TV and he was smug, and at the end of the interview, he held up a tee-shirt with Obama knocking out McCain, a la Louis versus Schmeling. Spike – that ain’t helpful.
Yes, I can make an argument that Black Americans deserve to gloat, but this isn’t about just winning an election, this is about change in a meaningful way that can propel this nation back into a world leadership position on all fronts. To do that, we must unite, not further the divide.
That also means taking slow, steady steps forward – the big mistake the Clinton’s made was rushing a liberal left agenda – within two years, the house and senate were lost. But I sense Barack understands this. I just hope Pelosi and Reid get it too.
We need an alternative to the alternatives
November 3, 2008
Anyone still undecided, please, what more information could you possible require? I might not agree with republicans this year, but at least they can choose a side. Those that can’t need to be checked for brain activity or a pulse.
And yet, Ralph Nader claims there’s little that separates democrats from republicans – this year, I disagree, but it is true that a conservative democrat has a lot in common with a moderate republican. Perhaps the middle ground should form its own party, leaving the extreme right and left to their own.
This year in the fourth congressional district of Connecticut, the republican incumbent, Christopher Shays, is in danger of losing his seat after two decades, despite an endorsement from the New York Times.
Over the weekend I was reading the League of Women Voters of Westport annual Voters’ Guide, featuring position statements from the candidates. What stood out this year were the words from the fringe, folks like Michael Anthony Carrano, the Libertarian candidate, and Richard Z. Duffee, the Green party representative.
Mr. Carrano opened with this:
An economy, being a chaotic system, entails a sensitive dependency on initial conditions.
Apparently this Libertarian is an autodidact and the intellectual architect behind Imperativism, a multidisciplinary approach to critical thinking and value analysis. He calls himself an experimental philosopher. An Ayn Rand supporter, he claims marked deregulation is our only option.
I read his two paragraphs four times and still had no idea what he was talking about. To be honest, it was his picture that caught my attention – he looks like a kid who’s trying out for American Idol.
Mr. Duffee of the Green party wants to abolish the Federal Reserve. He’d eliminate the right to expected profit on investment but doesn’t say why anyone would invest if there was no profit. He also wants to drastically increase taxes on every business with overseas production plants, but doesn’t explain how they would compete with international companies with dramatically lower costs. Clearly Duffee doesn’t buy into a global economy or capitalism – certainly the system needs serious work, but this man’s views are the words of a college kid blowing off steam late at night over a few beers and joints.
At a time when alternative thinking might find a place in this year’s debate, these sophomoric positions by the alternative candidates hurt any chance of having serious opportunity for a truly independent third party to gain a foothold.
Winston Churchill said, democracy was the worst government in the world, except for all the others. Despite the flaws in our system, many of which are now painfully apparent, the peaceful transference of power remains the cornerstone of our success. For as long as opposing ideas can be freely discussed and debated, the United States will remain a world leader. But it would help if the ideas that bubbled upward had some sense in reality. Of course with Joe the plumber, now a republican spokesperson, perhaps Mr. Carrano or Mr. Duffee’s views aren’t as out of whack with the mainstream as I think.
Headed South...
October 27, 2008
I don’t believe the men and women responsible for this global financial collapse are inherently evil, but morally, their compass wobbles. Often it starts with a little fudge of the facts, or a tiny step toward the gray, then it cascades…
As COO of CBGB, I too often come across folks who somehow end up crossing the ethical line. Recently, a festival contacted me about being one of the sponsors of their event – according to their promotions department, lots of people had been contacting the festival, thinking they were the legendary NYC rock club -- they thought it would be cool if we’d give them money to sponsor something at their event.
And that would be something, us giving them money, since folks were confused because they were using a domain with CBGB in it without our permission.
As a trademark holder, I have a responsibility to defend my mark whenever someone infringes – the law clearly states – you are giving up your right for the trademark if you do not defend it. Therefore it is incumbent upon me to immediately put them on notice with a ‘cease and desist’ letter that instructs them to stop using CBGB in any manner.
They wrote back:
This is a charity event and we’ve got too much material produced to change everything now. Can we come up with some sort of arrangement?
First off, that’s no excuse, it’s not my problem; however, being that CBGB is the coolest rock and roll brand in the universe, I said to them:
Since this a charity event, we don’t want to come down hard on you, let’s see how we can work something out. Let me talk to my attorneys, but in the meantime, don’t make this problem any larger.
They said, “Cool.”
Two days later one of my team shoots me an email with a link to a twitter site – these guys created the CBGB Festival page for this fast growing on-line social community. I wrote to Chicago immediately:
Hey, didn’t you just tell me you wouldn’t do that?
They wrote back:
Sorry, it was an eager fan that set that up, we were in the process of changing it when you sent that email.
Hmmm. Well, I verified that they did change it, but I started to wonder about these guys.
We did a little digging and it turns out that this isn’t a charity event in the sense that all proceeds go to a non-profit group, only some of the proceeds go to the charity. That’s an important distinction and a misrepresentation of what that initially told us.
Still, we’re CBGB, we want to be cooperative when possible, so I said to them, look we’ll give you a one-time license to use the letters for free, the day after the event, you sign over to us the domain name you created. Next year, don’t use our letters for anything.
They said:
Agreed, thanks so much, cool, we’ll send you a legal contract stating those terms tomorrow.
Two days pass, no contract. Then I get a phone call from someone else there:
– Hey man, we’re really into working with you guys, can you give me call? Let’s talk about how we can work together.
I write back:
Be happy to talk about the possibility of working together, but send me the signed contract first.
Five days have passed with no response.
So this week I will take legal action – I also plan on taking moral action by spreading the word out to the CBGB nation. Our fans are loyal, committed, they know what we stand for. We have a database of over 500,000 people. I also plan on sending a letter to each of the performers at the festival and their sponsors, sharing this story. I will also contact the charity, as well as the local press. Before I kick this into gear, I’ll send the festival folks a copy of this piece and give them twenty-four hours to get me that signed document.
Are these guys inherently evil? Probably not; but just like those Wall Streeters that have ruined the global economy, these guys got carried away, they took one step toward the gray, and before they knew it, they were ass deep in the black goo of lies and deceit. It’s not too late for them to do the right thing, but it will be soon.
Women and men aren't so different, and yet...
October 20, 2008
Last Wednesday I watched my beloved Phillies win the pennant with my girl friend, Mary. She was a good sport, said all the right things, but baseball is not her thing. I was happy to share the experience, but to be frank, it’s not like watching with other die-hards, she doesn’t know the ins and outs, the subtleties, the history, or the agony of being a Philadelphia sports fan.
I realize this comes off patronizing, but I truly appreciate her effort and welcome her to join me for the World Series. I’m happy to explain the basics, go deeper too, in fact it would be cool to get into the implications of a double switch or what it means to have a ten pitch at bat, but only if she wants to know, I don’t want to force it, or make her feel obligated, and I certainly don’t want her thinking, oh God, I hate this, why am I here? We have enough in common – we don’t need to bond through baseball.
On Friday, we went to a movie that she’d picked out – Nights in Rodanthe, starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane. It was awful for too many reasons to mention, and yet, she enjoyed it. To be fair, she admitted it wasn’t one of Gere’s best films and she understood why the reviews were savage (rightly so in IMHO), but for her, it was a break from a long work week, it was entertainment, a diversion, a trifle.
Whereas Mary said all the right things when we were watching baseball, I failed to be so valiant. I fidgeted in the theater, I made fun of the contrived plot, I laughed at the sad bits.
“Shhhh,” she kept saying.
The theater was empty, so it wasn’t like I was annoying anyone but Mary. I was bored and wishing I was somewhere else.
Before I get slaughtered by my female readers, let me state for the record that I’m as much a sucker for a good romance as any girl, in fact, last week we saw Duchess, and we both loved it. But regardless of what we’re seeing, I should be satisfied just to sit next to such a beautiful woman as Mary in a dark theater, and on some level I was, but on another plane, I was wandering, and at some point I was dwelling on what my editor would think if I put such drivel in my characters mouths. I truly don’t know how things like this get made.
At some point along this contrived narrative, I had an epiphany – this film was Mary’s sports equivalent. Like most men after a tough day, I zone out to ESPN, it’s a diversion, entertainment, a trifle, but I also know that to get wrapped up emotionally in the ebb and flo of a bunch of overpaid men playing a game is ridiculous, but it serves a purpose in the way that this Richard Gere film did for Mary - both are brief respites from the grind.
And that made me realize that I should be as supportive of her zoning out in front of a mindless romance as she was for me in watching the Phillies. I certainly shouldn’t have smirked when the lights came on and her cheek was tear streaked.
Regardless of whether the Phillies win or lose in this upcoming best of seven affair, I will be on an emotional rollercoaster, jumping for joy when they score, having pain in my gut if the bullpen lets up a critical run, and heaven help Mary, if she’s around the day after a Phillie loss, and dare I say, no I can’t even go there…but if that were to happen, I’d deserve any grief Mary gave me for getting so caught up in something that has nothing to do with me – she’d be absolutely within her right to rub my nose in it, but knowing her, she won’t…
The end of an era...
In musical chairs, when the music stops, the last one standing is out. That’s why I never got into the musical real estate game – at some point the music has to stop.
I took enough risk trying to eke out a living as an artist, I couldn’t double down with my house. And yet I watched people all over town selling and buying, making obscene amounts of money, upgrading to gorgeous homes with lots of amenities and grand water views.
A McMansion is the last thing I desired, but a few years back I did look at a comfortable home on a secluded wooded lot with a writer’s cottage. Despite little income, I had great credit, the market was booming, and the bank said they’d give me the mortgage.
At the time I was feeling like a schmuck. The guy across the street bought his house in 2000, knocked it down, rebuilt and flipped it for a ton. The next guy lived in the house for only 18 months and made several hundred thousand too; and there I was, on the sidelines, thinking I better get on this bandwagon. I felt like the only one in town not cashing in. Since I was struggling to make ends meet, this sounded like an easy way to keep writing for another decade. And yet, in the back of my mind, I knew that home values couldn’t go up forever, that there was no such thing as easy money.
Here we are in October of 2008, the music has stopped and I’m breathing easier since I didn’t take that plunge, but if those that did, now get bailed out, I’m going to feel like a schmuck all over again.
If someone had said three years ago, don’t worry, if your home value drops, we’ll adjust your mortgage, of course I would have bought that place with the writer’s cottage.
First time buyers or folks duped into a deal by a disreputable lender might deserve a break, but the guy who took out a second mortgage to buy an investment property – that’s like giving golden parachutes to these failed executives.
If the government helps everyone that can’t pay their mortgage, then screw it, I’ll stop paying mine and head to California for my own boondoggle, just like those AIG executives.
Springsteen at the weekend voter registration rally in Philadelphia
Westport's most famous resident
October 6, 2008
Westport made national headlines with the passing of its most famous resident, Paul Newman, but the town has changed a lot from when he first moved here. Most of the old-timers and artists have been displaced by bankers and developers, and that has changed the fabric of the town in ways that have bothered me for years.
I channeled this frustration into my writing. I used Westport as a character in my novel as a way of showing my protagonists’ frustration with his desire to be an artist in a materialistic town. Here’s an excerpt from My Year as a Clown:
For years I looked across the street at a wooded property, now I see a towering five-bedroom monster. At least nobody can cut the trees on my land. The tulips are in bloom, there are buds on the tall maple, my grass shows renewed signs of life. But driving through town I pass teardowns on almost every street. Bulldozers rumble through country roads, and trees fall faster here than in the Amazon because everyone is feverish, real estate is Putnam’s Landing’s gold rush.
Putnam’s Landing is a homage to Max Schulman, another Westport resident, who wrote Rally ‘Round the Flag, Boys!, set in Putnam’s Landing, a fictional Westport; the film starred Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward (coincidence?).
Back in the 50’s, when Max wrote Rally, Westport was comprised of old-timers, artists, and the newcomers, the ad men who commuted to the city. I was surprised to read of the tensions back then amongst these groups.
Today some of the men and women responsible for our economic mess live here. I don’t think that these neighbors are inherently evil, nor do I believe that they thought what they did could bring the world to its knees, but I do feel that they understood they were earning more than their fair share and worse, that they deserved it.
If there’s one good thing that’s come out of this economic disaster, the era of the McMansion may have finally seen it’s end, but this week as I rode the train into the city, I felt like screaming out – who on this train is responsible? Give back your bonuses.
I go to the supermarket, the gas station, the gym, and I wonder who amongst us was responsible? I wonder how they sleep at night and I wonder why nobody else seems bothered that they mingle about town as if innocent. Everyone is OJ, we are in denial. Nobody wants to admit that Blaine and Susan, a lovely couple who live in that fabulous home down the street, are partly responsible for what has happened. They have two cute, although sometimes obnoxious kids, they vacation in the south of France and they throw that amazing Xmas party every year, but nobody wants to acknowledge that they were partly responsible for what might end up becoming the worst economic depression of all time…
And yet, if you're a black man driving through town late at night, odds are good you'll get pulled over.
But Westport is also home to Save the Children, and I'm sure thousands of other folks live here, just as appalled that some of our citizens were key players in this situation.
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I've got to beware
Hope you checked out the Springsteen voter registration video clip -- just when you think everything is going down, music is there to inspire hope...Bruce should be secretary of state...
Still dealing even on the way down...
September 28, 2008
How did we get into this banking crisis?
I have no idea, but I have seen how it crept into my life, and I'm sure you have too. Perhaps there's something to be learned from each of our own experiences...
To me, credit was marketed like crack, and it still is…
Earlier this week, WaMu bank offered me a pre-approved credit card with 30k worth of credit, this, from a failing bank, to a guy with no money.
Banks were dealers, enticing us with easy credit to get us hooked.
It takes strength to live below your means in a world where we are constantly being told to live above our economic level. I was doing it because I was struggling as a writer, but no matter how hard I tried to keep off the stuff, eventually I got worn down.
It wasn't the temptation of a new car, a kitchen remodel, or a HiDef TV that made me cross the line, I needed to buy groceries, pay medical bills and fix my '94 car.
Despite meager earnings, I remained a prime target because of a high credit score. The banks wouldn’t stop, determined to get me, just like in that movie 28 Days – the banks were the Zombies, and until they ruined my credit score, they wouldn’t stop chasing me. They needed to drown me in debt, turn me into their bitch, make me scramble each month to make the minimum payment at loan shark rates.
In the end we all became credit Zombies and now the day of reckoning has arrived. Although the bail-out will temporarily delay the pain, over the next year we will discover what it’s really like to be a credit junkie, when there’s no credit fix to be had.
It ain't going to be pretty, but we will all be better off for breaking the habit once and for all.
Fuck it, just print some more...
September 22,
I made a rare mid-week update due to the not-so-unbelievable collapse of our financial system. And to think, we were told Al-Queda was who we should be afraid of, it turns out the enemy was amongst us. How poetic.
So why did it take the shit hitting the fan for the government to do anything? For years we’ve been hearing republicans say free market knows best, less government is good – last year Lehman Brother executives issued themselves 5.7 billion in bonuses. Apparently this is not a crime, and yet, smoking a joint can put you behind bars. Good grief.
We’ve been hearing for years that there’s no money for health care or education, but when Wall Street needs bailing out there’s plenty of cash. No surprise…
I remember the 80’s and the savings and loan crisis – everyone said we’ll fix it so this never happens again – huh?
It’s hard to know how government regulation affects my life, but here are few examples that don't require a PhD in bureaucratic double-speak to understand:
Clinton’s telecommunication act was passed in ‘96 eliminating the laws that made it wrong to own too many radio stations -- this opened the way for Clear Channel to gobble up stations and destroy radio as we once knew it -- that's why the Dixie Chicks got derailed -- when Clear Channel decided not to play them, it was as if they didn't exist -- that's how much power ended up in Clear Channel's hands.
Back in ’82, AT&T was busted up by the government to allow competition and the free market to herald in a new era of telecommunication innovation. Maybe that did happen if you mean that instead of renting a phone that could have survived a nuclear attack, we were forced to buy plastic pieces of crap that needed replacing every twelve months, then yes, we got innovation. I remember thinking, how should I know which long distance company to use. In the end it didn’t matter because they all merged and thirty years later they were rebundled back into what is now called the new AT&T, introduced with a groovy little jingle by Oasis. But this time AT&T is bigger and more dominant than the company that was busted up in my day. Not only does this AT&T do telephone, it does mobile, internet and satellite TV too, but heaven help you, when you try to get someone to solve a combination of problems, they shuffle you about because internet can’t help you with TV, phone folks don’t do wireless – now that sounds like the AT&T I used to know and loathe...
But I digress – the topic this week was the banking meltdown. What disgusts me the most about it is that those responsible still believe they did nothing wrong. They think they’re better than the rest of us, that they were entitled to their obscene profit. They should be forced to pay back their bonuses, and of course, be investigated for criminal acts, but their spouses should also be forced to do community service, and more important, their children should be made to attend public school – shock, horror -- this way son and daughter Gekko will grow up with just a tad less hubris.
I will end this week with a quote from John McCain: “This financial crisis requires leadership and action in order to restore a sound foundation to financial markets, get our economy on its feet, and eliminate this burden on hardworking middle-class Americans.”
Folks, it was a deliberate hands-off approach, a lack of leadership and action over the last eight years that created this situation…where was anyone in Washington, when true leadership and vision was required?
September 17, 2008
For those of us with no money, this stock market meltdown means little to our bank book – as one friend told me yesterday – from the looks of those on the train, not having money never felt so good.
Those at the top of these financial institutions believe they are better than us, that’s how they rationalize their ridiculous salaries, and their even more gluttonous bonuses. The AIG CEO, the one that’s getting replaced, he’s taking a nine-million dollar exit package – how is this possible? What about paying back his salary and bonus for the past five years, as well as his other perks?
Privatize profits, socialize the losses.
Everyone who understood credit default swaps knew exactly what was going on, but this so-called sophisticated financial package was so clever, no one wanted to admit that it was a house of cards. Anyone in the know was making a boatload of money over the past five years…
It wouldn’t be difficult to identify the top 100 executives that made ridiculous money since 2003 at Bear Stearns, AIG, and Lehman. Shouldn’t they be forced to liquidate their homes and other possessions to cover some of this bail-out?
Some will say, but their stock has gone to nothing, that going from 200 million net worth to 10 is very significant. And wrecking the global economy isn’t? We send two-bit criminals to jail for petty crimes and these guys are going to walk away…
But no crime was committed some will say, huh?
Those responsible for not regulating this need accountability too – we can start by firing those responsible in November.
I’ve been getting notes from my insurance brokers the past two days telling me not to worry – I never hear from these jokers until my payment is due, so reaching out to me now, saying everything is going to be okay, makes me think the opposite – they want me to keep paying my monthly premium, because if Joe Schmo stops those payments, the system will really crash – meanwhile, I’m scraping by, and those responsible will sip margaritas poolside at their private country clubs.
What me worry? This truly is a mad, mad, world...
The annual changing of the books ceremony...
September 15, 2008
It’s that time of year when I oversee the annual changing of the books ceremony. It takes place each September here in Westport, at my house, and begins with the arrival of the ugly yellow plastic bags. Usually they are tossed out of an 80’s style station wagon and land at the mouth of my driveway. The neighborhood is littered with these eyesores, and when it rains, as it did this year, the books turn into a soggy mess, as they did in ’92, the year of the hundred year flood, and in ’98, during a classic ‘Nor easter.
I rescued the bags this year, lugging them into the house, shaking the water off before entering. The first batch to arrive was The Yellow Book, which includes Fairfield County, and the Westport Yellow and White pages.
A week later, the second collection is tossed out of another slow moving station wagon, these are the classic Real Yellow Pages, 2008,, a four volume set.
I rescue these before more rain falls. I bring them into the house as if they are neighborhood strays, and leave them with the others until I can find time to properly execute the exchange ceremony.
This weekend, I finally get a few minutes. I light a candle and put on some John Phillip Sousa. I open the lower kitchen cabinet drawer next to the refrigerator. The seven books that I put in there roughly one year ago are perfectly preserved. I carefully extract them from the drawer, and put them in the yellow bags that contain this year’s volumes. The 2008s are then placed into the draw where they will reside comfortably and undisturbed until next year, when their successors, the 2009, arrive.
The ‘07’s will make their way to my car and the next time I go to the dump, I’ll toss them in the recycle bin, thus completing another needless cycle, featuring not one, but two competing dinosaur directories, providing an out-of-date service that wastes precious resources.
I’m sure there’s a Yellow Page Industry Council that can cite statistics proving the relevance and usefulness of this service, but how about making it an option, in the way that we now have the option of getting bills on-line? Maybe that’s a task for the now-environment friendly Westport civil servants who last week banned plastic bags at retail, the first east coast town to do so.
Of course when my friend’s kids come over for dinner, these books do act as an excellent seat booster. In ’05, when I was recording my CD, I used the Westport White Pages as a baffle against a kick drum. But for the sake of the environment, I’m sure I can do my bit, tough it out, Google when needed.
Westport became the first east coast town to ban plastic bags at retail.
September 8, 2008
In a year where it should be no contest, this race will go down to the wire.
I didn’t think Sarah Palin would hold up in the spotlight, but she nailed it.
You’ve got to hand it to the Republicans – their theme of change sounds more convincing than the Democrats…
But some of the Republican rhetoric has me confused. Can someone explain what small town values are? As a Democrat, I thought I had faith and family values.
I don’t mean to be nosy, but how old is Cindy? I must admit, I hadn’t followed her to this point, so had never taken a real good look. I know nothing of her background either. At first, knowing McCain’s age, and not having a HiDef TV, I was thinking, damn, that woman uses a shitload of Botox…
What’s age anyway? But then I heard she picked him up in a bar when he was still married – okay, I get it -- small town values…
There’s a lot to admire in Sarah Palin, a governor with five kids. She’s probably the first national politician with a special needs child, but should I vote for her because she seems like a regular person? I don’t want to drill more in Alaska; polar bears need saving too. I don’t think she could name many of the key leaders in Africa or Asia – as a first time governor of Alaska, she doesn’t need to, but two months from being VP – what do you think?
I heard McCain wanted Lieberman – I didn’t have a problem with Lieberman becoming an independent – it was the timing – he ran as a democrat and lost, then ran as an independent. If he’d simply left the Democratic Party and ran as an independent, I’d feel different. That shows a lack of character – I lost the primary, but I’m not going to stand by the vote.
What’s he done for Connecticut the past year? Every time I see him, he appears attached to McCain’s backside -- small town values?
Obama chose someone smarter than him, someone that complemented his ability to govern, someone that hadn’t always agreed with him – McCain’s choice is contrived – driven by an opportunity to get votes – but let’s give McCain’s people credit – it’s not about governing at this point, it’s about winning the election, and that’s something Democrats often forget. Being right at this point has no relevance. Is that a small town value?
To be fair, one could ask whether a community organizer was qualified. I was leaning toward Hilary because of experience. But I’ve always liked Biden – these guys make a good team – you want real change in Washington – just having the president and vice president working together as a team, not as competitors, or as an electoral college accessory, or as the brains behind the scene, could make a world of difference.
At least Obama ran a national campaign. We saw him up close for the past two years – we’ve only just met Sarah, if she’s elected it will be a shotgun wedding – maybe that’s what’s meant by small town values…
Her daughter’s fiancée shouldn’t be a story, but the Republicans often make it their business to make decisions for the family, so it’s fair game to see how their leaders live – if we’re going to cite her love for her child with down syndrome as a key qualification to be the vp, then her other kids are fair game too…
Did you see that poor schmuck’s MySpace page? Come on folks – do you think this kid really wants to get married? I’m not saying she should have an abortion – they could do a Juno – no pun intended. But why get married? Why ruin three lives for the sake of party unity? Small Town Value…
Here in Westport, a major piece of legislation was passed – the town banned plastic bags at retail – we are the first on the East Coast to do so – I don’t know if this is a good thing or not, but I thought it was interesting that the American Chemistry Council appeared at the town meeting to speak out against the ban. Town representatives were nervous, expecting a corporate deluge, but their arguments failed to convince the board, and the ban was passed.
The local supermarket reported that after the vote people started stealing boxes of plastic bags – one citizen said as they were getting booked by the police, “I use them for trash bags, saves me having to buy them, isn’t that recycling?”
PS...I wanted to love the new Gates / Seinfeld commercial but I'm sorry folks, it's a stinker...call in to Larry David please...
Now a proud card carrying member -- good grief!
September 1, 2008
I’m not sure what was more surprising when this card arrived in the mail, that AARP knew I was turning 50 on Saturday, or that I’m eligible to be part of the old folks’ club.
When I was a kid, anyone over 30 was old, 50 was ancient. In biblical times, teenagers were kings; they led men into battle. If they made it to thirty, they were grandparents. Today I talk to college kids and think – was I that young when I was in school?
The word is, kids grow up fast today, and in some respects they do, but in the ways that count, I wonder. Most kids come out of college today unable to support themselves, many end up back at home.
Violins please:
My parents got divorced when I was eleven. In the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I ran my mom’s clothing boutique while she was away on her honeymoon. The one employee we had, stole sixty bucks out of the cash register. I guess this person figured I didn’t know how to add, or I wouldn’t have the guts to confront her. She was wrong on both counts. Maybe that’s why in some ways, I feel much older – and then again, in so many ways, I still feel like a college kid. I guess that has to do with my life long obsession with music and writing. I’ve never lost that passion.
Age is relative – it’s not just about how you feel, but how you think…
But one can’t fight city hall no matter how optimistic one might be. I glance at the obits in the New York Times, it’s hard not to notice when someone younger dies, that frequency continues to increase at an alarming rate.
With good friends dealing with breast and prostate cancer, I’m fortunate to have even made it to fifty, it truly is a miracle that anyone reaches the half century mark. But as I take stock, reflect upon this date in my life, I see plenty to be proud of, but lots of regrets and lost opportunity too.
As I look forward to what’s ahead, success is growing in ways that make me a better human being, one that contributes to the positive force within my community of friends and family. I’m also grateful for my community of artists, supporters, advisors and fellow scribes.
Thank you.
Next week – countdown to November 4…
Is anything truly 'Plug and Play?'
August 23, 2008
Installing democracy into a country with no history of such freedom is no ‘plug and play’ situation. But our leaders tend to get carried away, they oversell. Who hasn’t added new software that touted to be a piece of cake install, only to discover two days later, it’s still not working.
As we’ve seen with the recent democracy installations in Russia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, things rarely go as planned. Winston Churchill once said, democracy is the worst government in the world, except all the others. Perhaps a bit of humbleness when extolling the virtues of democracy would make it an easier sell. It certainly would make for an easier ‘install,’ because everyone would be prepared for the bumpy road ahead.
The Chinese understood they needed to infuse capitalism into their system, but they had no interest in introducing a whole new operating system. Of course adding features to an old, antiquated system has its challenges too. But the Chinese move slow, doing extensive beta testing prior to introducing a widespread release. This avoids unexpected bugs in the existing infrastructure, but also makes access to freedoms a painfully slow process. It can still backfire, especially when the rest of the world is watching.
A good example is how the Chinese introduced the concept of protest. Prior to the Olympics, they announced that protests would be permitted during the event in designated areas, as long as permits were applied for and procedures followed.
Thousands submitted applications, and then each applicant was paid a visit by the authorities. In the end, no permits were issued. According to Chinese civil servants, the concerns of the protesters were all resolved. “This is the Chinese way,” one government spokesman commented.
Western journalists did some digging and discovered that two women in their 70’s had been sentenced to a year of reeducation labor for submitting this so-called protest application – the two wanted to voice displeasure over the government seizure of their homes for redevelopment. Both were forced to sell substantially under market value. A government official said, “The women won’t have to complete the sentence if they put a halt to their complaint.”
There are lots of things about the United States that concern me, and Churchill’s assessment of our system is correct, but I do admire our robustness. Despite the many differences amongst us, we keep the debate within the context of our political process. This is due to the system’s ability to prevent one group from controlling government or the media, most important, the United States still delivers a reasonable standard of living to the majority of its citizens.
But this economic downturn feels different compared to others I've experienced. Come winter, when many of us will be in search of enough shekels to heat our homes, fill our gas tanks, or put food on our tables, this economy will be put to the test in a way that it hasn't since the great depression. It is up to all of us to elect leaders who can execute a plan that ensures future growth as well as security for all Americans. But be wary, like software, there are no quick fix, ‘plug and play’ solutions, listen carefully to what’s being sold, be prepared for a long, cold winter.
I was there the night it fell...
August 17, 2008
The renewed tension between the US and Russia reminded me of the time I was in East Berlin. It was November 12, 1989, the very day the wall came down. It was evening and I was eating dinner at the Grand Hotel with a group of EMI record execs, listening to an awful East German rock band. We were attending the first East/West Music Conference.
For months tension was building across the Eastern bloc with weekly protests in various cities. I’d attended one right here in Berlin just a few days earlier. The park was packed, the area was surrounded by green Polizei vans and soldiers patrolled the perimeter yielding AK-47s, looking dour. The scene was eerily similar to the hours leading up to the Tiananmen Square massacre just a few months earlier.
It wasn’t just the political tension that had me jumpy, I’d just joined HMV Records, a division of EMI. My boss was supposed to speak at this event and at the last second he cancelled. They sent me to give a half-hour speech on what the west could do to help eastern European music retailers. I’d been at HMV three weeks, what did I know? But to be fair, what could any western company do to help their eastern counterparts?
By the very definition of capitalism, no company helps another unless there’s a direct economic benefit. None of these western record companies came to liberate some unknown Russian songwriter, we were there to open up the eastern market to sell them more Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, and Bon Jovi.
To be honest I have no recollection of what I said, but I do recall standing up in front of five hundred or so, feeling sorry for this crowd of eastern European hipsters with bad teeth and polyester sport jackets. Each word I uttered was translated into eight languages. As I spoke, I prayed I was making more sense in German, Russian, Polish, Hungarian, French or Czech than I was in English. Lots of people came up after the speech, so I guess it wasn’t a debacle.
Around 10:30 pm that Thursday, we noticed an unusual amount of activity out on the streets. It wasn’t just the number of folks outside, it was their mannerism, faces animated, an extra kick in their step, the typical East Berlin gait was designed to blend in, it was slow, steady, head down.
I wandered to Checkpoint Charlie and saw a mass of people standing on the wall, guards with guns at their side, smoking cigarettes, cars going through unchecked.
The next morning I had a plane to catch at Tegel in West Berlin. Four of us took the Grand Hotel limo. There was a line over a mile long at the border comprised mostly of Russian Trabants, a tin can of a car with a five-year waiting list. “Unglaublich,” our driver uttered. Unbelievable. Normally he drove through with no wait. He honked his horn, rammed several cars, screamed obscenities, pushing our armored Mercedes to the front of the line.
“It’s a great day,” I said to the driver.
But he wasn’t smiling. This man was one of the few who traveled to the west unencumbered. He received tips in dollars, he smuggled goods. The fall of communism was the worst thing that could have happened as far as he was concerned.
Watching what transpired in Georgia this week was not surprising. The seeds were sown the very day the wall came down. Our rush to democratize Russia paved the way for ruthless mobsters to control the flow of goods and corrupt government officials and the average person suffered in the way Americans suffered back in the 19th century when the industrial revolution began. I don't condone Russia's moves this week, but Putin restored Russian pride, he established law and order.
Perhaps divergent interests were inevitable, but our world class economists, bankers, and consultants, rushed into the Soviet Union like it was the '49 Gold Rush, idealoques, unleashing capitialism as if it was the Holy Grail; clearly it wasn't.
The ultimate reality show...
August 11, 2008
The Olympics are the original reality show, all that’s missing from the broadcast is the contestant back stabbing. And yet, long before reality shows were in, Tonya Harding set a standard that no 21st century reality show has come close to topping, not even Amarosa on “The Apprentice” was in the same class.
Think of the potential ratings if Mark Burnett produced the Olympics or if Simon Cowell was given free reign. One day Fox will land the broadcast rights, and don’t be surprised if reality Olympics happens, no doubt it will set all-time records for ratings and ad revenue.
If one were to think about this year’s games as a reality show, one might conclude that the most compelling character is the host country itself, China. It's complex, provocative, not afraid to speak its mind. Think about the gold one could find in the backstage clips – senior-level bureaucrats bickering over how best to squelch rebellion, censorship, pollution.
The Russians chose an interesting time to invade their fledgling neighbor and former territory, if only we’d had a camera behind the scenes when the Georgians made the decision to go after the separatists just before the games, they clearly assumed the Russians wouldn’t ramp up a full-scale invasion in response while the world gathered in Beijing. Whoever made that call in Georgia needs to be voted off the island.
Perhaps if the Olympics were covered like a reality show, the guns, money, and power plays would be set aside for these two weeks so that the world could come together in peace for purity of sport and honest competition, of course it’s probably never been that way. The Nazis in 1936, for example, used the games for their propaganda, but I’m sure even back in the ancient swelter of Athens, politics and behind the scene intrigue was rampant.
But I’ll tune in this year to gawk at bald guys setting records in a swimming pool and women gymnasts gyrating in ways that defy gravity. And yet, I must also admit that I’ll be watching to see if there are any disasters, and breathe a sigh of relief each night when I hear nothing happened.
Tragically, not everyone has such empathy. In the Roman Gladiator days, folks enjoyed a good fight to the death. And in the 21st century what would NASCAR be without a good crash or two? A hockey game without fights?
Modern day Olympics have had their tragedy -- Munich ’72, the US boycott of ’80, the bomb in Atlanta...the Beijing games are off to a shaky start...
If only for two weeks every four years we could set aside our differences and unite in the celebration of sport…think of the progress we might make as the human race...
With twelve days left in these games, there’s still time…
The joys of public transport...
August 3, 2008
You don’t need economic data to know we’re in recession, just open your eyes. Drive down any commercial highway and you’ll see more for rent signs then anytime in recent history – drive down a residential street and you’ll see more for sale signs too. Everyone is waiting to see what happens next.
I’m commuting into the city via train nowadays and often you can’t get a seat at prime time – that’s a long ride without a place to place your bum, even mid-day and late night, the trains are crowded, at times the cars fill as if a New York Subway.
Back in the early nineties I lived outside of London. I often caught a commuter train into the West End – those trains were uncomfortable, crowded, unreliable. Metro North’s cancellation rate is much better than the UK performance levels, but the Connecticut cars are over thirty-five years old, the lighting is depressing, the ride sometimes bounces so much, I can’t read or write.
I bought gas at 4.09 the other day and thought, wow, what a bargain.
Wait till winter when folks have to heat their homes. Last year I capped oil at 2.79/gallon, that was up from 2.16 the year before. This year oil programs are all over the map – most require an upfront payment to secure a fixed price – one company wanted $80 to lock in at 4.69. Another wanted $300 to have a float with a not-to exceed 5.99/gallon. I needed an Excel spreadsheet to figure out what was what. I went with $80 up front for 49 cents over wholesale – today that price would be 4.09 – won’t know until next year whether it was a good call or not.
This weekend I was at SummerSongs, a songwriting camp celebrating its 10th year. I attended back in 2000, and for the last five, I’ve taught classes there. This year I didn’t have the time to teach, but I drove up to Woodstock for opening night to catch up with old friends.
Many of my full-time musician pals are having a tough time making ends meet. The economics for folk musicians was not great in the best of times, but the cost of gas has now made touring a challenge. One of the instructors, a songwriter that has made several contributions to the national folk canon was forced back to the factory job he left thirty years ago when he came on the music scene. He simply couldn’t eke out a living, though his material needs were not large; without health benefits, he lived by a tenuous thread.
It didn’t take much explaining to my friends as to why I returned to full-time work, some said they might follow if things didn’t turn. There’s been no loss to the world of music with my art on the backburner, but for these folks, the loss to our culture would be substantial if they had to redirect their efforts. It’s just another indication that this country has big problems, we’re in decline, like the British Empire circa 1950, some signs are visible, others go underneath the radar, if we’re not careful, we won’t reverse the trend.
July 28, 2008
A few months back Iggy Pop appeared in this John Varvatos ad sporting a $2,000 suit. For those not in the know, John Varvatos is a hip, high-end clothier, owned by VF, a corporation which controls such brands as Vans sneakers and Wrangler Jeans.
Varvatos occupies the former CBGB space at 315 Bowery and positions his expensive clothes as rebellious, cool, edgy; Mr. Pop certainly captures that essence, but if the Iggy of the late sixties had a glimpse of his 2008 future, he’d have puked all over that ad.
Last week I was with three old-time record people – the types who might have actually played a role in Iggy’s career back in the day. We spoke of how things had changed and about this very ad. They’d never heard of Varvatos, they couldn’t believe Iggy’s sell out; but if it was true, they felt confident the fan base would leave in droves. I love those guys for everything they were, but they’re dead wrong.
In 2008, aging rockers do what they must for a buck, and I’m okay with that – it’s the younger set that have me worried. They have the more difficult decision. With the music industry a train wreck, selling out is a viable way to breakthrough.
Landing a slot in a national commercial has become an important part of a band’s development, it’s often the only way since radio playlists are so tight and labels have slashed their ad/promotion dollars.
The person who once scoured bars for the next best thing, now works at an ad agency. Their criteria, by definition, is much different from the old time music guys like Mo Ostin or Ahmet Ertegun, who sold music, not product. That’s one reason we’re currently in a song driven business cycle (the iPod is another key driver).
Last week I was also at a small, cutting edge, ad agency. It was downtown in a loft type space and had the vibe of an indy record company – lots of young folks around, music playing, Macs everywhere.
The agency head had heard a singer/songwriter at the Living Room – a great NYC venue for singer/songwriters (yours truly has played the joint). They’d called this musician a year later to see if he was interested in working with one of their clients on a song. The kid said yes, the song ended up in a commercial, the kid’s career took off.
The agency gave me the CD and said with pride, "a major TV show anchor told America this kid was the best singer/songwriter in the country."
Whenever I hear ‘best’ in the context of art, I cringe. In the ad world, ‘best’ is part of the vernacular, it’s all about sales, market share, shelf space. Being number one is important in music, movies, and books too, but the 'best' movies are rarely the highest grossing films. Anyone in the singer/songwriter genre knows there’s no such thing as best.
The agency sponsored CD was great, there were lots of things to admire, but I can cite ten obscure singer/songwriters in my iPod equally as good, if not, dare I say, better.
But the world needs a filter. The internet has not leveled the playing field, it has only made it more crowded. Ad agencies have assumed a gatekeeper role. If this trend continues, artists unwilling to work with products will go undiscovered, and that means we are in danger of living in an era lacking raw originality at the very time we need music to spit in the establishment's face.
But all is not lost. Somewhere, someone is doing something so outrageous, so original, it can't be denied no matter how restrictive our system becomes. One day this sound will force itself upon us in the way NY punk grabbed us by the collar in that very space now occupied by John Varvatos.
Me and Jimmie Dale Gilmore this weekend at Omega.
July 23, 2008
This weekend I attended the advanced songwriting workshop with Jimmie Dale Gilmore, a weekend retreat at Omega Institute, in Rhinebeck, New York. 80% of the attendees were folks I knew well. It was more a family reunion than writing workshop – Jimmie’s wife, Janet, was there, and together, with a small group of dedicated song writers, we celebrated songs by sharing and critiquing our work.
I took my first Jimmie Dale workshop in 1998, a month after I left the corporate world to pursue a life of writing. Ten years later, I’m back at work, but still writing.
It wasn’t a straight shot through the decade. I took a lot of detours, hit some dead ends, had some terrific highs, awful lows too; but through it all, I kept writing. I also kept returning to Jimmie’s workshop.
As someone said this weekend, the experience gets richer each year, which is not often the case with such things. Jimmie said that leading this workshop changed his life profoundly; it certainly has affected me too, and in many expected ways.
This weekend we talked about intent and motivation – Back in ’98 Jimmie asked us what motivated us to write. He said there was no right answer, but being aware of what drove you would provide insights on how best to go at it.
Ten years later Jimmie’s talking about intent – the driver behind motivation. Intent often comes up in yoga – what is your intent for this class the instructor will say. Setting an intention provides focus – my intention this weekend was to get back in-touch with my creative side.
I just returned home and wanted to get this off – the weekend took an unexpected turn that appeared headed for disaster, but it ended up becoming not such a train wreck after all – I came out with an incredibly powerful experience – I’ll provide more details next week…
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
July 14, 2008
Times are tough. Two friends lost their jobs this week. Another had their assistant let go, now they’re responsible for both jobs.
A notice arrived from the oil company on Friday -- last year I was capped at 2.69 a gallon, almost double from the year before. This year they want $389 for the privilege to lock in for .49c over wholesale with a ‘not to exceed’ of 5.99 a gallon.
The market for fiction and music wasn’t great in the best of times, so I’m not feeling bad about my decision to go back to work full-time. I’ve got health benefits now and I promptly got my ears tested (I had a studio accident back in March, my hearing hasn’t been the same since.) Still, I’m doing what I can to not lose touch with my creative self.
Wednesday night was typical. I got home at nine o’clock. After cleaning the litter boxes and feeding the cats, I strummed the guitar and watched SportsCenter. I worked on a new song. I combed the cats and tossed their toys and they chased after them. I was asleep by midnight.
The sun poked through the bedroom window around 6:00 am. My cats hopped on the bed hoping I was ready to get up. I went downstairs, fed them. While they ate, I did a few morning stretches, splashed water on my face.
I let them out and threw on some clothes, grabbed my yoga mat and pulled out my bike. I zoomed downhill toward the beach. In the shade, there was dew on the grass, the air was cool; under blue sky the sun was already warm. The weatherman said today would hit 90 with a chance of thunderstorms.
I got to yoga fifteen minutes later. Technically I was still asleep, but over the next hour the class brought my mind and body into a state of awakening. Then I retraced the coastal route and rode back up the hill to the house.
While putting away my bike, both cats appeared. The three of us reentered the house. I hopped upstairs into the shower. It was 8:20 and I was in the kitchen making breakfast, putting fresh water in the cat bowls, filling my briefcase with what was needed for another day in the city.
On that morning bike ride I’d heard new melodies in my head for that song I was working on last night. I looked at my guitar on the stand in the living room. It’s a custom Martin, they only made 24. It has a flamed maple back, it produces a rich earthy tone; it’s a joy to play. I wanted to work on this song, but I had a train to catch in twelve minutes, the station was eight minutes away. I had to leave without touching that Martin, but the melody was still in my head and I jotted a few notes down on the commute -- this weekend, I promised myself.
And Saturday night, while most folks were out partying, I stayed home and worked on that song. I wrote this essay too and savored every moment.
What's on?
July 7, 2008
I’m not convinced that mobile communication has made me more productive or smarter. When I call someone, I now leave messages at home, office and cell, not knowing where someone is, or what they might check. Friends and colleagues do the same, covering the bases with extraneous messages – by the time I work through the extra messages, the timesaving is gone.
There is one piece of technology, however, that definitely makes me more efficient – the DVR.
I’m not a huge TV watcher, but I’m not a TV snob either – I love the medium in moderation, and now that I have a DVR, I enjoy television even more because I’ve got control. I rarely watch ‘Live’ TV, I go straight to ‘My Recordings.’
Here’s what’s programmed:
Two and Half Men – admittedly, this show is misogynous, shallow, and predictable, but it still makes me laugh. It keeps me coming back because it’s a humorous look at divorce and dating, two things I now relate too.
The Office – you either hate this show or love it, true snobs think only the English version is worthy – I loved the original, but I’ve developed a weekly fix for the crew at Dunder Miflin too. Of course I have a soft spot for Pam.
30 Rock – Tina Fey rocks – writer, producer, star – I went for ‘Studio 60’ that first season which was a mistake -- perhaps given time, ‘Studio 60’ would have found its footing, but ‘30 Rock’ got it right on day one – the key, it didn’t take itself seriously.
Lost – I’m not into hour-long dramas – the last one I watched was ‘24’ – but the last season was a bore. During the writers’ strike, ‘Lost’ was one of the few shows that ran new episodes -- I caught the four-hour recap of the first two seasons which included the explanations utilizing VH1’s pop-up video concept. I got up to speed and was hooked. I just hope it doesn’t go the way of ‘Twin Peaks’ by pushing the storyline beyond the point of absurdity.
Saturday Night Live – I dropped out of this show for years, but the DVR brought me back because I can speed through the dud routines, currently running IMHO 50/50. The DVR is great for blitzing through the second half, which always had too many commercials.
The Daily Show – I love Jon Stewart, but I don’t tune into anything daily. Colbert is funny too, but I had to draw the line somewhere. I probably catch 10% of ‘The Daily Show’ each month.
Meet the Press – Sunday morning was the treadmill and Tim Russert. Will see if ‘Meet the Press’ stays in my programming now that Russert is gone.
The News Hour – I tape the Friday show – although Brooks and Shields can both be annoying, I still like to hear their weekly rants.
When HBO airs Bill Maher, Larry David or ‘Entourage,’ I grab them. I also had the last season of ‘The Wire.’ I’m hoping this Ed Burns/David Simon show will be good, otherwise, HBO Summer 2008 is a complete washout. Now I’m wishing I had Showtime so I could catch ‘Weeds.’
I also love to catch the Philadelphia teams when they play NY, but I rarely tape those games, I catch that ‘live’ – and mostly it’s the ninth inning, the last quarter, the third period – to watch anything for three hours is a luxury I don’t have any more.
Oh yes, I almost forgot:
Swingtown – the only new summer show to get a program nod. I will admit that it was the sex that caught my attention, but 1976 was the year I graduated high school. I didn't like the 70’s show because I never knew those characters. The teens in this show have more issues, they're more like the crowd I hung out with; the adults seem more real. Until Swingtown, I never gave consideration to how the social upheavals of the sixties affected the older generation. I’m not saying this show got it right, but it has already shed some light on why my world was so upside down back then. I even asked my mom if she knew any swingers, figuring that she’d roll her eyes and say, please – but she actually knew someone. Hopefully this show will do for the 70’s what 'Mad Man' did for the ad world in the early 60’s.
June 30, 2008
I was in eighth grade when I first heard George Carlin. I was awkwardly lodged between childhood and the teen years, more somber than most kids because my parents were newly divorced. It was 1971 and I was sharing a bedroom with my little sister in the apartment we’d moved to when our house was sold.
At that point, I was still more of a jock than a freak – already a die-hard Philadelphia fan – the Flyers were only a year away from the first of two consecutive Stanley Cups. I was also an all-star little league third baseman – Brooks Robinson of the Baltimore Orioles was my favorite player. But a new side to my personality was emerging. I was learning the guitar, listening to FM radio, I was hanging out with a girl a year older than me. She was into the Buffalo Springfield, The Band, Dylan.
One day she put on the stereo a comedy album by George Carlin, Class Clown. We sat down that afternoon and listened to both sides. I’d never laughed so hard; the material also made me think about ordinary life in ways I’d never imagined. We were still years away from pot smoking, but listening to that record was like taking several bong hits – Carlin had blown our minds.
I went to the Echelon Mall and bought Class Clown, the following year I bought Carlin’s AM and FM. I played them over and over and over, and each time, they seemed funnier, his words a code that folks over 30 didn’t understand. When my grandmother came over from England that year, I played her some of the less subversive tracks. She politely nodded, but it was clear Don Rickles was more her cup of tea. I decided to turn her on to Al Sleet, the hippy dippy weather man. She was baffled. Then I player her the seven words you can’t say on television.
With hands on hips, she scowled, “Does your mother know what you’re listening to?”
This week with the passing of both Tim Russert and George Carlin, I’m feeling my age -- I remember 27-cent gasoline, 8 tracks, and my first digital watch. I remember listening to George Carlin and thinking that there was something revolutionary coming out of my Hi Fi. It was an awakening, unexplored territory, a fresh perspective, it was my coming of age, and looking back, Carlin’s sense of irony and perspective influenced me in profound ways that even now, as I pause to reflect this week on his passing, I hadn’t realized.
June 22, 2008
When I was in Haiti in 06, I learned that only Afghanistan had worse roads. We pushed a Range Rover to the point where I swore it would flip. We traversed rivers we had no business crossing, we bounced down steep, gutted, mountain paths in torrential tropical storms. The Range Rover performed admirably.
Although most suburban SUVs are not created to the specifications of this field Range Rover, our domestic gas guzzling cousins are equipped to handle more than just a trip to the grocery store or a cruise on the Interstate.
Westport, Connecticut, where I live, is home to one of the highest per capita SUV ownership in the world. With the exception of a few nasty snow storms each year, the SUV is more vehicle than any of us require.
I bought mine back in 1994. In my defense, they weren’t so popular then, and I really did think a lot of off-road activity was in my future.
The reality was much different. I’d say 95% of the 120,000 miles I have driven was on asphalt.
I get 14 miles to the gallon. In a five dollar a gallon world, this vehicle is too expensive to drive – but I’ve got no car payment, insurance is almost non-existent, the car has been well maintained.
Still, I plan on trading it in for a hybrid when I can afford it – in the meantime, here in Westport, the Gods decided it was time to put all those SUVs to use.
Over the past two years, the electric company has torn apart the Post Road, the main drag that cuts through town. The key pipe that carries electricity from the generating plants to our homes and businesses runs underneath this road. Because of increased demand, they are putting in a higher capacity conduit.
They are tearing up the road to replace this piping while at the same time, keeping the lights on and traffic moving.
Come sundown, construction crews emerge, traffic gets diverted, bulldozers and drilling equipment dig in. Come sunrise, the crews pack up and steel slabs are thrown over the holes where the pipe runs. These metal covers are sealed with temporary asphalt.
The Post Road has run rougher than some of the roads I saw in Haiti, God’s way of paying Westport back for its conspicuous consumption.
As I bump my way across town, I realize how much of what keeps us comfortable is conveniently kept out of sight. One peek at what lies beneath the road and I gain a greater appreciation of the infrastructure that keeps my lights on, my house warm in winter, my recording studio possible.
I also realize how invasive humans truly are on this planet, how much we demand of Mother Earth to keep us comfortably numb. Each time I bounce down the Post Road in my SUV, I realize I’m as much to blame as anyone else.
As a hobby, my father was an extra in lots of films and TV -- just like Ricky Gervais, always on the hunt for a line -- just before he died, he got a few on an A&E tribute show for Batman...
Me and my step dad at the Super Bowl -- 1999
Father’s Day, 2008
I was fortunate in that I had two fathers, but when I was a kid, I didn’t see it that way. My parents got divorced in 1970. I was twelve, and at that time, few families broke up. I remember praying every night for months that they would get back together. They didn’t and we were forced to sell our house and move to an apartment in a neighboring town.
Both parents were remarried within a few years, and each second marriage lasted longer than the first. It took me awhile to appreciate the significance of that. My father and step-dad were very different, but in an odd way, complementary. In combination, they were the perfect dad – but of course there’s no such thing as perfection, and a dad as two people, obviously isn’t ideal.
My dad died back in 2001. My step-dad is still going strong. With the passing of Tim Russert on Friday, we are all reminded of how fragile life is, how precious our time is, how fleeting even the most successful life can be.
As I write this on Father’s Day 2008, I take a few minutes to honor my father’s life and memory, and to reach out to my step-dad, who’s friendship and wisdom I value, and who I love very much.
Happy father’s day to all Dads.
On another note:
Between work and my ear problem, I haven’t played guitar in ages. I’ve missed holding it, hearing it, getting lost with it.
Back in March, I blew my ears out in the studio with a low frequency synth pad – everything seemed louder than it was. I went to the doctor and then a hearing specialist – the prognosis was positive, but further tests were needed. My five-grand deductible insurance plan kept me from following up. Instead, I wore silicon plugs, the kind swimmers don – since I started wearing them, I’ve noticed a big improvement.
I can once again listen to music, talk on the phone, have a conversation without having serious pain. You have no idea what joy it is to play without a sharp, shrill shooting through my head. I will never take hearing for granted again.
Ironically, last weekend I picked up my Martin acoustic and played a few chords. It was a joy to hear the ringing overtones of an E chord, the rich swirl of an open tuning. But the calluses on my fingertips had softened and although my ears were okay, my fingers were now killing me. It hurt so much I had to stop playing.
I couldn’t believe it.
The hearing issue was only part of the reason I haven't been playing. I’ve been too busy with my consulting practice. This week I made a point of finding fifteen minutes each day to play a few songs, work out a few new progressions. By Saturday, the calluses had returned, the fingers stopped hurting.
Hooray!
The old world often collides with the new...
June 9, 2008
Last month I’d issued a press release involving a family business – there was a father, his sons, other relatives and friends. This cast of characters had worked together across several generations. Think old world Europeans: the elders were off the boat with heavy accents and little understanding of English; the offspring, American, but still bound by tradition and the old country.
The father was retiring, the sons were setting off on their own. I was hired through a third party to promote the boy’s new opening. It sounded like a great story: human interest, family, very sweet, just the sort of thing that garners great local press.
I don’t do primary research on such releases because this isn’t investigative reporting, there’s no controversy, minor errors have little consequence anyway.
The story ran in a business journal. I learned after it ran that there was bad blood amongst the players – the sons were now competitors, their business had impacted the former establishment. Both sides held grudges.
There was one incorrect fact – the father had not owned the old place, he and the sons were employees – it turns out the father and two sons had set out on their own. When the wife of the owner read that the sons’ father owned the store, she flipped.
The paper issued a correction, the person that gave me the bad info contacted them and apologized, but the wife wanted more. She claimed that this article had caused her husband’s store damage.
Common sense would say that anyone reading that article would not have stopped shopping there based on this misstatement. The more likely reason for the sales loss was much more obvious – the new business. They’d opened up down the block with a newer, more modern offering.
I’m not sure how my source got his fact wrong, but I figured being old-school, these folks could use a hand. I called the wife to offer my services for free as a way of reconciliation. I could do a release, tell the great story of their 30-year run. But this woman never let me get a word in, she told me she didn’t care what I had to say, she was suing the paper and my client.
I doubt very much she’s suing, there are no grounds.
The families have probably been feuding for centuries. I could have turned this into an opportunity for them, but they were too angry to see straight, and that doesn’t bode well for their future.
Some folks need to blame others for misfortune, others just get on with it. When new competition comes to town, they sharpen their game, they make things happen, those that don’t, fade away.
At first I felt bad for the old woman, but when I spoke to her, I lost all sympathy – karma comes in many forms. I have no idea what the true source of that feud is, but my guess is, those families will be going at it for centuries to come. I plan to stay out of the line of fire…
June 2, 2008
Over the weekend I attended my 20th reunion at Harvard Business School. Reunions come every five years, and each time, I debate whether I want to go. As many of you know, I’m not your typical HBS grad. I hemmed and hawed before the fifth, tenth and fifteenth, but appeared at all three, and was happy that I did.
Naturally I put myself through the same gyrations this year, but I showed up, and not surprising, I was glad.
Coming out of business school, the Harvard degree was something I quickly shelved. Nobody in a record company wanted to know what school I went to, in fact, it worked against me with those that knew. But that was based on the school’s reputation, some of which is deserved; but by far, the negativity is the exception, not the rule.
For every Enron that business school grads have contributed to, there are far more success stories, companies that provided jobs and innovation that we all benefit from. Even musicians have reaped the fruits of HBS grads -- two Harvard Business School guys rejuvenated Gibson guitar in the late 80’s when that company hit rock bottom.
One doesn’t require a business degree to commit egregious corporate acts, but no doubt, MBAs in some respects have replaced lawyers as bottom feeders.
There were people at school that you couldn’t pay me enough money to work with, but others that would be a privilege to work alongside – but the same is true for people without an education. One of the best marketing folks I know doesn’t have a high school diploma.
Having said that, I often forget how much power and influence Harvard has over our economy, politics, and global affairs. The years I’ve spent as a struggling artist, barely making enough to pay groceries, it had made me on occasion lose sight that once I too was in a position to make an impact.
But my time away from the corporate world has also showed that often it is the random act of kindness that is the most powerful gesture -- rescuing a stray cat, donating time to a soup kitchen, even just throwing a buck in a street musician’s hat.
This weekend I made a point of talking politics, the war, global warming, rising gas prices – I also spoke about health care and how expensive it is for folks not on a corporate benefit plan. I shared firsthand experience. I also urged classmates to remember the privileged place they occupied, the responsibility that they had -- but these words were meant as much for me as they were for them.
It’s time to get off my ass, stop moaning about how hard it is for artists to make a buck. It’s time to do something about it.
The reunion couldn’t have come at a better time. I won’t stop writing or playing, but I’ve got to broaden my perspective, the agenda, I have to stop thinking just about me.
Now for a whole new generation of fans...
May 26, 2008
I’m finishing up year eleven of serious writing -- 1998 – 2008. I can’t believe how fast it went. But when I take a look at my writing back then, I wonder what I was thinking, given how awful I was. But I did possess the most important ingredient an artist needs, a deep, to the core passion for words and music. It has been that love that gave me the discipline to learn the craft. I put in endless hours of work, weathered thousands of rejections, and had the courage to face my true self.
I sing, play and write better than I ever have, more important, I found my voice, but I still firmly believe I am nowhere near my potential. Sadly, I don’t make enough to even pay weekly groceries. With gas going up almost daily, I’ve been confronted with a harsh reality, soon I will become the living embodiment of the term, ‘starving artist.’
Last year I had an incredible opportunity – to study with one of America’s great writers, Barry Hannah – part of me still thinks that I blew it, not jumping on that – but it would have meant selling my house, and risking absolutely everything – nearing fifty, with no shot at a pension, I had to honestly look at the next 20 years. I had no doubts that the experience would have been a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had a shot at realizing my full-potential, but I also knew that the odds of translating that into even a modest salary was a long shot – most writers, including Barry, earn little from their writing. It’s Barry’s position at Ole Miss that enables him to write – at my age, finding a tenured position was a stretch.
I often wonder what life would be like now, down in Oxford, but just the fact that a guy of my age secured such an opportunity, it made me realize how far my writing has come.
But that and a subway token will get me back home tonight. I drive a 1994 vehicle, my health insurance is a joke, each month is a scramble to break even.
After turning down Ole Miss, I took on various consulting assignments. Clients came via word of mouth. I’ve had more work than I can keep up with. But I still find time to write -- I get up early, I edit on the train, I type through lunch.
Last summer I was hired by a group that was working with Hilly Kristal, the founder of CBGB. The famous bar closed in ’06. They wanted help on a plan to reintroduce the club. It was the perfect fit for me -- my novel – The Sound of Money, was about a struggling songwriter that gets mixed up with the mob – he fronts an all-girl punk band called Spyder and the Widows – several scenes take place in 1978, the golden age of CBGB. In the book, the Police opened for Spyder the very month they actually made their first US appearance at CBs.
I was at San Diego State from 79-82 and booked bands for the school. I looked to what CB’s was doing, then brought those bands to campus – I did the Ramones three years in a row. Once we hosted 999 and the Dickies. The temporary stage came apart, kids were in danger of getting crushed up front; a few were already hurt. The show stopped, the lights came on. I took a microphone and told everyone they had to step back and calm down. I got pummeled with spit and food, someone tossed a bottle and it cut my arm. I yanked the mic off the stand and started screaming – take three fucking steps backwards now, or we’re fucking shutting this god damn thing down.” Stuff still hurled my way. “Do it fucking now,” I hollered, “or I’ll come out there and kick every fucking one of you in the ass.”
The place quieted, the kids moved back. Security rescued those up front. The stage was reassembled and more security was brought in; the show went on.
The next week I was in front of the University Board, explaining why punk rock was an important cultural activity that the campus needed to support. I lost the argument, punk was banned, but it was 1982 and New Wave had taken over.
In 2008, I have formally joined the CBGB family. I will take an active role in leading this iconic brand into a new and exciting era. This experience blurs what I once did as a music executive, with what I’ve done for the past decade – I’d always intended to come full circle, I just didn’t expect it to take this long.
Earlier this year, I was doing open mics, now I’m meeting movers and shakers in the entertainment business, as I had a decade ago. What comes next will only make me a better fiction/singer-songwriter. And of course, living the life of a writer and musician provides an insight into the essence of what CBGB really is, in a way that a typical executive would never get. It’s an honor and a privilege to be associated with such an important name in the history of rock and roll. Although I won’t be writing or playing as much as I have, I won’t make the mistake I did in my late 20s and 30s, by not playing while climbing the ladder at the EMI Music Group. I pledge to keep posting each week, musing about what’s going on in my life and the world, and now CBGB too…
US soldiers fill water bags for cyclone refugees
May 19, 2008
It was no surprise that the Myanmar government kept the west out this week, tragically, nor was the escalation of deaths. A United Nations’ effort was also thwarted by the Chinese, who refused to support a unified effort to open the borders to allow aid in via an international force.
The Bush administration has been constructive. It also showed restraint. It isn’t our place to take unilateral action (of course, we shouldn’t have in Iraq either). Would we have acted differently if this situation was in the Middle East, maybe.
US business is forbidden to work with this government, but one key source of their revenue comes from a subsidiary that is partially owned by Chevron. The Bush administration has not sanctioned Chevron for allowing their sub to provide much needed revenue to this corrupt regime. The argument has been, if Chervon doesn’t, a Chinese or Japanese company would.
Either we do business with tyrants, or we don’t – there should be no gray area.
I’m not privy to the details to really know what needs doing, but I do know that our response to large-scale human rights abuse, as well as natural disasters, should not vary depending on the strategic importance of the area. Human suffering on this scale in the 21st century is appalling, there is no excuse.
This is why the UN must lead the global effort to eradicate extreme poverty. If the Russians and the Chinese have a different view, that will present potential gridlock, but human suffering has no geographic bias – natural disasters and civil conflict are distributed equally across the globe. If the effort to help was more evenhanded, perhaps a more unified approach is possible.
On another note: Jim Frey, of Oprah’s “A Million Lies” fame, released his first novel to positive critical response last week. I saw an interview on the Today Show. I have no doubt that Mr. Frey is an accomplished writer; his memoir was a compelling piece of fiction. In the interview, he handled the tough questions, he apologized, he admitted mistakes; he hoped this book was received on its own merits.
Watching his contrition made me sick. There are lots of great writers who will never be heard from, each competing for an agent’s attention. Manuscripts flood literary magazines that will never see daylight. There is simply too much material, not enough outlets. Frey jumped the line by cheating…
We all have something in our background that we could shamelessly flog to achieve fifteen minutes of fame. We could also just make shit up. Some use that dubious beachhead to parlay it into a career, but that moniker will always shroud the legacy. In Frey’s case, he will always be known as the guy who bullshitted a memoir. But he’s got his money, he’s got a career.
For me, that’s too steep a price to pay. I’d rather write in obscurity with integrity – I can always make a buck doing something else. I also know that in this freedom from market pressure, my art has its best shot to flourish…
No Look -- No Tell -- Mr. Generals
May 12, 2008
Aid workers with supplies have tried to convince the Myanmar government that they have no interest in ratting them out to the world, they simply want to help those in desperate need. Food that did get through last week was relabeled by government officials as gifts from the generals. The situation is dire, but if the government was fearful last week, what will change their minds this week with over a 100,000 needless deaths on their hands?
And really, there’s no need for Aid workers to tell the world anything, the generals are doing a fine job on their own – but if by their refusal to allow aid to flow into the country, over a million people are at risk, is that not of enough consequence for the world to take action?
But what action?
For those who said it didn’t matter that Saddam didn’t have WMDs, his tyrannical regime had to be taken down, what do they say about the Myanmar government? There is ample evidence to support our taking over that country – the same could be said of several African regimes too.
But there’s no oil, no threat of an Al Queda incursion, so why bother?
Over the past decade I’ve worked with Concern Worldwide, a Dublin based famine relief agency. I helped them establish a US fund raising operation in 2000. The director often spoke about not taking sides in a conflict. Their objective was to help the people – staying neutral allowed their workers to avoid confrontation, it let them travel through road blocks and disputed borders.
When I went to Haiti, I couldn't write about the crimes of the current government, it would have made it impossible for Concern to operate in that country, in fact, it could have put their staff in jeopardy.
But staying neutral implies support of those in power, it allows the conditions that often created the crisis to repeat itself, staying neutral is a Band Aid, but people on death’s door can’t wait for a long-term solution.
A world court was created in 2005 to hold regimes accountable for human suffering. Over time this has the potential to be a true deterrent, but at the moment, there’s nobody in Myanmar fearing the possibility of accountability, the world court means nothing; on the other hand, an argument could be made that the court makes the Myanmar government even more fearful of outsiders, that it’s the reason they won’t let anyone in.
The news also reported that the US asked China to intervene. Why is it our role to have to do the asking? Isn’t that something the United Nations should assume? Since they were neighbors, one would have thought the Chinese didn’t need a nudge.
On a lighter but related note, I was also wondering what the difference is between a cyclone, a hurricane, and a typhoon. It turns out they’re the same thing -- it’s geography that drives the term. Here’s what I discovered:
A cyclone is a large-scale, atmospheric wind-and-pressure system characterized by low pressure at its center and by circular wind motion, counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere, clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.
A hurricane is a violent, tropical, cyclonic storm of the western North Atlantic, having wind speeds of or in excess of 72 mph (32 m/sec), where as a typhoon is a tropical cyclone or hurricane in the western Pacific area and the China seas.
Regardless of what you might have thought, now is the time to donate; one must hope that at some point AID will reach those in need.
May 3, 2008
Whenever the phone rang at an odd hour, I would check caller ID to see if it was my mother, wondering if this was the call saying that my grandmother, Nana, died. She turned 97 last October. I’d developed this habit over a decade ago. This week that call finally came.
Nana lived in England and had been in the hospital. She’d gone home over the weekend. I was in LA and Mom asked me to call her. I said I would as soon as I got home on Monday, since overseas mobile charges cost a fortune.
I had a horrendous journey back from LA, including a 2 am blowout at 65 mph. I walked in at 4 am, got up at 9, hustled to make an important meeting with a client in NYC. I got home that night at 8 – swung by the market and picked up a ‘Get Well’ card. It was too late to call because of the time difference. It was on my list for first thing in the morning…
I’m kicking myself now. I’d pay any price to have one more conversation –
Nana’s last years aren’t how I will remember her anyway – she was in amazing shape, but her hearing was shot, and phone calls were as difficult for her, as it was, me. Ten years ago, we were at my mom’s in Florida, it was tough to keep up with Nana on the beach. She could go for miles. I guess it was that good country living as a child.
Nana was born the year of Haley’s Comet, when organic food was the only food. She was raised on a farm outside of London, just a child during the era of the silent movie and the horseless carriage, a mother of two during the era of the wireless, a grandparent during the time of Elvis, a great grandparent during the dawn of personal computing. In 2008, in the era of the Internet, she’s gone.
I can’t imagine how she processed kids today with their mobile phones and Google, but she seemed to take it all in stride. She’d lived through World War One and Hitler bombing London, Vietnam, the Falklands, and now Iraq. She’d had much joy in her life, but lots of heartache too. She was the last of nine siblings.
My mother and father moved to America on the Queen Mary back in 1957. I was the first American born in the family. Nana visited every couple of years – it was like Christmas when she stayed at our house. We’d drive up from Philadelphia to JFK and wait for her in the Pan Am Terminal. The journey was a marvel, my Nana coming out of customs packed to the gills for a six-week stay, her pockets filled with English chocolates and biscuits, her suitcases jammed with gifts. I’d gawk at the funny colored pound notes and the odd shaped coins in her purse. Dad got English cigarettes, mom gooseberry jam and magazines; I’d scan the pages for words spelled funny like colour.
Strange things appeared in the fridge when Nana was at the house -- prune juice and borscht were her favorites; the adults drank tea instead of coffee -- she loved Campari and Soda too.
I made my first UK trip in ’64, but it was the Summer of Love I remember most because my sister and I were sent there for three months while my parents sorted out their divorce. Supposedly I saw the Stones in Hyde Park. I do remember navigating the Underground, traveling across London on my own at the age of ten. And there was nothing finer than Fish and Chips served up in newspaper. But it was shocking to discover that England had only two TV channels; one didn’t start until late afternoon.
I lived in the UK from 89-92, and during that period I saw Nana often. The second year I was there, my grandpa died. At least I was there to help with the arrangements. I also gave the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, even though I hadn’t spoken Hebrew in over twenty years.
I made several trips back over the past 16 years, and each time I wondered if this was the last time I’d see Nana. It got to the point that I stopped thinking about it because it seemed as if she would go on forever. Everyone thought she’d reach a hundred, and talking to her last month, she sounded strong and alert. But the last few years were not easy. Her body parts wore thin, and with her peers long gone, the will to live weakened.
I think she was ready.
I loved my Nana and I will miss her dearly, and even though she lived a long and prosperous life, losing her now is no easier. We had a lot of laughs together, she had chutzpah, she was some woman, and just the thought of her makes me smile.
Me and nana - 1961
1948 -- Grandpa and Nana with their children -- my mom is on the left.
Me and my buddy playing a folk festival thirty three years ago...
April 27, 2007
Last night I attended the fiftieth surprise birthday party for a friend that I’ve known since tenth grade. We hung out a lot back then. We smoked too much pot, we camped out for tickets to see the second Who show at the Spectrum in Philadelphia based on a rumour (which turned out to be false) – somehow we survived those years and here we are in 2008 this weekend in Long Beach, California, with his family and friends celebrating the big Five O.
It’s funny how there are certain people that regardless of how much time passes between visits, when we do get together, it’s like we’d seen each other yesterday. That’s the way it is with this guy – of course we chat on the phone a lot, so even though we don’t see each other much, I feel as if he’s part of both my past and current life.
He’s got a great family, he’s owns a veterinary practice here in Long Beach, he still manages to play guitar a few hours a week. Although he makes it look effortless, he puts in long hours, he runs a big business, I’m sure the family wishes he could be around more too. That’s what the world of 50 looks like – it is possible to have it all, but to pull it off, you’ve got to be on your game at all times – balance – it’s a key theme for many folks nowadays – and finding that combination of career, family, and self, isn’t easy, despite what Oprah’s gurus might say.
From the joy and love at this party, I’d say my friend has done a heck of a job, and he’s earned it, I couldn’t be happier for him.
Speaking of birthdays, my sister, Lisa, had a birthday last week. She lives in Sacramento and we don’t see each other a lot, but we do chat on the phone often. I’m very fortunate because she and I are quite close. I value her insight, support and love. I know that a lot of people don’t have that sort of relationship with their siblings. When I got divorced, Lisa was there for me and I think we’ve grown a lot closer since then. We tried to connect this weekend too, but just couldn't pull it off. I'll be seeing her this summer, but I wanted to say here for the record: Happy Birthday – I love her very much.
That's my little sister on the far left -- and me, believe it or not, on the far right! Also in the photo, my Dad, my mom's sister, Roma, and my step mother, Thelma -- circa 1973
Hear this...
April 21, 2008
Six weeks ago I was experimenting in the studio with a new synthesizer program, looping drums, weaving in vintage keyboard sounds with a modern dance beat and a MIDI bass. I was excited about this new direction for a song and took a break to work on lyrics.
When I came back, I hit play not realizing that I had switched the audio source. The speakers blasted and the noise was so loud, it was heard in the next county. I knew immediately that I’d done something to my hearing, but I figured by morning it would settle down.
It didn’t.
Everything sounded as if the world’s volume button had been pushed to the max – any sound was actually painful, even opening a drawer bothered me; the clanging of my cats ID tags on their bowls while they ate was like standing in the belfry of church when the bells rang.
After two weeks, I went to a doctor, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. The doc suggested I wear ear plugs. “Don’t listen to anything loud, let the ears settle,” she said. “If it doesn’t clear up in a few weeks, I’ll send you to a specialist.”
So I wore ear plugs around the house, and when I went out, I wore a wool cap to keep them hidden to avoid looking like an idiot.
Heading into New York was a nightmare. You don’t realize how much noise pollution there is, or how a person could go nuts with the onslaught of noise in your head. The subway screech, the taxi cab honk, the ambulance siren, each sound more painful than the next. Thank God for the plugs.
My ears did settle down. Then I went to an open mic. I knew the second I entered the joint that I should have turned around. But there were old friends I hadn’t seen for awhile. I put up with it. The worst was when someone wanted to talk to me, they screamed in my ear to be heard over the PA system – ugh.
My ears slid back to square one.
After a week or so, they seemed to settle down again, but this time, I would be more careful -- no open mics, no loud music without earplugs, I even wore them while driving.
Yesterday I was visiting one of my clients in their office. It was a Friday, and a lot of people had left for the weekend. Suddenly a piercing alarm blasted overhead, my ear was literally two feet from this torturous device – Evacuate the building, there is an emergency – the piercing robotic voice repeated between a sonic noise designed to wake the dead.
I’m writing this on my back deck, the birds are chirping and it’s like they’re inside my head. My neighbor waves hello from across the yard. It’s the first weekend that feels like summer. The sun’s bright, the sky is blue, and there’s my neighbor mucking about with his gas powered sit-down mower. He starts it up for the first cut of the year. There’s an explosion of diesel as the mower clears its throat after a long, grey winter. He revs that engine like he’s about to take the first lap in a NASCAR race.
I recheck my earplugs, make sure they’re nice and snug. I go back to writing.
No chafing wires here...
April 14, 2008
It’s a beautiful day, but I’m inside doing taxes. No matter how much I prepare, this deadline always sneaks up on me.
This week’s FAA move, and the subsequent grounding of hundreds of planes by American, has me wanting to sneak up on both the government and the airlines, to kick them in the butt.
This is a case of cover your ass – the FAA was in bed with the airlines – and now that it’s been outed, the pendulum must swing back. The very letter of the law will be enforced ‘come hell or high water’ regardless of the impact to passengers, creating the very havoc in the skies the FAA was set up to avoid in the first place. American hasn’t found a single incident of wire chafing, so why the sudden need to inconvenience millions of passengers?
It’s a sham.
Bill Maher spoke about the impact of volume on government policy this week on his HBO show – for example, a single home owner that makes a bad decision and defaults on a mortgage is forced into foreclosure and is looked upon as a bum. Default on a million mortgages through bad decisions like Bear Stearns and instead of going into bankruptcy, the government bails them out because they’re too big to fail.
I don’t understand how this catastrophic banking fiasco occurred, but apparently those in charge didn’t either. What I’ve managed to glean is this:
Let’s say your home is worth 500,000 – the banks took out 499,000 dollars worth of mortgage, bundling them into a package of thousands of mortgages of varying credit quality -- no one realized the credit-worthiness or how leveraged they were.
This so-called innovative financial securitization product smells a lot like what Enron did with energy pricing.
As long as property values went up, everyone made money, including home owners. When prices dropped, this house of cards collapsed.
We clearly need government regulation, but as we saw in the airline world this week, we also need to regulate government – that my friends, is supposed to be our job.
Well, I better get back to dealing with those taxes before the IRS sneaks up on me with an audit.
Thanks for stopping by.
April 7, 2008
The weather is finally turning. I spent the weekend cleaning up the winter debris in my yard. While I raked and picked up branches, I was thinking about the election, the economy, the war on terror. I was thinking about how most people see things in black and white. My liberal friends say corporations have too much control, that we need more aggressive government regulation to fix the environment, education, health care and the financial markets. My conservative friends say we need less government, that only the free market can solve these issues.
I don’t see it either way.
Most experts agree that a free market drives innovation, it keeps companies sharp; communism proved central control doesn’t work. But the free market in its purest form is akin to fiscal Darwinism – think of it this way -- if evolution had been regulated, humans would not have emerged.
Of course, from the planet’s perspective, that would have been a good thing – and yet, the world would not have had Mozart, Picasso, Crème Brulee, but of course, we also gave it WW I and II, American Idol and TMZ.
The daffodils are popping out of the ground. When they die, the hostas will take over until winter reappears. If I kept out of the yard this season, and let the hedges, the plants, the trees, the unauthorized floral too (the things we call weeds), to all run wild, one species would dominate various sectors of my yard, many species would suffer, some would die.
There would be no concept of fairness here even though there’s enough sunshine, real estate, and water to go around for everyone. Nature is designed for domination. There’s no middle ground, hesitation, or concern for one species view or another’s.
I realized as I cleaned the yard that what drives activity around my house is what’s at the root of the world’s political and economic problems. Whether you believe God invented this system or not, the DNA in all living beings, is the DNA at the core of our issues as a civilization from Africa to Afghanistan.
On Sunday, I spent hours cutting away the ivy that worked its way up various trees over the year. The ivy is pleasant to look at, it remains green throughout the cold months, it evokes a sense of tradition, perhaps entitlement. But the ivy is also tenacious, aggressive, a type A sort of chap. Ivy has no sense of satisfaction. It will cover an area, climb up anything from a fence, to a stump, to a tree, and it will smother or strangle its host until it dies.
The Ivy reminds me of the steel and oil barons of the last century, Carnegies and Rockefellers, the ones who exploited labor, dominated in a way that makes Microsoft look meek.
It was warm in the sun this weekend, but as night neared, things cooled quickly. In the chill of twilight I was thinking about the political debate on how to keep America safe from the terrorists – here’s what I think:
A free market without an independent government with a mandate to set boundaries that ensures fairness, safety, and a vision for the long-haul, is a market destined to create a world of haves and have-nots. Unless the haves are willing to say, we need to figure out how to help the have-nots, there will be a backlash that will ultimately create a disconnect. All solutions that don’t address this fundamental issue are simply short-term fixes. A Band-Aid cannot heal the rot in the heart of the human race.
The Dark Ages descended upon civilization despite the artistic and scientific advances of Greece and Rome. When I see the images of the mountain villages where the Taliban live, their shouts of death to America, I see the dawn of a new Dark Age.
Winston Churchill said, “Democracy is the worst government in the world…
…except all the others.”
It is my responsibility throughout the summer months, to keep the plants and trees in my garden at an equilibrium, to allow all to flourish, and I realized this weekend that it is all of our responsibility this political season to elect leaders with a similar agenda for the United States and the world.
March 31, 2008
I was riding the train into the city and this ad campaign for the Westport Country Playhouse caught my attention.
The ad speaks to the spectacle and social aspects of high society -- to be seen is the reason one should attend a Playhouse production. Or is it – dress-up to feel good about yourself – here’s a reason to dress-up. Either way, this tack doesn’t speak to me, in fact, it makes me cringe.
This ad is aimed at a population focused on making money and kitchen remodels; perhaps that’s a bit harsh, it could also be focused on seniors, where dressing up for social occasions was expected.
The Westport Country Playhouse has a deep and wonderful tradition, dating back to 1930’s. It is currently under the direction of Joanne Woodward. Her husband, Paul Newman, is directing a play later this year. Many stars, old and new, have appeared here, and recently, Woodward spearheaded a fundraising effort that overhauled the facility.
The Playhouse blossomed out of an artistic community that sought the tranquility of a quiet New England town, far enough to escape the glare of the New York City spotlight, but not too far. F. Scott Fitzgerald spent a drunken summer here with Zelda. Rod Serling wrote all of the Twilight Zone episodes from his Westport home.
Today the town is filled with bankers and developers. It’s not a place that nurtures emerging artists due to the cost of housing. It’s not even accessible to folks that live here. I’ve tried to get an audition with the Westport Arts Center for four years. I’m still waiting.
But the town retains much of the charm that attracted artists over the years, despite the increased traffic and the continued plague of McMansions (they show remarkable virility even in this sub-prime meltdown).
Here are the four reasons I would be enticed to attend the Westport Playhouse:
1) The productions are world-class, as good as anything on Broadway
2) I can be home five minutes after the show
3) Theater is a unique experience: entertaining and enlightening – a treat for the soul
4) The cost of an evening – dinner/travel/parking/babysitter is at least half the cost of a ‘night out on the town’
According to the Playhouse website, their mission is to transform lives through the power of theatre. That spoke to me, and it makes their ad strategy all the more perplexing. Perhaps the economic reality facing all art, from theater to music, is to appeal to the head and ego, hook them in anyway you can; once you’ve got them, then you can touch their hearts.
The problem is, folks will be too damn busy comparing the size of their diamond rings, their designer dresses, suits, and eyewear, to even notice the show.
The old barn which became the Westport Playhouse.
March 24, 2008
Anyone that thinks we don’t have a race issue in the United States is delusional. But it isn’t just color, its religion, its politics, its even sports. A Yankee fan in the wrong place, at the wrong time, could get his ass kicked. A black man, driving late at night in Westport, where I live, could get arrested for just driving through.
Finally, a politician acknowledged the proverbial white elephant in the room.
Obama’s speech made me think about how race and other issues that divide this country affect my life. I have a few black friends, mostly through music, but I don’t hang regularly with anyone of color.
I once wrote a short-story, called Coming Home, about a black girl who worked at a supermarket in a white neighborhood. It was inspired by what I saw at my local Stop and Shop (90% of the cashiers are black), and an African-American woman I used to work with.
Al Young, California’s poet laureate (the first African-American to hold that post), helped me with that story back in ’94, when I attended the Squaw Valley Writers Conference. I’d sent Al the piece ahead of time. When we met, he said, “I expected you to be black.” I couldn’t have hoped for a better compliment.
I’m more tuned in than the average white guy, but I recognize that I have no idea what it’s really like to be black in America. In addressing his pastor’s comments, Obama claimed we all say things amongst our own that we’d never share with the general populace. That’s as true about race, as it is for religion, politics, even regional groups – eg: Us Yankees believe Southerners to be of simple mind…
Whereas it’s nearly impossible for a white person to infiltrate that private world amongst blacks, or a guy, the world of women, a Jew without a Jewish name, sometimes can be mistaken for a gentile, as I have been. On a few occasions, I’ve heard friends and colleagues say: they’re fucking Jews, what did you expect. The rest of the group would roll their eyes in a conspiratorial consensus: they are fucking Jews.
In the novel, My Year as a Clown, I explore how men act when a woman is present versus male-only, locker-room chat. I also looked at how the conversational dynamic shifts with religion. My novel is told in the first person, by Chuck Morgan, a former music exec who is struggling to write a story about his grandfather. Pop Pop escaped from the Russians as a child, and then the Nazis, as a young adult. One of Chuck’s issues is – what does it really mean to be Jewish? Here’s an excerpt:
Once I was interested in signing a hot punk band called Moses on Ludes, four kids from Brooklyn. I took my boss, Carl, and a couple of other Stella execs, to see them at CBGBs. After the show, we hit an all-night diner. Carl said something about the difficulty of doing a deal with a bunch of fucking Jews. Carl wasn’t a racist per se, but the comment bothered me. He didn’t know I was Jewish -- my last name was Morgan, my hair was dyed blonde. I wanted to say: Hey, what the fuck does that mean? Or: You should be more careful, fuckwad, a big chunk of the music industry is Jewish. I said nothing. What did it matter? Nobody’s life was on the line as it had been for Pop Pop’s family. I didn’t have the guts to confront Carl, but I still thought that if I’d been in Pop Pop’s shoes at the turn of the last century, I would’ve had the courage to stand-up to the Cossacks. Who was I kidding?
Here’s something to try at home: Pretend you’ve joined the opposite political camp. Seek out your new found kindred spirits. You’ll be amazed at what you hear. Opinions are much stronger within the tribe, words are emphatic, clear-cut and delivered with an unwavering conviction. The Iraq war has made us safer (or vice-versa, if you are a republican masquerading as a democrat). One quickly sees how firmly each camp’s positions are held. Is it possible that within the comfort of our own group, we lose sight of how entrenched our views and assumptions have become?
I have no idea how to close the racial, gender, political or religious divides, but I do know that Barack Obama’s attempt to acknowledge the white elephant that stands amongnst us, is an important first step.
Only time will tell if ‘we’ the people, can rise to the occasion, not in fear, but with understanding and compassion, to acknowledge not only our differences, but the common ground that all of us share – nobody wants to see people starve or go without healthcare. Nobody wants the extreme poverty across our planet to continue, or for global warming to run unabated.
The time is now to reach across the aisle, to extend a hand, to take a moment to really listen to an opposing view. Now is the time for all of us to acknowledge that elephant.
March 17, 2008
I flipped, I flopped, now I don’t know who I want – but I’m not concerned that a prolonged campaign will destroy the Democratic Party – that’s media hype.
The press require headlines to generate viewers, to sell ads, to meet quarterly profit targets – PBS doesn’t sell ads, but they're almost as bad; they still need to attract eyeballs to get funded. They rely on media superstars like The New York Times’ David Brooks, and syndicated columnist, Mark Shields, to create a draw.
Let Hilary and Barack duke it out, no one will care come September, what is said now – think back six months – McCain was dead in the water, Hilary was the democratic heir apparent, Fred Thompson was going to heat up the Republican race, Mitt Romney had an unbeatable war chest; Huckebee Who?
Speaking of hype, ka ching for the media this week – The Spitzer Sex Scandal – but we, the people, are just as guilty, and I will admit, I visited Kristen’s MySpace page – so-called friends posted heartfelt messages to K, hoping that the press would contact them – everyone wants to cash in.
The losers -- Silda and the children
The winner -- K
Hear K on the radio, see K in film, gawk at K in Playboy, watch K on Donald Trump’s new program 'Shits and Sluts' Apprentice.
Genetic or over the counter?
The RSW strawpoll:
Every woman I spoke to this week, including my mother, said: that’s just what men do…
Do all women believe that men are cheaters?
Will all men at some point, put everything at risk for a piece of fresh, young ass?
Speaking as someone who was faithful for 21 years and ultimately cheated on, I was surprised at this response. I don’t believe it, but I understand why many do.
I explored some of this in the novel I’m working on – My Year as a Clown. After three years on this theme, I am no closer to answers than when I started, but I belive cheating isn’t just a guy thing.
You don’t need me to tell you that relationships are complicated. It’s easy to blame one side, but it’s never that black and white, it certainly wasn't in my marriage.
Finally:
How bad is the economy?
Gasoline hit 3.49 here. And have you noticed groceries going up?
I have two cats, and last week the sale price for Fancy Feast went from 39 cents a can, to 49, that’s a 26% price increase. At this rate of increase, my IRS stimulus check will have been spent 20x over by the time it arrives.
A call unanswered...
March 10, 2008
An acquaintance jumped in front of a commuter train last Saturday night. She was 39. I’d met her at the health club where I do yoga, but she dropped out last year. She’d been there for as long as I could remember (I’ve been a member since ‘92). She was always there – literally – she’d work out at least four hours a day.
My first impression of her dates back to the mid-90’s – I was still working a corporate job, travelling to four continents for a division of EMI Music, so I was only at the club on occasion to play squash. I remember this woman because she was very attractive, and yet quite different from most of the people at the club -- she had striking eyes, a beautiful figure, she was strong and sexy. She also wore funky street clothes with unique color combinations, she was Soho meets suburban Main Street; she turned the heads of men and women alike. During this time, I never spoke to her.
Once I’d become a freelancer and worked out more, I’d see her on the treadmill, then the rowing machine, then the stationary bike. I’d arrive, see her on one machine, I'd hit the changing room, do a 45-minute workout, shower, and there she was on the treadmill still warming up.
At some point her weight loss became noticeable. Soon her arms became so thin, you would have sworn she’d been in a concentration camp. It had to be obvious to anyone close to her that something was amiss.
I only talked to her a few times. I actually hit a squash ball with her once, but we never had a real conversation, but I did have a sense that something awful might have happened in her past. Sometimes it wasn’t in what she said, but in the way her eyes wouldn’t look at you, always darting about, as if keeping an eye out for a possible intruder.
When she dropped out of the club last year, her absence was noticeable. I couldn’t imagine what would cause her to leave, it was clearly such an important part of her life. I saw her only once after that, at a Christopher Shays town hall meeting here in Westport. I didn’t talk to her that day, but at question time, she spoke up – I don’t remember what she asked, but I was impressed that she was there.
This week folks at the club were talking about her. Every one thought it was so awful, and it was, but I hardly knew this woman and it was obvious to me that something was profoundly wrong in her life. The true tragedy is that amongst so many people that apparently cared about her, she could feel so alone and in such pain that the only way to find relief was to throw herself in front of a speeding train.
I wonder how many other people I know feel this alienated, this detached amongst friends and family. What this woman’s death has made me realize is that to some extent, we all feel alienation and pain despite being surrounded by loved ones. Who amongst us is slipping off the rails right now?
For as much time as we spend socializing, writing emails, texting, less is said more than ever…
There are lots of ways to view musicians...
March 3, 2008
Last week’s blog touched a nerve with lots of readers and several sent emails or posted responses on my various sites. Most gratifying was the contact from fellow writers, people that I admire and respect as artists – their kind words made me realize that to doubt my work is ridiculous.
Some asked why I hadn’t contacted the person who allegedly said these things – I do prefer to go direct to a source, but this would betray the confidence in which I learned of the statements; more important, the blog was about my reaction. It didn’t matter what was said, it was my response that was of interest. Others wondered if I would end the friendship – I won’t, although I will be more aware of the subtext the next time we get together.
The response got me thinking about what artistic success really means to me. It brought to mind last month when I was at Cafe DaVinci in Deland, Florida, a small college town just outside of Daytona Beach. I was visiting my folks for the holidays. Because they go to bed early, I was at the open mic.
Cafe DaVinci has a good reputation. The open mic is on the outdoor courtyard stage, but that week, a Canadian front blew south causing a citrus freeze alert. The open mic was moved indoors for the thirty or so brave souls that had ventured out; but I still had to wrap my arms around myself, keeping my jean jacket on.
Open mics are a mixed bag, but I had high hopes given what I’d read on the web about this place, and it being a college town. The first act went on at nine; I was slated for 11:30. It was a polite crowd; most talked amongst themselves, waiting their turn. Perhaps because school was still out, most of the acts that night were rough and raw. Several kids popped into the courtyard, hovering by the gas heater to smoke cigarettes. I was too cold to move.
At 10:30, a guy with a goatee and wool cap took the stage. He had a smooth rap, there was a gleam in his blue eyes, he looked promising with that Fender Telecaster strapped across his shoulders. But he screeched through four epics, each over six minutes.
I’m a Harvard Business School graduate, my classmates run huge corporations, one’s a bloody ambassador, and there I was, freezing my ass off, alone, twenty years older than anyone else in the joint, wondering what the hell I had done with my life.
I considered leaving, but I was frozen in place. I sat until my name was called, taking the stage a few minutes to midnight. I blew warm air into my hands and saw my breath hit the mic as I spoke into it.
Half way through the second song the people in front had quieted and the kids outside came back in. By my third song, even the folks at the bar had stopped talking. I didn't feel so cold anymore.
I did six songs that night and when I finished, people shook my hand, they asked who I was. Someone bought me a beer. The woman at the bar who booked the shows gave me her card.
I sold one CD that night for ten bucks, but I hung out till closing, talking music. That night as I drove home, I felt like a million dollars.
Wish I hadn't heard...
February 25, 2008
The other day a good friend told me in confidence something that another good friend had said about me. Since I’m amongst friends here, I’ll share – it was allegedly said that I was a wannabe writer, that I was more into saying I was a writer, than being one…
My face turned sallow. I was unsure what was more surprising, what I’d just heard, or that my inner feelings could be so betrayed by an outward appearance.
It bugged the hell out of me that a friend could say this, but what bothered me more was that it mattered.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said:
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
My reaction was defacto consent. This person has only read bits of my work, never read my novels, heard my recent songs, or seen me play live. The assumption was: I’ve been at this ten years, the novel hasn’t been published -- either I don’t work at it, or I don’t have talent; probably both.
My so-called good friend also has writing aspirations, but to date he's done nothing. By his own admission, he’s lazy and since he has money, there’s no need, but he uses that as an excuse in the way wannabes do – they think if they really applied themselves, they’d get published.
The flaw in this logic is the assumption that getting published equals talent. We've all read books, or watched a film, or heard a song on the radio and wondered how anyone thought that piece of crap was worth producing.
The vicarious nature of the book business leaves many talented writers on the sidelines. I know this better than anybody, but these words by a friend still hurt.
I’m angry, but mostly at myself. My heart knows I’m a writer, but my head needs recognition, validation, proof. This friend’s opinion is a reflection of my ego telling me that I’m not good enough.
In its purest state, writing is about satisfying a yearning inside to explore emotional truths, it’s not about success or ego gratification.
Unfortunately, I haven't reached that state of purity. I still want to prove that I haven’t frittered away this time, and yet I know that people's opinions often have more to do with them than me.
Nobody knows what sacrifices I’ve made, or how many hours I’ve put in. Nobody knows what joy I’ve gotten from wrestling with words, or the frustrations. I’ve gained greater insights into myself in the last ten years than I had in the first forty of my life. If I hadn’t embraced writing in such a way, I never would have had these experiences.
What's said, or how I act, the next time I see this friend, is unclear; but one thing is certain, I won't be giving my consent.
--- Since this posting, I've received several emails. Thanks so much for the support!
Here's one:
What other friends think of you:
You are a fiercely dedicated, admirably industrious, ruthlessly self-critical, significantly talented, totally real, and realistically aspirational WRITER!!!!!
Not only that, in case you need reminding (I guess you do), you are a PUBLISHED AUTHOR of business books and feature articles and literary short stories and pop songs and a blog that is read faithfully by quite a few folks. Just 'cause your novel hasn't cut through the static and competition doesn't mean you're not a writer. My friend Meredith was a pretty widely published poet before she committed to fiction, and she's been reworking her novel ms, including enrolling last year in a non-residential MFA program to get certain kinds of peer review, for seven years. Well, you've hear lots of such anecdotes.
As for your 'friend', I commend to him the Buddhist doctrine on "Right Speech"...perhaps someone should administer an enforced reading of some dharma talks accompanied by blows of a tire iron (oops, the devil made me type it).
Hang in there, pal. As you note clearly in your blog, it is the resonance with our own self-contempt that makes such idiocies sting, so we must start there.
My advice to you is, learn how to use the fucking semicolon!
affectionate regards
CRJR
Let's have Paula, Randy, and Simon judge the next Democratic Debate..
February 18, 2008
Random Rants: Things that got up my nose this week...
While the Iraq war continues, Kenyan’s die, Pakistani’s vote, and Putin solidifies his power base, our government summons Major League Baseball to the table. Even if we need to send a message to our kids that cheating has consequences, that drugs are dangerous, how is it possible that congress is divided by party lines on whether Clemens is lying or not?
It’s not about steroids, or perjury, it’s about politics and power. Last week’s charade may have made compelling television, but now that the writer’s strike is over, can government get back to the business at hand...
While on the subject of politics -- A friend said the campaign reminded him of American Idol. That made me think: Let’s get Paula, Randy and Simon to judge the next Democratic Debate. America, text in your vote -- if enough participate, we’ll cancel the rest of the primaries as well as the super delegate process; fast-forward to the convention.
I would love to be a fly on the wall when Bill Clinton calls a delegate. There are no easy answers for an African-American politician. Many owe the Clintons for where they are today.
I don’t believe politicians will make the choice based on a prior relationship, or for the historical significance Barack represents -- it comes down to old-fashioned self-interest. If you throw yourself behind the wrong candidate, you’ll be lucky to get tickets to tour the White House, pick the right one and you’ve got a great position in the new administration.
Speaking of loyalty, have you been tempted to leave your cable or phone company because of those great offers to bundle? Combine phone, cell, TV and internet and you’ll save a ton.
Trouble is, it takes someone with the brain of Stephen Hawking to decipher the fine print. And it takes a cryptologist to translate the damn bill. I know because I broke up with Cablevision to bundle with AT&T, but the last three bills added up to more than what I spent in a year with all services combined.
Why is it costing so much to save money?
After several calls and lots of waiting, I was told that there were taxes, fees, activation charges, and pro-rated monthly assessments, as well as added features that were not included in the promotional offer. Worse, because the bundle is charged to one bill, when you have questions, you’ve got to talk to each company separately.
When the landline person says: you’ll have to speak to the wireless folks about that; and then you call the wireless people, and they say: since you’re bundled, you’ll have to speak to the landline folks – I want to tell AT&T where to put their bundle.
One place that bundle could go, is up Joe Lieberman’s ass. Why is he always standing behind John McCain? Isn’t he supposed to be representing my home state, Connecticut? Oh yeah, I forgot, he represents the State of Joe.
Last week the publicity machine kicked in for first-time novelist, Charles Bock, whose book “Beautiful Children,” was released Tuesday. Random House has big plans for this title. Bock was featured in “The New York Times Magazine” as well as papers across the country; his web site is polished and well financed; for my tastes, a tad over-produced. I haven't had a chance to read this book, but it looks intriguing.
Hailed as an early candidate for ‘great 21st century American novel,’ this work of fiction was eleven years in the making. According to Bock, while some of his friends achieved success, he got rejected. At parties he felt like a fraud saying he was a writer. Nearing forty with no marketable skills, he was embarrassed and downtrodden, scraping by with odd jobs. Despite the hardships and ignominy, he never stopped writing.
I read Bock’s story with awe and hope. He attended conferences and retreats, similar to the ones I’ve attended. Folks thought it was just a matter of time for him, but nothing happened.
I’m approaching my tenth year of writing with only minor success. Friends got deals too. I’ve been close a couple of times. Last year an agent at the prestigious Squaw Valley writers' conference, the place where Amy Tan, Michael Chabon and Alice Sebold were discovered, told me she believed I’d breakthrough because I’m relentless. Still, she rejected my novel.
I know how Bock felt about party chit-chat. The anticipation before a social gathering sours my stomach. I dodge the ‘what do you do’ like a skilled politician. But sometimes late at night when I can't sleep because I wonder if I've frittered away the past decade, I look myself in the mirror and say what have I done?
If Bock has learned one thing on his eleven year odyssey, it’s that no matter what people say about his work, he trudges on. You’re rarely as good or as bad as people say.
It must be amazing to ride the surge of publicity that Bock is on, but he knows what all aspiring writers know, it takes hard work, perseverance, and a lot of luck. I don’t know Charles Bock, but I can bet he knows lots of gifted writers that toil in obscurity. Kudos to Bock for climbing out of the shadow into the limelight. If he’d given up in year ten, he'd still be waiting tables.
Regardless of how his book is ultimately received, as long as he keeps writing, he can’t lose. Since I saw that agent in Squaw Valley, I revamped my novel. As long as I keep writing, I won’t lose either.
Do we really need an hourly update on the presidential race?
February 3, 2008
For over a year we heard the 24/7 ebb and flow of what was on the mind of Iowa and New Hampshire voters. Those results are ancient history. Looking back now, was all of that attention and analysis worth it?
Iowa certainly legitimized Obama’s candidacy, but McCain was road kill four months ago according to the pundits. The media convinced us that it was worth tuning in each night for the latest poll and commentary. And immediately following Iowa, the media rushed to crown prince Obama. After New Hampshire they snuck into his room to steal the crown for Hilary.
Jon Stewart ran a sequence campaign hyperbole last week on the Daily Show -- Bill Clinton lashes out – Mitt Romney scoffs – Barack rebukes -- Stewart ran clips of the actual action with the subsequent report, in each case, reporters used an active, aggressive verb to describe what in reality was a non-event.
Breaking News: Bill Clinton answers a reporter’s question…
Or:
Bill Clinton lashes out at a reporter.
With Connecticut voting on Super Tuesday, it’s time for me to hit the polls. I lean toward Hillary because of her experience. Despite the Kennedy endorsements, Barack lacks seasoning. Yes, he is Kennedyesque, but if JFK hadn’t been assassinated, his legacy might have been different. He sent the first troops to Vietnam. He was responsible for the Bay of Pigs. If JFK had campaigned today, he’d never have gotten elected; he would have made Bill Clinton seem like a eunuch.
The media says Obama has the better shot against McCain, they say the republicans would love to go against the Clintons. That’s made me think Obama would make the better candidate, but I still believe Clinton makes the better president.
The extremes in the Republican Party won’t vote for either, so it’s about who will get the most votes from moderates and independents. I have no idea which candidate has the best chance of doing that, but tonight I can channel surf across the major news program to find an expert that will tell me today’s answer, tomorrow, that answer will change depending on the polls and the wind.
East beats West
January 28, 2008
Last April I hurt my foot hiking. Eight months later, I still have pain. I went to orthopedic specialists. They took X-rays, but saw no broken bones. They said it was probably muscle. Take an anti-inflammatory, rest, if it doesn’t get better in a month or two, come back, we’ll do an MRI, give you a cortisone shot, worst case, we’ll operate.
One doctor said, “You’re nearing fifty, you better just get used to the aches and pains.”
As an independent writer, my insurance covers little, so I toughed it out. But I couldn’t walk fifty yards without severe pain.
A friend told me about a Chinese doctor, a seventh generation acupressure practitioner. My friend said it would be the most painful hour of my life, but it will be worth it.
How painful could it be, I thought. I had nothing to lose, so I made an appointment.
The waiting room was a tea shop and Chinese herb dispensary. Glass apothecary jars lined the wall behind the register filled with various natural remedies. Teapots and other Chinese knick-knacks crammed shelves along the opposite wall.
Dr. Wong came out in a white smock. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a warm smile. He was a squat man with a crew cut, his fingers were thick and muscular. He spoke little English. He led me to a room with low lighting and bamboo like wallpaper. I told his Chinese assistant, a thin, reed like woman, my situation. Dr. Wong nodded.
He took my pulse and asked me to stick my tongue out. He muttered something to the translator. She told me my body had blockages that prevented my foot healing. I wondered if she told that to every patient.
I was instructed to lie face down on the massage table. Dr. Wong elbowed up and down my spine. It was deep and penetrating, but it didn’t hurt as much as I expected. I figured my friend was a wus. Then Doctor Wong leaned into me and suddenly I felt as if he was going to unhinge a vertebrae, the shearing pain was so intense, I thought I would never arise from this table.
Just when I thought I could take it no longer, he’d back off and give the area a gentle swirl of his hand. After fifteen minutes of this torture, he moved to my bad foot. He massaged the inflicted area. He pressed and pushed and probed to pinpoint ground zero. When I screamed, we both knew.
Finally he said, “Your muscle is stuck on the bone and that’s why it hasn’t healed.”
“I thought you didn’t speak English,” I said, wincing from his pressure.
He smiled, pushing and pressing.
He rolled me over and moved to my neck and forehead. The tips of his fingers were like hammer heads, each point of pressure activated energy channels to allow my body to heal.
Then I was wrapped in a blanket and left to lie quietly for twenty minutes. When he returned, he did a little more pressing on my neck and head. “Relax,” he said, “relax, relax, relax, and your foot will get better.”
I wasn’t sure it felt any different that afternoon, nor the next day, but I did feel for the first time that someone got to the source of my pain. The other doctors had never touched my foot, they saw X-rays, they watched me walk, they dispensed pills.
I decided to visit Dr. Wong again. He gave me a similar treatment which was equally painful, but that afternoon I felt genuine relief. I returned for one more visit.
My foot isn’t better, but it has made noticeable progress. Whether I make a full recovery remains to be seen, but I feel optimistic. It’s too bad my insurance won’t cover these visits. It covers little anyway, but you’d think they’d want to provide coverage for something that actually works.
Some football fans are as faithful as dogs...
January 21, 2008
This week I’m putting the final touches on my novel before sending it out to agents.
One of the themes in My Year as a Clown is loyalty. I chronicle the 2003 Philadelphia Eagle season, drawing a parallel to Chuck Morgan’s life. That year the Eagles got off to an awful start, but they turned it around and ended up in the NFC Championship game for the third consecutive year, only to lose again for a record third time. Chuck’s fortunes take a similar turn to this Eagle season.
The novel opens on the first day of the season. Chuck has just learned his wife of 20 years is leaving for another man. Despite the news, he’s watching the rematch of last year’s disaster NFC championship – Eagles – Bucs.
In the third quarter, the Eagles still show nothing. They look like a high school team, and it’s embarrassing after last year's defeat by these Buccaneers, but it’s something Eagle fans expect -- bearing the cross of failure is part of the job.
Claudia disliked sports and didn’t understand why I stuck with them. “I don’t know anything about your American football,” she said once, “but I do know they will lose. Why don't you just support another team?"
I tried to explain it wasn't that easy. I’ve followed Philly teams for thirty plus years. The Eagles have never won a Super Bowl, but I remain faithful.
This week the NY Giants are in the NFC Championship game against the Green Bay Packers. By the time you read this, the game will be over. Giant fans have two super bowl victories – Eagle fans zero. But only four weeks ago, despite the play-off spot, Giant fans were calling for their quarterback’s head after a poor showing in Buffalo. That’s something Eagle fans love to do too, beat up on their stars when they’re down.
But being a fan means you stick with the team for the highs and lows. Jumping on the bandwagon has its advantages, but that sort of fan can never experience the true joy of the championship victory, of course they don’t suffer through the lean years either.
My novel chronicles the actual ’03 Eagle season. Bill Parcells took over Dallas that year, but the Eagles were favored in their first meeting despite that awful start.
At the start of the fourth quarter Dallas is ahead by three. I'm still confident, but the Eagles blow a late chance and lose. I’m gutted as if I’d been out on the field with those guys. Claudia thought it pathetic that I took Eagle losses this seriously. And look at me, my head hangs low, my eyes are bloodshot and puffy, I’m aggravated and annoyed. This is the biggest Dallas victory in years, and no argument can convince me that it doesn’t matter. Claudia is right, I am pathetic.
It’s been interesting revising as another Eagle season ends in disappointment. Most of the torture Chuck faces, continues. This year the Giants destroyed the Eagles in their first meeting. The second game was much closer, in fact, a last second field goal hit the goal post which would have tied the game. The Eagles lost several other close games this year out of stupidity, and yet at times, they looked like a championship squad – they were the first to show New England’s vulnerabilities, they destroyed Dallas in Dallas. If not for one or two mistakes, the Eagles could have been in this championship game, but ‘if – schmiff,’ the Eagles have been out for over a month. The Giants are still playing.
For me and the protagonist in my book, Chuck Morgan, it’s the familiar cry of wait until next year…
Not the sort of gear you see around Westport, CT
January 14, 2008
We’ve been at war since 2003, but I rarely see anyone in uniform around town. The only military guys I come across are at Grand Central. They typically travel in threes, walking around with armored helmets strapped to their belts, led by a big, beautiful German shepherd. These men and women tote automatic weapons in one hand, a Starbucks coffee in the other.
Last week as I made a flight connection through the Atlanta airport, I saw a battalion milling about, waiting for planes home. I hadn't seen this many army guys in one place since I bought pot from a colonel stationed at Fort Ord back in the 70’s.
These men and women had arrived in a jumbo jet from Germany, all had been in Iraq. All were on a one-week, holiday break; most would head back to the war.
It was odd to see them in line at McDonalds or at a newsstand in Terminal E. I wondered if they felt strange too, patrolling the streets of Bagdad one day, standing in line with me, ordering a Big Mac the next.
Most civilians acted as if they were like any other stranger at the airport, someone to simply look through, or to sneak a peek at like a carnival freak. Few people engaged them in conversation.
But they aren’t like other strangers. They represent our country, fighting overseas. Everyday their lives are in danger.
They wore desert fatigues, a light dusty brown sprinkled with a sandy green. The pattern was more pointillist than paisley, the fabric looked like cotton, hopefully it was breathable, but I doubted it was one of those high-tech fibers most of the people I know wear at the gym, the sort that wicks away sweat before you even perspire. At least it wasn’t as thick or dense as the canvas like fabric I recall from those officers I got high with back in the old days.
Atlanta has installed new HD screens at the gates. The NFL playoffs aired while I waited for my flight to New York. I sat next to two guys heading to Virginia, watching Pittsburg versus Jacksonville. We had a brief chat. We kept an eye on the game as we talked. I kept it strictly to travel plans – How long are you here? When are you going back? How long were you there?
But I was dying to ask: How insane is it over there? What should we really do? Why the hell did you join the military?
On the flight to New York there was another serviceman on board. I wanted to say something to him but didn’t. At the baggage carousel I saw him again. While waiting for my suitcase I said hi. I thanked him for what he was doing. To be honest, I’m not sure why I did that. He nodded and looked at his shoes. He was probably wondering why I was talking to him too. Then I asked, “Looking forward to going home?”
He rolled his eyes and shrugged, looked down again at his polished boots. We exchanged no further words.
I gathered my bag and wondered what it's like to be more at ease patrolling the streets of Bagdad than going home.
What would Jesus ride?
January, 7, 2008
While the rest of the northeast was buried by an Arctic freeze, I was chilled to the bone down in Florida. My New York friends had no sympathy, but when you don’t have the clothes for 30 degrees, its damn cold. Last week Florida had the lowest temperatures in a decade.
I was in town a few days and on the day I left, it finally warmed up. I woke at six am for a brisk sunrise beach walk, then caught a cab to the airport. We got on the plane at 9 o’clock. I looked out at blue sky over the tarmac and wished I’d had a few more hours here in Daytona.
At 11, we were still on the ground. The plane rolled back to the gate – engine trouble.
The Daytona airport is tiny, you can get in and out fast, but they don’t have mechanics or back- up planes. When the pilot gave us the option to deplane, I figured it was bad news. Since I’d already missed my connection, I headed straight to the ticket counter outside of security. I rebooked an evening flight, hoping to get that one nice day on the beach.
But I still needed my bag because the keys to my mom’s apartment were in it. Twenty minutes later, with no bag in sight, the rest of the folks from my plane trudged down the escalators to line up at the ticket counter. Good thing I'd moved fast.
It was a madhouse. A smallish woman with oval glasses waved her arm around and cussed the baggage man. “I need to get to Orlando to catch a flight home,” she screamed.
All I needed was my bags and it was sunshine for me, but it took another 45 minutes to get them, but it could have been worse. Some folks waited three hours to simply secure a new reservation.
I was back at my mom’s at 12:45. Unfortunatley, by then it had turned overcast, but at least it was warm. I changed into shorts and sandals and headed for the beach.
When my bare feet touched sand, the clouds turned black, but at least there was no wind. Earlier in the week, the wind was so strong, the waves hit the shore sideways. Still, despite the threatening clouds I was strolling along the Atlantic coast.
I headed toward the pier. A group of four pelicans zoomed by. A flock of gulls poked peaks into the foamy waves. Then the clouds grew heavy, and soon the rain fell. By the time I made it back to the condo, I was soaked and chilled to the bone.
I changed into dry clothes and headed to café.
Despite these mishaps, I got a lot of writing done. I also played a small set at the Caffe DaVinci in Deland, Florida. Because the weather was so bad I sought other indoor activities. A new yoga place, Yoga Bala opened near my mom. I took morning and evening classes there every day.
The Daytona area has grown a lot since my mom moved there ten years ago. There are a few nature reserves and inlets to visit. The wildlife is spectacular, but if Florida doesn’t put in a master plan to slow and control this growth, the eco-system will collapse and nobody will be able to live here.
Still, some growth is good, and clearly without it, Yoga Bala would not have opened. But it is still the south here. Besides NASCAR, there are lots of things in this area that you just don’t see in New York.
At a traffic light a red Ford pickup pulled up next to me – on it’s sides were large white vinyl letters: Church for Men 800-879-6352. I wanted to honk my horn, wink, and ask if I should bring the oil, but I doubt the old guy driving would’ve found that funny.
In the local paper I found a section entitled:
Smoking Permitted -- A public service to those who still smoke
The section listed bars and restaurants where smokers were welcomed.
I also saw an ad for:
Fast Lane Tobacco
Daytona’s only drive thru tobacco shop
When we finally took off for Atlanta, I was next to a Jeff Foxworthy type, a hulking sort, with big biceps, decked out in a Georgia Bull Dog shirt and cap. He was reading Cycle World. I peaked over his shoulder to look at the lead article – Revelations – What would Jesus Ride?
All in all, it was interesting way to start the New Year. Hope yours was a good one too…
2008 here we are...
December 31, 2007
This time last year I was finishing my novel – My Year as a Clown. As ’07 comes to a close, its déjà vu all over again – I’m rewriting Clown.
I was certain that Clown would sell this year, but it didn’t. I generated lots of interest, I got lots of rejection too. One agent’s assistant fell in love with the story, as did several other readers, but by May, I realized as written, it wasn’t going to fly.
I workshopped the opening at Squaw Valley, the writers conference that discovered Amy Tan, Alice Sebold and Michael Chabon. An English professor used my first draft and the most recent version of the opening for a classroom assignment. Then I hired Joy Johannessen, the super-editor, who has worked with numerous authors, to get me over the hump. Joy doesn’t work with just anyone, so I was fortunate to get her input.
For the past two months, I’ve been rewriting whenever I get a moment – sometimes on the train into the city, sometimes early in the morning before the sunrises, sometimes late into the night when only the cats are up.
This year I also dusted off my first novel, The Sound of Money. It’s about a struggling songwriter that gets mixed up with the mob. I spent six years writing that before I gave up. It sat for three years in a drawer. Rereading it was a pleasant surprise. It was much better than I remembered, but I also saw how in three years, my writing had improved. I spent four months this year overhauling Money. I’ll take another stab at a rewrite once I put Clown to bed.
I also rewrote several short stories and finished a new one, The Del Monte Fizz, about a bartender that’s feeling his age. But I didn’t enter many contests or send out stories as I have in past years.
The rejection started to weigh on me. Many of the journals that publish short stories are read by so few people, and yet they get thousands of submissions a month. The process is depressing. But in ’08 I pledge to send stuff out anyway.
This year I posted over fifty essays on my website and myspace.
A lot happened in ’07 on the music front. NPR played the ‘Jersey Cowboy’ on Car Talk. I gigged more than ever and saw a noticeable improvement in my on-stage playing. I appeared live on the local PBS station with a trio. I played several times at the very hip lower east side venue, the Rockwood Music Hall.
However, I still failed to get the Westport Arts Center to return my calls – they swore that they’d let me audition, but four years later, still no call back.
This year I co-produced Jeep Rosenberg’s CD, 'Silver Bluff Estates' – he’s on the road garnering fav reviews. Most recently, I had the privilege of working with a thirteen year old singer/songwriter who I have no doubt, you’ll hear on the radio some day.
All in all, it was a great year, certainly my best since the spectacular breakup of my marriage four years ago. Most important, I can look back on ‘07 and see marked improvement on all creative fronts. As long as I see more progress by next December -- 2008 will be great too.
Happy New Year and all the best to you and your family in ’08.
December 27
I saw Benazir Bhutto speak in 1988 at my graduation at Harvard. She was an eloquent speaker and quite beautiful. She was a powerful human being, a charismatic leader, a visionary. Odds were, she was also a criminal and corrupt.
Anyone following the run-up to these Pakistani elections can not be surprised at what happened today, least of all, Benazir. Perhaps she realized it was her death that stood the best chance of pushing her agenda forward -- as bizarre as that sounds, she had to have known it was only a matter of time.
Tonight I light a candle for Benazir and for all the people of Pakistan.
Happy Holidays
While most folks were preoccupied with holiday gifts and travel this week, I took care of a few things I’d put off all year. For instance, it was time to come into the 21st century and get a PDA, that nifty device that does email on the fly.
Bundling phone service, Internet, and TV gets the best rate, but I had no idea if the phone company or the cable company was better. I went with AT&T because I watched the Dolans, the family who owns Cablevision, ruin the New York Knicks and the brown goods retailer, the Wiz.
I ended my fifteen year cable TV relationship, but breaking up was hard to do.
I went to the Cablevision web site to shoot them a quick email. To be fair, no company makes it easy to send an email. One must wade through countless menus, pages, and questions before getting an email address. When you finally hit the mother lode, it’s not even an address, but a form that requires more questions before you can press send. But in the of case terminating service at Cablevision, there was no email option.
Calling a company in 2007 is just as infuriating. Cracking the numeric combination that gets a human being is a lot harder nowadays. Zero stopped working ages ago, in fact, most companies force you to provide account information before you can even get to a menu.
To better assist you, Cablevision needs to ask a few questions…
To better serve me, just get a person on the damn line.
Twenty minutes of blah, blah, blah, finally got me to a human being. In the process, I’d been forced to reveal my name, address, and account number, plus be pummeled by a loop of Cablevision adverts.
Of course the first question out of the customer service rep’s mouth was: What’s your name and account number, please?
“I just told the computer, don’t you have that information in front of you?”
“I’m sorry, sir, our system is down today. Can I have your name and account number?”
“I just want to terminate service.”
“I’m sorry to hear that sir, why would you want to do that?”
I told them I’ve bundled and it’s too late to change.
“I see, sir. Well, I’ll have to pass you over to the department that handles that. One moment.”
Before I could say just terminate me, they’re gone and I’m back on hold, listening to another loop of Cablevision adverts.
It took fifteen more minutes for a human to return, and the first question they asked was: What is your name and account number?
And you needed to know why I’m terminating service.
Ten minutes later this guy told me that Cablevision will beat AT&T’s price. They’ll cover the charges for the penalties to cancel with AT&T, and as an added bonus, I’ll get a free year of HBO.
Thanks very much,” I said, “but it’s too late. We’re breaking up; this relationship is over.”
Whew…my divorce was easier, well, not really.
---
A few random notes: Eleven days until Iowa and New Hampshire -- it's anyone's game at this point.
This is the fifth Christmas US troops are in Iraq -- has the surge really worked? We've already seen a sea-change in the election talk -- Iraq has slipped off the radar screen...
Thanks for stopping by. Have a safe and merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho. Happy holidays.
rsw
Juiced Fiction...
December 17, 2007
I often hang out at a café with the laptop to work on my novel. I sip espresso, nibble dark chocolate, I write. While a single voice will grate and annoy, the cacophony of a crowd energizes me.
I rarely talk to anyone, but I do notice faces. When a bookish woman with librarian-styled glasses approached me the other day, I knew she came here often. She scribbled on manuscripts with a red marker, always holding a large coffee drink topped with whipped cream.
"Are you a novelist?" she had asked.
"Yup."
She told me that she worked with lots of writers, names I recognized. Imagine my luck, to meet someone with such contacts.
"So you're an editor?" I asked.
"Not really, more like a professional trainer. I help writers reach their potential."
Interesting, I thought. "So you're a professor."
"Not exactly. I provide performance enhancing supplements to increase concentration, focus vocabulary, sharpen sentences; these pink pills are guaranteed to bulk up your prose, give it punch."
"You're kidding, right?"
“Scan the New York Times Best Seller list, over 50% use ‘em.” She winked. “Nowadays everyone needs a competitive edge.” She pulled a brown envelope out of her Prada handbag. “I’ve watched you laboring over that manuscript for months. You look like a nice guy who deserves a break. Try these for a week, see what happens.”
I'd worked my butt off for years, knowing that the odds were stacked against me, not realizing that those I'd read and admired took illegal short cuts.
"What do you have to lose?" she added, seeing the concern on my face. "They don't ask writers to take a drug test."
I looked toward the register where the carousel kiosk displayed both books and CDs. All I had to do was take the envelope and everything I'd dreamt about since high school would come true.
I asked myself, where would rock and roll be today if record companies had refused to sign acts that took drugs? And hadn't Absinth, the Czech spirit that's still illegal in the US, give birth to the Impressionistic period?
Didn't I deserve success? Everyone else was doing it, well, most.
I slipped the envelope into my briefcase.
At home I poured a glass of water and held those pink pills in my palm. I took a deep breath, put one in my mouth, and slipped it between my teeth. I twirled it about with my tongue and closed my eyes, trying to visualize fame and fortune, but I just couldn't swallow.
For the next several weeks I wondered what I'd say when I saw that woman at the cafe, but our paths never crossed. Then I read in the paper that she'd been busted. No authors were named, but a pending investigation could change that.
I sighed, hit enter on my laptop and started the next chapter in my novel.
All artists are in need of help...
December 10, 2007
No news isn’t bad news, but I often assume it is.
When I launched my CD into obscurity last year, I sent out hundreds of promos to newspapers and radio stations. Few responded.
I realize that reviewers typically get hundreds of unsolicited CDs every week. Similar numbers apply to magazine editors reviewing short stories. My work is probably still sitting in a pile in an empty office.
But I'd given up on my CD, believing that it was awful because I got so few reponses -- note: I did get some positive reviews from fans and a handful of magazines and DJs -- evidently not enough to keep the negativity at bay.
Then I got a call from a friend who said she’d heard one of my songs on NPR while in LA. Turned out ‘Car Talk’ had liked ‘Jersey Cowboy,’ and played it on three-hundred stations coast to coast.
From then on, I saw my work differently, which is just as dumb as thinking my work sucked because few reviewers responded.
A few weeks ago, I ran a songwriting class at the Westport Library. I’m pretty sure everyone enjoyed themselves and got a lot out of the experience, but I heard nothing from the program director. When I reached out for post-feedback I got no response. Call me old fashioned, but when you do something for free, you at least expect the director to get back with a thanks.
I’ve been trying to get a gig at the Westport Arts Center for the past four years, but no such luck. I once convinced them to allow me to audition at lunch for the staff (but they canceled at the last minute). I’d be okay if they said: thanks, but no thanks; but I simply get no response.
Nobody wants to tell someone that they aren’t going to publish their story, air their music, or put them on as an opener for a national act, but any serious artist understands that rejection is part of the game. I'd much rather hear 'no' than nothing.
When I was 19, I was responsible for booking all the concerts and films at San Diego State. I did everything from ballet to punk rock. I promised the manager of Ron Carter, a famous jazz bass player, that I’d get approval for his show. I had a board of student directors. Typically they green lighted anything I put in front of them, but this was the one show that got turned down.
Every time Ron’s manager called, I told the secretary that I wasn’t in. I never called him back because I didn’t know what to say; I was a coward. Eventually the manager tracked me down. He gave me an earful. I felt like a bum. He said, “I’ve been holding this date thinking we had a deal. All you had to do was say you couldn’t do it and we could have gone elsewhere.”
Ever since, when I have bad news to deliver, I remind myself that there’s one thing worse than telling someone 'no,' it’s leaving them hanging. If only I knew how to get that message out to artistic gatekeepers.
----
I'm down in Florida this week visiting my mom and step dad. I'm also tending to some business. It's 80 degrees and I can hear the crash of the surf as I type this...
Thanks for stopping by and Happy Holidays.
About face...
December 3, 2007
This week 50,000 Facebook users signed a petition in protest of the posting of their Internet purchases via news alerts. This ticker tape of electronic activity appears on the profile page of connected friends. Did Mark Zuckerberg, the 23-year old Harvard wiz kid, who sold a measly 1.6% of his company to Microsoft for $240 million, go too far?
User tracking takes place behind the scenes at every web site. Google didn’t zoom into the dominant web position because of its search engine, it dominates because it monetizes user searches, matching key words to appropriate advertisers. Google tracks everything.
Facebook simply took this to a more public level. What better endorsement for a product, than to learn that one of your friends shops at Overstock.com or just purchased “The Kite Runner.”
The Facebook value of 15 billion is based on monetizing the information users post on their profile page.
Newsflash for Dummies: those that seek privacy shouldn’t post themselves on a social networking site.
Duh….
A few weeks ago I flagged the issue of MySpace targeting ads based on profiles -- if your page states that you’re into the Beatles, related ads will soon appear, but much more can be done with personal information, and it must if MySpace is to survive the war against Facebook.
To date, most people are unwilling to pay for web-based content and services. Over a thousand uniques (that’s silicon speak for visitors to the site) read my blog each week, but on average, I earn less than a dollar for that effort. Companies sell ads and the information they gather to cover costs and payback investors. I would too if I could figure out how.
Last week I wrote about having to take other work to keep afloat. I got an email from someone asking why I don’t do more with 'The Connecticut Philadelphian' and 'On the Mat,' two other blogs I started. I’d love to, but I can only allocate so many hours to activities that generate no income.
This week I added merchandise to the shop: tee-shirts, mugs, key chains and magnets in hopes of generating a bit of additional revenue. But I will write regardless. I started this blog not thinking anyone would ever read an essay, I did it to complete something weekly. Four years later I have a small, but loyal audience that visits from near and far – as the Visa commercial states: that’s priceless.
Commerical break: A key chain or mug makes a great Xmas gift. Visit the Shop.
Back to the blog...
People aren’t so bothered by the use of information behind the scenes -- perhaps ignorance truly is bliss; but over time, as the Internet becomes an increasingly larger component of our lives, Big Brother will know everything.
When cash disappears, which I predict will happen in the next thirty years, there will be nowhere to hide. And when the next domestic terrorist attack occurs, protest songs on MySpace could very well be taken off the site. Perhaps anti-government songs will warrant worse repercussions; look what happened to the Dixie Chicks.
Can't happen, you say...both Yahoo and Google handed over user information to the Chinese government for a political dissident trial earlier this year.
What info lurks on the web that could be used against you?
If only those 50,000 Facebook users would have said something when Google and Yahoo capitulated to the Chinese, maybe those companies might have done the right thing. What if the 50,000 wrote their congressman about the war or health care? And I wonder...how many of them actually voted last month?
The cost of a free web service is the information you give them. Assume anything you do on the web can and will be used by someone. If you’ve got a problem with that, then don't use the site.
If Timothy Leary were alive today, perhaps he'd advise this:
Log off. Shut down. Read a book.
Run with the bulls, catch fish with Fidel -- the life of a writer...
November 26, 2007
This week I attended several holiday parties and when the question "What do you do?" came up, I was unsure how to respond because: a) I wear various hats; b) I still feel awkward saying I’m a writer.
My angst comes from the fact that I don’t earn enough money to do it full-time. I need to get over that, but when is it safe for a writer to publicly declare such status?
Even though I handle various projects through my company Against the Grain, I still write everyday. Does that make me a writer? I think so, and yet when I say that I’m a writer, inevitably, someone asks, would I know your name? Who do you write for?
I’ve had enough published to drop a few names, but until I sell a novel, I feel like a wannabe. I know this is ridiculous and it goes against positive thinking, the power of visualization, and that movie, the Secret, but often, that’s the way it is in my head.
What’s interesting about writing is that everyone does it in some form, and so there’s an assumption that if one was serious about a novel, they could simply sit down and write it. To some, there's no explaining that after nine years and three novels, I still haven’t gotten one published.
It is one thing to be twenty-five and struggling, quite another to be forty-nine and wandering around in the dark. Okay, I’m not clueless, but there are days when I do feel like it. I remind myself that I work with an editor that did the bestseller, ‘The Lovely Bones;’ you just can’t hire someone of that caliber. But I don’t need anyone to make a remark at a party; I’m quite capable of beating myself up without anyone else’s help.
And yet embarrassment actually helps me write. I won’t stop because someone thinks I’m a loser, on the contrary, it makes me work harder.
The truth of the matter is, I might very well suck, but then again sucking and selling have very little to do with one another. I have two words to sum this thought up – Paris Hilton.
It is mind boggling how little value society places on my fiction. The words I create in a press release have very different value. In one afternoon I can generate a thousand words that will make more money than the two million or so I’ve written over the past decade on my novels.
I have the utmost respect for anyone that pursues their passion regardless of the odds or the potential to earn a living. For some, the appeal of a writer is the lifestyle, like Hemmingway running with the bulls and catching marlin off the coast of Cuba; others are attracted by the potential for big bucks in the way that the lottery has the lure of a big pay-out, but the day-to-day of a writer, or any artist, is not so glamorous. Even movie stars put in long days, often starting before the sun rises. Writing is an affliction, not a profession. For a real writer, it isn't a question of giving up and moving on.
There will be several more parties to attend before this holiday season is over; perhaps by the New Year I’ll have the guts to just say, I'm a friggin writer -- then again, maybe not.
November 19, 2007
This week I taught beginning songwriting to a group of teens at the Westport Library. They ranged in age from 12-17. A few had written songs, some had no experience; it was a mixed bag as to whether they played an instrument. Although I had some concerns with such diversity in grade and skills, the two-session workshop went off without a hitch.
I started the class with a math question: 2 + 2 equals what? After the jokes ran their course through the group, I went around the circle to make sure that we all saw it the same way, and we did. I asked if we could get agreement that 2 + 2 equals 4 in every town, county and state in the country. We all concurred that we could.
Then I put to the group: was Britney Spear’s new CD any good? One kid shouted out, “Ugh, it’s awful.” One of the older girls said, “Hang on, I like Britney, I thought about shaving my head.”
We went around the room, but could not get agreement on whether Britney’s CD was any good. That was lesson number one: nobody knows what’s good, so don’t let anyone ever tell you that your songs are no good.
I shared the story of when I played “The Money” for two hit Nashville songwriters -- one said it was the best thing he’d heard in ages, the other said it was an admirable attempt, an interesting idea, but it was time to move on.
I told the kids there were no rules to songwriting, but that there were useful tools. In only four hours I couldn’t teach them everything (as if I knew anything), so I decided not to lecture. Instead I told them to simply listen to their favorite songs, and figure out why they liked them.
Look at the lyric, the melody, the rhythm, the arrangement and overall vibe. Ask yourself why does this work for me?
In the 2nd session a few kids presented songs they liked and talked about why. I got the others to give their reactions. Two were brave enough to perform a song they’d written.
I also broke them into groups of two to create a melody for the line:
I don’t want to do my homework
I was amazed at how quickly they nailed it. I brought them back together to present their work. They came up with great stuff. I sent them back to write a couple of more lines. I wish we’d had a tape recorder. They all did a killer job: some sung harmony, some provided guitar backup, one group rapped, another added percussion. These kids were amazing.
I brought in a loop to generate melodic ideas. We pulled numbers out of a hat to see who would present. Each kid that got called came up with something great.
I even taught them how to do an object free write. It was interesting to watch them work, each writing with alacrity. As I counted down 1 minute, 30 seconds, the concentration was impressive, each furiously squeezing in a few more words.
They say a teacher learns as much from their students. That was true this week for me. Often I get too busy to think about the fundamentals. But having to dig up material for this workshop made me go back to the stuff I hadn’t thought about it in awhile. It's already paid dividends.
It’s hard work teaching and I was surprised at how exhausted I was afterwards, but it was also a lot of fun. Hopefully something that these kids learned during our time together will be helpful in whatever creative endeavor they attempt.
-----------------------------------------------
Where did the year go? It's already Thanksgiving. I certainly have a lot to be thankful for, and I appreciate you stopping by for this visit.
Have a great holiday.
rsw
Think twice before posting your favorite things...
November 12, 2007
I attended the annual Dow Jones ‘Media and Money’ conference this week in NYC. It featured Viacom’s Summner Redstone, and ex Disneyite, Michael Eisner. Media moguls mixed with financial wizards, to discuss how to manage risk in the new digital frontier.
It was fascinating and apropos to last week’s blog about the FCC’s push to further deregulate media ownership. On Friday, the FCC announced new legislation to tighten controls on cable operators – now the FCC says there isn’t enough cable competition. Good news for consumers, but the timing is odd, and one wonders if it came about to deflect attention from these covert December media moves.
At the ‘Money and Media’ conference, there was lots of chatter on how to make money in the digital age, ironic that writers are on strike over Internet payments. Everyone knows that this is where the game is headed, but nobody knows how to make the move without losing existing revenue streams. The studios don’t want to commit until they know what they’re giving up. The writers don’t want to wait until it’s too late.
Newspapers have already taken a hit by the Internet. Readership is down. Classified revenue has shrunk. If movie ads shift to the web, look for a total collapse. The newspaper move came late, but to be fair, they only earn a fraction of ad revenue from online editions despite more unique visitors than actual newspaper readers. This is the conundrum for the 21st century media executive.
Most of us still watch regular TV, but many now time shift with DVRs, skipping commercials. More and more stream online. Eventually conventional TV programming will disappear – you’ll watch what you want, when you want, where you want.
One panel moderated by a Vanity Fair reporter tried to get folks to admit that they had no clue where things were headed, that anyone over thirty was not qualified to make decisions.
Most of my peers have only a cursory feel for MySpace or Facebook. I’ve been on MySpace for two years and have over 12,000 friends through networking and blogging, but Facebook has more cred nowadays, and I don’t do much on that yet. Although I get the net, it isn’t in my blood the way it is for a teenager.
There are pros and cons to innovation. I prefer email over the telephone for basic coordination (I’ll be there at six), or project updates (Where are we on the drum part?). It’s efficient, it’s fast, it creates a trail in the event there’s a mix up, but I don’t do instant messaging because I don’t like people to know I’m online. Here I am writing this blog, the last thing I want is to be interrupted by a popup telling me so-and-so knows I’m on-line and wants to chat.
But this wondrous new age of social networking comes with a price. Yes, MySpace and Facebook are free for users, and we can choose not to read the ads, but let’s not delude ourselves into thinking that this baring of our souls, sharing what we love, what we think is cool, or what we’re going to do this afternoon is so innocuous.
MySpace offers advertisers HyperTargeting capability. This allows companies to target users based on all that personal information supplied. The new program uses technology developed by Strategic Data Corp, a company that MySpace recently acquired. Over the summer HyperTargeting was tested by the good folks at Procter & Gamble, Microsoft and Toyota.
The next time you post something about what you like, or just bought, thinking it makes a statement about how cool you are, just remember that someone out there tracks it to figure out how to make money.
Nothing is for nothing. Fox bought MySpace to provide us a platform to reach out to friends and fans. They’ve got to be paid.
And so do I. But trying to get anyone to pay for music nowadays ain’t easy. Only 40% of Radiohead’s audience paid for the optional payment download of their new CD.
I came away from that ‘Media and Money’ conference thinking that to survive in this new era, one has to think completely out of the box, in the way that Radiohead just did. So this week I’m offering a free stream of a live version from last week’s gig at the Rockwood in NYC. It’s called “Have a little Faith,” co-written with Mike Taplinger while I was in Nashville. I don’t have any merchandise to sell (yet), so all I ask is: if you like it, shoot me an email and let me know.
The danger to postwar America lies in the soft tyranny of institutions, authorities, and experts – of people who know what’s best for you.
That was written by W.H. Auden in 1946. Replace ‘postwar’ with post 9/11, and it’s as if Auden had penned it for today.
With the FCC moving to further increase media consolidation by December of this year, the opportunity to hear opposing views grows smaller and smaller. Just four years ago the FCC:
--Raised from 35 percent to 45 percent the cap on a single company's reach within the national broadcast TV audience
--Eased the limits on owning more than one TV station in a market
--Eased restrictions on owning both a newspaper and a TV station in the same market
--Eased restrictions on cross ownership of radio and TV stations in the same market
--adopted a new, geographic approach to defining radio markets for the purpose of radio ownership caps
Media companies claim that technology has fundamentally changed the media landscape, that without further consolidation, they will be handicapped in the global marketplace.
And yet, while media giants fight it out on the world stage, newspapers are downsized and stripped of their ability to report local news; most national and international coverage comes from other places too.
When I visit my mom in the Daytona area, I’m shocked at the state of the local paper. Even the Nashville paper is a snore. Most are owned by conglomerates, mere shadows of their former selves, redesigned to simply milk local advertising dollars.
Not only do most American newspapers lack in-depth analysis and coverage, when information is in the hands of just a few, the potential for abuse strikes at the core of our constitution. Freedom of speech, alternate points of views, a meaningful dialogue amongst different groups, it all goes out the window.
But it isn’t just the news -- Music, Books, Magazines, Radio and TV Stations, Cable, and Internet sites are also affected by this legislation. Artistic expression is in the hands of the BIG SIX:
Fox, AOL/Time Warner, Viacom, Disney, GE and Vivendi.
If the chairman of the FCC, Kevin Martin, succeeds in moving forward with the Bush agenda, the media gold rush of ’08 will send this group into a frenzy.
As a writer seeking a publisher for my novel, the options are limited. Agents say – we love your writing, we like this story; I’m just not sure where I could place it – that’s because there’s only a handful of options. These companies must fuel consistent quarterly profits, which means fewer risks. When A&R people, editors and film/tv producers are under this sort of pressure, no one takes chances.
In the past I have taken false comfort in believing that what happened in Myanmar could never happen here – that what Putin has done in Russia would be impossible in the United States. But when the Dixie Chicks spoke out against the war, Clear Channel banned them because ownership disagreed with their political views. They also feared that a patriotic movement would cause a groundswell of protest against their stations.
We are one domestic terrorist attack away from artists like Bruce Springsteen being banned from the airwaves because his views could be deemed not in the country’s best security interests. If stations are in the hands of many, not the few, we stand a better chance of surviving such an emotional uprising.
Consolidation benefits no one except media conglomerates. It doesn’t matter if you’re a conservative or democratic, pro-life or pro-choice, for gun control or not, this issue affects us all. No individual cries out for the FCC to ease these rules. And yet media lobbyists scurry the halls of Congress and have the ear of this White House. Representatives need to hear opposing views.
Write Washington now. Post a comment on the FCC site before it’s too late…
California on Fire...a friend of mine shot this from his home -- the fire was 3 miles away -- in twelve minutes it was in his back yard.
October 29, 2007
A few weeks ago I was in Nashville co-writing. I don’t do a lot of that; it’s difficult enough writing alone. Bringing someone else into the equation has always felt awkward, like trying to ride a bicycle with someone on the handle bars. Its fine when cruising flat terrain, but hit a bump, or an uphill stretch, and it becomes a struggle.
On the other hand, when you’re stuck, a co-writer brings a fresh perspective, another set of ears. It’s a sounding board, an opportunity to be challenged and coerced; it’s a team effort, the sharing of both the agony and the ecstasy.
To date, I’ve had few successful co-writes, but that changed in Nashville.
I brought a song to the session that had the makings of something, but it was unclear what. Two days later we had a complete song. Mike (the co-writer), made a quick demo because he had a meeting with someone at Warner Brothers, and she took the song. That sounds official, but it doesn’t mean anything. The odds are that nothing will happen, but then again, at least it’s floating around WB for artists to hear. They’ve got thousands of songs to choose from, but it only takes one person to dig it. This tune is different from what’s typically done down there, so maybe it will breakthrough. But I’m not counting on it.
I played the song live at the Georgetown Saloon Tuesday, and again Saturday night at the Good Folk Café. People seemed to like it so I’m going to cut it for my upcoming CD.
I’ve been wrestling with minor tweaks the past week. Mike and I have exchanged a couple of emails on the various lines. I’m deferring to him on what’s appropriate for Nashville, but I’ll do whatever I want for the version on my CD.
Here’s the lyric:
Fallen stars, Crimson skies
Tattered Dreams, Tired eyes
Holding on and on, until your strength is gone
Have a little faith in yourself
You don’t need me to stay
Have a little faith in yourself
Everything will be okay
Morning Breeze, scarlet light
Another day to get it right
Searching far and wide, but what you needs inside
Chorus
There’s a changing wind
Soon this storm will end
The sun will shine, if you believe it can
Chorus
In the first verse – we had: Hanging on and on…
I changed it to holding on because I liked the sound of hold versus hang, and the internal rhyme of old and the o sound of on and on, tied to the last word in the line – gone. Hanging, as in by a thread, could be more dramatic, but I wasn’t so bothered by the difference in meaning. Mike went with Hanging. Funny enough, now that I write this, I’m thinking hanging is better.
On the second verse he added – you’re searching…
I left it: searching far and wide. I like that the two verses have the same cadence – adding you’re to the 2nd verse changes that – but Mike thought ‘you’re’ clarified the line and made it more immediate.
In the Bridge – I went with: Soon this storm will end. He has: Soon the storm will end.
I liked the way ’this’ sang, better than ‘the.’ The following line in the song has The sun will shine…
‘This’ got rid of the 2nd ‘the.’
Mike liked the less specific storm versus ‘this’ storm.
It’s not like we can look it this stuff up in a book and say, ahah, here’s the answer. But I love the process of treating every word with respect. Each word must justify itself, there are no freeloaders, no accidents, each word has a purpose.
If I’m going to co-write, I need to work with people who will sweat every word – Mike sweat more than me, but that might be because I made him turn off the air conditioning (that's another story for another time)...
Still relevant after all these years...
October 22, 2007
I caught Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band for the second time this year, at Madison Square Garden Thursday night. I was also fortunate enough to be at the opening show in Hartford a few weeks back. It’s amazing what a few gigs under your belt can do – not that the Hartford show was bad.
There’s something about the Garden that brings the best out of folks, but by most accounts, the Thursday show was even better than the Wednesday MSG show. They played six different songs on the 2nd night, including tour premiers of Jungleland and Meeting across the River.
But let’s not quibble; rarely does Springsteen have a bad show…(although some would say the Lucky Town/Human Touch and the Ghost in Tom Joad tour had issues)
What was different since Hartford? More consistency and drive – In Hartford, they did a Patti Scalfi song – I respect Bruce’s decision to give her a platform, but by week three of the tour, that experiment appears to over.
Aging Boomers pack the arenas for the Eagles, McCartney and the Stones, but let’s be honest – no one wants to hear anything written in the last 20 years – it’s all about the old stuff.
Not so with Springsteen – when he broke into the Rising, from ’02, no one was dashing out to the bathroom. I found myself wishing he’d played Devils and Dust (from ’05), or John Henry from (’06) – but of course, I longed to hear Rosalita, Growing Up, and Brilliant Disguise (performed at Wednesday Garden show).
The new album is growing on me. Magic is sufficiently vague to mean many things, but in concert, Springsteen spells it out – during a time when truth is a lie, and a lie is truth...
Springsteen is not afraid to speak out against the war or the Patriot Act. Before the five-song encore, he talked about hunger and the homeless. At each concert he invites the local food bank and non-profits to set up booths and urges the audience to donate what they can.
I’ve caught every Springsteen tour since 1973 and I hope to catch each one for another twenty years.
On the way home from Thursday’s show I told a friend that there were few pubic figures that I would shed a tear for, if they passed away; but when this man goes, it will be like I lost a brother. My friend looked at me and said, “I won't make it to work for days.”
Springsteen is in great shape for 58, so we don’t have to worry about that anytime soon. In the meantime, the Magic tour heads west. For those lucky to have a ticket – you’re in for a treat.
Are we better off in the digital age?
October 15, 2007
We take for granted the sharing of site and sound with the press of a button, and yet the fidelity of the music I listen to on my iPod is inferior to what I listened to back in high school; and the photos I shoot now, are not nearly as good as the ones I shot with my trusty Nikon FE2 back in the eighties.
My digital camera is jam packed with features, and yet they’re impossible to access; you need midget fingers and the eye-site of a hawk, but there’s no debating the convenience of digital. I could buy a high-end camera to attain easy access to the features of my old trusty, Nikon FE2 – but those start at $500 and rise steeply.
Clearly the impact of digital photography has rapidly changed the retail landscape. I marveled the first time I splurged for a one-hour photo developer. It used to take up to a week to get photos back. What a treat to get them in an hour. Some of those film rolls were taken on vacation, sometimes it was months between shot and development.
But there was a certain thrill in this delayed gratification, the first glimpse of a travel pic well after the trip, it created that sense of going away all over again. It was a treat to flip through those photos, a ritual that is now gone the route of the video cassette, Drive-In movies, and home milk delivery.
Last month Stop and Shop shut-down its photo developing operation. I wonder if there are any one-hour developers left.
That made me think -- how does a business keep up when technology disrupts the marketplace so profoundly and with such speed?
I used to work in record retailing. What’s a record you ask? CDs are now a format on the run. Downloading will become the format of choice sooner than later, but there’s something missing without packaging, and that’s not just me acting like an old fart. I felt that way when the industry shifted to CD twenty years ago. CDs never provided the impact or joy I got from opening up a record sleeve, reading the liner notes, the lyrics, checking out the photos. Before the MTV era, the album was often the only visual one got of the band.
Yes, I love the convenience of my iPod, but having the song isn’t the same as owning the album. For kids that never knew anything else, it’s probably different.
Many audiophiles say vinyl still sounds better. One can achieve high quality digital, but iPods set to MP3 128 don’t sound nearly as good as the old records. Despite the crackle, hiss, wow and flutter, playing vinyl through my old JBL Studio Monitors and Marantz speakers was hard to beat. I still kick myself for selling that equipment back in the 80’s. My Altec Lansing docking station for the iPod Nano just isn’t the same, even in the AAC 192 format.
But there’s nothing like being able to take a stack of CDs along on a trip, or to the beach, or a friend’s house.
In 2010 I’m sure we will have the best of both worlds – the convenience and the quality, as well as an affordable price. Of course odds are, most of the music being put out by the record companies will be crap, that is, if there are any major labels left.
Baseball's a long ways away now that the Phillies are out...
October 8, 2007
I took grief this week from Met fans because the Phillies went out with a whimper in the first round of the play-offs.
One wonders what the fuss was all about -- 162 games over five months for six-days of frustration. Ironic that the worry was the Phillie pitching. Yes, the bullpen muffed it several times, including a first pitch grand slam in game two, but it was the hitting that was the ‘no show’ in the series. I watched to the bitter end – 12:45 am Sunday morning.
It’s hard to believe the season is over as I sit on my deck, typing this on a laptop. The leaves are turning, but the grass is bone dry; it’s a balmy 82 degrees. It's going to be a long winter until pitchers and catchers report to spring-training camp.
It’s been a hectic month. I picked up a couple of new consulting clients. I started a screen play. I’m producing a terrific young talent, a 13-year-old girl who writes killer songs. I wrote a new tune called ‘Down in Knoxville.’ I completed another draft of ‘My Year as a Clown’ and sent it to Joy Johannessen, a top notch freelance editor – she worked on ‘The Lovely Bones.” I’m also tweaking my other novel, ‘The Sound of Money.”
With so much on the go, I’m relying more and more on yoga for balance, and for transitions from one project to the next. I can’t get to as many classes as I used to, so I’m doing my practice at home – shorter periods, more frequently. In fact, I’m off to the mat now…
Next week I’m in Nashville. I’ll be playing in a songwriter circle at the Commodore…
Thursday, Oct 11 at 6:30 pm
The Commodore
Sports Bar & Grill
Holiday Inn Select
2613 West End Ave
Nashville, TN 37203
(615) 327-4707
If you’re in the neighborhood, it would be great to see you.
Thanks for stopping by….
You have to take the good with the bad when you're a fan...
October 1, 2007
What a crazy week to be either a Met or Philly fan.
I write this Sunday morning. Regardless of what happens, it has bought to the forefront the best and worst of being a fan.
Hilary Clinton was asked in last week’s debate by Tim Russert who she would root for if the Cubs and Yankees get into the world series – she answered by not answering. Russert pressed. Hilary acquiesced. “I’d root for both.”
Give me a break. That’s why I dislike politicians. Own up to who you are and what you believe. Any fan knows you can’t do both. Any real fan would respect someone that cheers their team because it’s their team, even if it isn’t in their constituency. Your team is in the blood from childhood, you can’t switch for political expediency. If you’re not into sports, don’t pretend, just say it doesn’t matter.
I’m proud of how the Phillies played this year, but it hasn’t been easy following them. I never thought they’d be tied with the Mets for the division on the last day of the season – nobody did.
The Mets have had a monumental collapse, but the Phillies kept winning, including 7 straight in the last month against these very New York Metropolitans to earn this place in the standings – the Mets didn’t give it to them.
It would only be fitting for a one-off play-off between the two on Monday, but both teams must win today for that to happen.
Met fans live in the shadow of the Yankees, and if not for the Mets being in the same division as the Phillies, I’d root for them because I love underdogs. The Yankees spend the most money and have won the most championships – even when they were down earlier this year, you knew that team had to turn things around – with the Mets or Phillies, you just don’t know.
Met fans feel like 2nd class citizens to the Yankees, but compared to most other teams, they spend a ton – the Mets over paid for Billy Wagner, the closer the Phillies once had. Met fans are so focused on the wealth of the Yankees that they forget they're one of the rich kids.
One Met fan told me that at this point it doesn’t matter if they get in this year, he can’t put his heart back into it after being crushed this month. I know that feeling – last night’s Philly loss was a crusher – I got one lousy day of celebration and boom, it was gone – that sense of sinking was back.
Was it worth all the suffering, that one day in first, with the Mets in misery?
This is a question that politicians won’t answer. If you can’t stand up for what you truly believe, you can’t ever be your own man or woman. You can’t be for the war and against it. You can’t take both sides and hope nobody notices. You can’t be for both the Yankees and the Mets if you live in New York.
So was it worth the suffering?
It’s now the third inning of both games and the Phils are in front of the Nationals; the Mets are off to a disaster of epic proportions – for me the answer is yes, but if the situation were reversed, I’d probably say no. Later on today, I might change my mind, depending on if the scores remain the same.
But anyone that knows me, can say with certainty that regardless of what happens today, next season, I’ll be rooting for my Phillies….
That’s the sort of certainty we need in our elected officials too.
PS -- It's now Sunday Night -- The Phillies are Division Champs -- I still can't believe it. I feel for my friends who support the Mets -- to their credit, they won't be jumping on the Yankee band wagon -- they'll suffer through a very long, cold winter. I know that pain all too well.
Knock down the trees and put up a McMansion.
September 23, 2007
Westport is a beautiful town with a rich cultural tradition. It boasts some of the finest schools in the country. The beaches are beautiful and the Country Playhouse, revitalized by Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, is magnificent.
But nowadays Westport is also overcrowded. McMansions dominate the landscape, traffic is brutal. It takes twenty-minutes to reach Main Street during rush hour, only two miles a way. There is also a five-year waiting list to get a railroad parking permit.
In my novel, My Year as a Clown, the theme of change and loyalty is developed through Chuck Morgan’s commitment to staying in Putnam’s Landing, a fictional town based on Westport. The name Putnam’s Landing pays homage to the late Westport author, Max Schulman, who wrote a novel called Rally Round the Flag. His town was called Putnam’s Landing, set in the ‘50’s; even back then there was tension amongst residents – the commuters, mostly ad men, making big money, versus working class residents that wanted things to stay the way they were.
Not much has changed. It’s mostly bankers with the money now, but I was fortunate to have bought my house in 1992. I’ve refinanced to keep doing my art just to cover expenses. With gas at three bucks, oil at record highs, property tax moving upward, a recent sewer assessment as well, I’ve had no choice but to consult to pay the bills. I’m lucky to have a skill that can make money. I have fabulous clients and the work is interesting, but if I could, I would live modestly, writing novels and songs.
Most Westporters commute to Manhattan. Metro North has its issues, but for the most part, it’s a reliable and convenient means of transport. A parking permit is gold, and even though I haven’t needed one for ten years, I kept mine current. The permit is $225.
I hit the city once a week. I try to avoid peak-hour trains to save money, but the last two times I couldn’t find a parking space. I’ve taken the train for fifteen years. There was always a permit spot. Not anymore. There used to be a lot of farms here too, now they’re housing developments.
Each ticket is a twenty-five dollar fine. I got two this week. I’ve appealed both, but the woman at the desk said they cut no one a break.
It’s a Catch 22 – go to the city to make money so you can pay the taxes to live here, and yet there are no parking spaces for the train. Good thing I can do work from home, otherwise, I’d go broke trying to earn enough money to pay those taxes.
The New England Cheaters
September 17, 2007
I feel bad for the Patriot players because their three Super Bowl victories are now tainted. Unlike the home run frenzy of the late 90’s where Maguire, Bonds and Sosa, made the choice to take steroids, the New England players are innocent of illegal behavior.
Whether it’s sports, business or home, cheating is wrong, but if you can get away with it, too many people say: why not?
I know a guy who made a fortune on Wall Street with insider trading. He got busted, spent a year in jail, paid a large fine, but walked out of confinement into luxury. To this day, he lives like a king. He suffered embarrassment, but shows no remorse or shame; in fact he’s quite proud of his social scars. He lives with no regrets, or at least that’s the front he puts up.
We will never know the true impact stealing signals played in the Patriots past victories. Apparently all teams try to steal these coded commuincations, but there are rules as to this thievery, a code of so-called honor amongst this elite club of NFL owners and executives. At least this commissioner is doing something about aberrant behavior – the baseball owners knew about the steroid use, but coming off of that strike in the 90’s, the game needed juice (no pun intended); they looked the other way. But it cost the sport because this era will always be known as the steroid period.
I’ve never understood the win at any cost adage. Lets'say the Pats did have an unfair advantage during those Super Bowl victories -- for those that knew, how do they handle it when kids look up to them as role models? They have accepted the spoils of triumph, the accolades, money and endorsements, but at night when that head hits the pillow, what goes on in their minds? Does it eat at the soul? Perhaps it is a private hell in a pimped-up Escalade, champions afflicted with the unseen rot of guilt.
But what if cheaters have no conscious, no remorse? What if their sense of entitlement trumps the angel of consciousness?
If that’s the case, let's hope that the joy and thrill of victory is so fleeting, like a coffee and donut sugar rush. These people are addicts and no amount of success can satisfy them.
At least I can rest my head at night knowing my teams don't cheat, or at least if they do, they aren't very good at it -- Philadelphia clubs haven't won a championship in any sport since 1983...
New developments on the screenplay I'm writing.
September 10, 2007
This week I worked on flushing out the main character for the docudrama about kids who play soccer in Somalia for peace. Their coach, Geela, is now the focus, and yet he only played a small part in the creative non-fiction piece I wrote for the NGO Concern Worldwide.
Focusing in on Geela takes the spotlight off of the kids, bringing to life the struggle to survive by focusing in on one person. It also gives the movie a central character and someone to root for.
Geela is a remarkable man. He was a soccer star, a father, a mentor, a refugee, a prisoner; for a time he was a man with nothing but the clothes on his back. Geela was also the Elman Football Club coach who led the team on a historic trek across Somalia in 2003 to play soccer and promote peace.
As a soccer star, Geela embodied commitment, hard work, perseverance and ultimately, triumph. In a way, he was as unlikely a hero as Herb Brooks, the US Olympic Hockey coach, both reluctantly thrust upon a political stage. But Geela won no Olympic medals, he wasn’t married to an International pop star as is David Beckham; few people outside Somalia knew his name.
Geela didn’t intend to be an extraordinary father either. He was like most dads, with the same aspirations for their families. He wanted to protect, nurture and love them, but few faced famine and civil war as a father, unless of course that man lived in Africa. What distinguished Geela was the juxtaposition of high profile soccer player/coach and family man against civil war, famine, and flight.
I wrote another three pages of material about this man, his time in a refugee camp, the month he spent in prison, and of course a recap of the Elman Club trek across Somalia.
I have no idea what comes next in this process of converting my story into a screenplay, but in theory someone who does, is going to help me.
As things progress, I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.
Dual LCD montitors now anchor the new ATG studios.
September 3, 2007
Earlier this year I was fortunate to refinance my house. It’s unclear today, with the sub-prime mess, whether I’d have closed given my independent lifestyle.
When the proceeds hit my bank account, half the cash went to pay-off my ex-wife (don’t ask). For the rest, I made a wish list of things needed or wanted:
Needed:
New roof (no leaks yet, fingers crossed)
New car (drive a ’94 that has lousy gas mileage)
Emergency cash reserve (you just never know, do you?)
Electric Kettle (I drink a lot of green tea, okay)
Winter jacket (It gets damn cold here)
Wanted:
New digital camera (mine is 4 years old, an eternity)
HDTV (what guy doesn’t drool for one?)
Or
Make a new CD (got enough material now for a 2nd CD)
The roof and car will wipe out this cash; but I'll wait until these things are absolutley needed. So I put all but three grand into the bank.
I walked around Best Buy and surfed the web salivating over HDTVs. I’m not a huge TV watcher, but I do like to catch the Phillies when they’re competitive, and they say the Eagles will be good this year. But every week the price keeps dropping, but there's lots of hidden costs -- wires, installation, extra service charges from the cable company.
And there’s nothing wrong with my Sony WEGA 27inch. It’s got a great picture and is only three years old.
So I went for a studio upgrade so that I can make a killer second CD. I’ll also record a few other folks to cover these costs (and buy those essentials on my NEED list like the jacket and kettle).
The new system is a complete overhaul from what I had. It comes with a host of sophisticated programs that simulate real-world compressors, limiters, eqs, reverb, the specialty devices designed to manipulate and enhance audio. I can fix an out-of-tune singer. I can take a dry guitar signal and make it sound like its being played through a stack of Marshall Amplifiers. The sound manipulation is virtually unlimited.
But there’s a danger when you’ve got all of this capability to overdo it. Often it’s what you don’t do that is most effective. That note not played can make all the difference.
By mid-September I'll be fully operational.
Stay tuned.
I'm looking at writing a docu-drama about the Elman Football Club in Somalia...
August 27
In ’04 I briefly met the director of the Squaw Valley Screenwriting Program, Diana Fuller. At the time, I was attending the conference for fiction. I told her that I wanted to take a crack at a screenplay, but I had no clue how.
She was kind enough to read one of my short stories. She encouraged me to apply to her program even though I’d never written for film. Over the next three years, with all the best intentions, I never got around to doing it.
A few weeks ago I was back at Squaw. At one of the evening programs, an instructor read several scenes from a teleplay about Katrina. It slayed me. Tragically, that project was killed due to lack of advertising support.
I ran into Diana the last night of the conference and told her I was inspired by the Katrina tele-play reading. I told her that I was still interested in writing for film. I also mentioned that I’d written a creative non-fiction piece about Somali kids who play soccer to promote peace.
She asked to see the story and when I got home I emailed it to her. She responded the next day saying she thought it was terrific. Diana added that if I was serious, she would help.
Last week she gave me my first assignment – flush out whose story it is by bringing the character to life in two pages. She also wanted me to address why I was telling this person's story. It sounded easy enough, but she warned me that it wouldn’t be.
I said I’d get back to her in three weeks.
I reread my piece that night trying to determine who the central character would be – three quickly came to mind. What was most interesting is that depending on which character I focused on, it was a very different story. I gave the piece to a friend to see what she thought. She identified one of the three people I'm considering, but she also came up with an entirely different way to think about the story – it was a killer idea and totally out of the box. I would never have come up with that.
Still, I’m not sure which way to go. Perhaps I'll write out the four to see what comes of it.
--
We’re at the end of summer. As a kid, I hated these last weeks of August because soon enough I’d be back in a classroom.
We had record lows on Tuesday, but today it’s hot again. I’m not complaining. Soon enough the snow will be falling and the fire place will be crackling. Hopefully I’ll be well on the way with this screenplay.
And yet nobody knows what this really means...
August 20, 2007
Can I interest you in a deal on organic vegetables imported from China?
Would you feel more confident in the integrity of the produce if it came from California’s Central Valley?
The reality is that you can’t be assured of anything from either producer since the US organic government standards are all over the place. Inspection is worse.
According to The New York Times, there are only 9 people in the US Dept of Agricultural Organic Advisory Board, the group responsible for setting organic standards. They also coordinate inspections.
No wonder no one knows what organic means.
Most people believe free range chickens roam around the barnyard, clucking away until it’s time to go to slaughter, but that’s not even close to the truth.
US businesses are in no hurry to establish standards because food companies can gain an instant profit boost by labeling products organic. But this is foolish, short-term thinking. It is in everyone’s best interest to establish clear guidelines and proper inspection before the bubble bursts on everything organic.
If you knew a product contained a ‘so-called’ organic ingredient from China, would you buy it?
At the moment, I’m leery toward everything Chinese. I’m not xenophobic, but the rush to capitalism from both sides is problematic. American companies are as eager to exploit the Chinese market as the Chinese are to sell us inexpensive parts and provide cheap labor. The last thing either side wants is cumbersome government regulations; but some sort of oversight is required to assure safety.
If you’re a CEO of a food company, you need to review outsourcing programs. Companies can't rely on the Chinese government, the US government, or a third party to do the job. It makes no sense to put your brand in jeopardy for short-term profit…or my life…
Mattel realized it's mistakes, but how many other companies still have their head in the sand?
Voters must speak up, or we will continue to be duped by so-called organic products that have very little to do with anything natural or healthy.
I was in Squaw Valley, California last week for a writers' conference. Squaw was host to the 1960 winter olympics.
August 13, 2007
Just got back from the Squaw Valley Writers’ Conference. It was great to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen since ’04.
Plot often is a four-letter word at conferences, and yet Aristotle said that plot was the most difficult task for a writer; it’s my greatest challenge too.
Lots of literary types criticized Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code, and rightly so; but there was no denying the plot. Despite poor writing and cardboard characters, the book was impossible to put down.
I spent a lot of time this week thinking about how to keep my stories moving.
At Squaw, participants present 20 pages of fiction for critique. This year my workshop was predominantly novel excerpts. This is unusual because short stories are complete and easier to dissect. I guess it was fate that I too had brought along a new opening for my book.
A novel presents all sorts of challenges in a workshop format, and at first, I was frustrated. Not having all of the story makes it difficult to evaluate because critical information is missing -- what someone looks like for instance, can't be repeated in every chapter. Presenting the opening avoids some of this, but inevitably, I wanted background information to help evaluate the piece, or worse, I wanted to tinker with the book’s narrative presented in the synopsis.
But chapter one of a novel is all about hooking the reader – getting them to continue on. Sounds simple enough, and obvious, but not so easy to do in practice. Some stories require lots of background or lots of setting in the beginning. Some should unfold slowly. Others must begin with a burst of information -- it all depends on the material.
This week I gained a keener insight into how to launch a story because I had the opportunity to look at several beginnings in workshop. It’s a lot easier to see what needs doing when you aren’t attached to the material, or bogged down by being so close to the details.
I’m back home now, and hopefully, with a fresh perspective to finish this novel.
While I was away I heard that a tornado touched down in Brooklyn. That seems hard to believe, but in 2007, the weather has been so crazy, it seems as if anything is possible.
Stay cool, dry too.
All the best,
rsw
Summer TV is better than it used to be...
August 5, 2007
I know it’s cool to say you don’t like TV, but I have a handful of shows that I enjoy watching. My favorite is the Office. I watch a handful of House (Hugh Laurie is amazing). I’ve been known to watch 24 (but that last season should have stopped at 18). Loved the Sopranos and Entourage (but I cut HBO – so I catch the DVDs when they come out). I also flip amongst the Sunday news programs while on a treadmill between 10 and 11 am.
Summer used to be exclusively reruns, but lately networks have been running new programs. I’ve enjoyed the Bronx is Burning – the retrospective on the ’77 season of the Yankees. In ’76 I lived in Philadelphia, and opted to move west to California. I never considered NY an option because things were so bad there. This series reminds me of all the trouble and angst – it’s a far different place today.
Mad Men is about advertising in 1960 on Madison Avenue. It’s a period piece. I love the ad work, but I’m already getting bored with the non-stop chauvinism, smoking and hard liquor before lunch. I understand that things were a lot different in the sixties, and maybe advertising was more extreme – but in this agency, a sheepish new secretary has slept with two ad execs in her first week. She even made an advance toward the boss, thinking it was part of her job (thankfully, he said no). Working at this agency makes a record company of the late 70’s seem tame. Still, the sets, clothing and hairstyles are well done, but it's the insights into the advertising breakthroughs of that period that will keep me watching.
I’ve also caught the first episodes of Kill Point – a bank robbery gone bad; and Damages, starring Glenn Close as an aggressive and apparently damaged attorney. What’s interesting about these two shows is that both feature an extremely wealthy business man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Both have security men who hand over briefcases filled with cash to men who take care of things that require special handling. You often see this cliché in a story. It made me wonder – does Bill Gates have a man that does his dirty work? Rupert Murdoch? Everyone assumes that Dick Cheney does, but does he really?
I’m in California this week. Watch some TV (or not). Stay cool. Thanks for reading.
rsw
And it's free for only $12.95 a month...
July 30, 2007
Nowadays lots of folks seem to know their credit score. When did that start and why has it become so important? Some people drop their score in cocktail conversation, as if it’s got cache. For some, a low tally is a badge of honor; it’s like giving the finger to the system, the way potheads once did by flunking out of high-school gym.
Living here in Fairfield County, where every other car is a Lexus or seven hundred series BMW, I was amazed to discover the breadth of low scores by folks living in McMansions. Clearly there’s an art to spending other people’s money. It’s a skill I have yet to master.
For me, a credit score is like my waist size or age, it’s something I keep to myself. But when I refinanced last month, I wanted to know what condition my credit was in before I applied. FreeCreditReport.com seemed like the logical place to go.
Get your score and whole lot more. And best of all, its free, and yet it’s not.
To get access to your free report, you have to sign up for the service, which includes giving them a credit card. You do get the first thirty days free – then it’s 12.95 a month, but to avoid paying, you’ve got to navigate the FreeCreditReport.com cancellation policy, which requires a deft hand with convoluted instructions and persistence.
It’s not as if FreeCreditReport.com pretends that anything is free. They asked for a credit card right away. When I said to the customer service rep, but it’s free, she said, yes, it is free, but I still need your credit card.
I accepted their terms with the goal of getting out before the charges were tacked on. I braved the steps required to cancel before my card got nailed; but that journey was not for the faint of heart. Beware those of you who desire a free credit report with no strings attached, the fear of God will be reaped down upon you for trying to extricate yourself from this garden of FreeCreditReport.com.
“Do you have any idea how serious ID theft is,” the customer service rep com had told me when I finally got a human being on the phone.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“But with FreeCreditReport.com you’ll be able to monitor your credit score daily. Do you know how important it is to keep on top of this?”
I told them that I understood what a fabulous deal FreeCreditReport.com was, but I still wanted to cancel my subscription. It took another twenty minutes to complete the cancellation.
I also successfully refinanced, but I was amazed at the onslaught of mail that showed up from companies that gave the illusion that they were associated with my mortgage. It was as if I was already doing business with them. They knew the bank, the amount, even the interest rate. These firms wanted to sell me insurance and other financial products. I tossed most of this junk out, but occasionally I got one that looked so offical, if I ignored it, I’d go into default.
There should be a law against such misleading marketing. This material should be clearly labeled with the following:
We have nothing to do with your mortgage or the company that gave you the loan. We are scum and we troll web sties that report loans issued so that we can put the fear of God into you in hopes you’ll give us all of your identification information so that we can rip you off big time.
Maybe I should start a web site called FreeAdvice.com – send me five bucks and I’ll send you a free email with the most amazing advice – here’s free tip number one – oh, but first, could you send the five bucks to:
60 Old Road
Westport, CT 06680
Your free advice will be sent promptly...
Jimmie Dale Gilmore playing my guitar -- how cool is that?
July 23
Nine years ago I attended my first creative workshop – a songwriting class taught by Jimmie Dale Gilmore. I’d just gotten laid off and had decided to embark on a major life change. Jimmie’s workshop was the first step. But if someone had told me that I would still be struggling despite writing three novels and over a hundred songs, that I’d be divorced and often out of touch with the contemporary world, I’d have said they’re absolutely bonkers, or if that’s truly what will happen, I’ll stop now and go back to the corporate world.
Thank God I didn’t.
Looking back I’m amazed at my creative and personal growth. Looking forward, I’m excited about the possibilities. But boy, did I suck back then. And yet, I had no idea. Good thing. I probably would have stopped.
It's not that I sucked sucked, but for someone with aspirations beyond open mics, I was pretty bad.
I don’t play any of the songs presented at that first workshop, even though at the time, I was convinced that once Jimmie had heard them, he’d start making phone calls. Of course I wasn’t the only one that thought that.
Those that have apprenticed with Jimmie over the years have learned that getting plugged in is about tuning into oneself and the writing community, not about hooking into the music business.
This weekend I returned to a new course Jimmie runs -- the advanced songwriting class. It’s held at Omega in the Hudson Valley. The retreat was like reconnecting with family. I knew all but three of the participants; it took no time to feel comfortable and at home. Of the 12 in attendance, three were from that ’98 workshop.
But like any reunion, I experienced plenty of angst and discomfort.
When I turned on to the Taconic Parkway, I stared getting nervous. I hadn’t seen Jimmie in three years. What if he didn’t remember me? What if nobody liked my new songs? What if I’m the worst writer in the group? These are ridiculous things to mull, but my mind generates a gazillion thoughts and it’s not like I truly believed any of this; but it’s easy to wander down a dark alley.
The butterflies were gone with the first warm embraces. It was mostly smooth sailing from there. The experience was grounding, it was a chance to reflect on my journey, to tap back into the energy that launched my creative self; it was an opportunity to recalibrate.
This weekend was filled with great music and conversation that ran deep into the night. It doesn’t get much better than that.
With any luck, next year I'll look back at this current body of work and see even more growth and development.
Brush your teeth if you dare...
July 16, 2007
Zheng Xiaoyu was executed by the Chinese government last week. He wasn’t a dissident or radical student. He was no terrorist or threat to communism. He was the man in charge of China’s FDA.
Xiaoyu was found guilty of taking bribes from businesses seeking government approval for food and drugs. He became the face of the pet food debacle, of tainted toothpaste and toys, of drugs that killed instead of cured.
China believed swift action would show the world that they were serious about eliminating food and drug mishaps.
Much in the way the United States fails to understand the international community; it is interesting to see that China too, has a curious view on how the West thinks. They believed a swift execution of the man in charge would convince us that they had sorted out the problem. I found China’s action barbaric. I also think that we are making a huge mistake embracing everything Chinese.
A rapid rush to capitalism inevitably results in cut corners by unsavory characters. Without comprehensive government oversight, it is impossible to eliminate corruption. It has taken the United States several hundred years to balance free enterprise with the safety of its citizens; too often it’s still out of whack. Look how long it took for cigarette companies to admit to the dangers of smoking. And let's not forget Enron.
Access to China’s markets and cheap labor drives us to do business there, and yet net / net – China exports far more than it imports. This imbalance will accelerate China’s rise to global market domination.
The problem the West faces is as much themselves as it is China. No company wants to give up Chinese sourcing because it’s so cheap. An entire industry would have to collectively say, we aren’t buying from them until we know for sure that they can deliver goods to an acceptable standard. As if that would ever happen.
Western companies will however, listen to the market. Consumers must speak out to ensure that executives are held accountable for international sourcing decisions. Don’t buy products from companies that refuse to divulge their source of ingredients.
No one can guarantee 100% safety, but US companies can avoid questionable suppliers and not hinder the legislative process that improves food supply safety.
In a few weeks Paris Hilton will do some inane act that will displace ingredient labeling from the headlines. Without another rash of sicknesses or deaths we will forget about these dangers.
China is like no other country in the world. It has much to offer, but it is a mistake to think we can control its growth and influence. But we can lead by example by setting product standards here and ensure that all companies adhere to them. We need more FDA inspectors and improved procedures at ports. We should also work more closely with world organizations to promote improved international standards and enforcement.
In 2007, nobody should die from brushing their teeth regardless of their income, race, or country.
July 7, 2007
Al Gore’s Live Earth blitzes the planet on 7/7/07. Since 9/11 we’ve seen a lot of these big music initiatives from Live 8 to Concerts for Katrina. Last Sunday there was even a show for Diana at Wembley.
This week’s activity reminded me of an evening in April, 1999. I was watching thousands of refugees being herded on to trains in Kosovo. The scene reminded me of the Nazis, and it made me think that there hadn’t been a massive rock event since Live Aide in 1985. I set out to change that with Rock for Refugees.
I’d only been out of the music business ten months – my rolodex hadn’t completely dried up. I wrote a piece that Billboard published urging the music business to get off their asses. Although I wanted support for Rock for Refugees, I didn’t care how or who made something happen, just as long as something took place.
Doing a benefit still costs a lot of money even if the performers donate their time. Although I had promoted concerts in college and did a brief stint with a Southern Californian promoter, I knew that I needed a partner. A friend knew John Scher, the NY promoter, and I got to produce the show. He reserved a date at Madison Square Garden. I needed an 80,000 dollar deposit, but I didn't have to put up the cash for six weeks.
The Billboard article generated a lot of attention. Virtually every major label put Rock for Refugees on their agenda the week my story ran. I also got Rolling Stone and the NY Daily News to run stories.
I still needed a half-a-million dollars of working capital, because it’s against the law to use tickets sales to cover costs. There were union workers at the Garden to pay, stadium rent, advertising, and even if the performers played for free, I still had to get them to the show, house and feed them.
I needed corporate sponsors to cover the cost, so I started calling Harvard B-school classmates. Several considered supporting Rock for Refugees. I also had two charities set up to be recipients, Concern Worldwide and Doctors without Borders.
U2, Pearl Jam, and Smashing Pumpkins were the first to show genuine interest. I only needed one to commit and then everything would fall into place. In 1999, all three were monster acts.
Meanwhile the images from Kosovo continued to show the brutality and hardships of a million people in desperate need.
And then I got a call from a major music icon, a figure that had been involved with major artists since the 60’s. It wasn’t his secretary, it was actually him ringing me. Of course I knew who he was; anyone in the business knew this guy, but he tells me who he is and what he’s done, just in case. Then he tells me that he’s been working in secret on a global event to eradicate poverty. They were only two weeks from making the big announcement, when I stepped in with Rock for Refugees. He told me to back down because NETAID had Cisco Systems bankrolling his event.
I told him that I was just a guy trying to make something happen. Global poverty was certainly a worthy cause, but that wasn’t going to help Kosovo.
A month later the war came to an end, and the momentum for Rock for Refugees slowed. The people still needed the money, but when U2 decided to go with NETAID, that put an end to my show. The guy from LA called and asked if I wanted to help them and I did. But that effort was flawed for many reasons. The shows took place, but most people didn’t see it. In the Live Earth coverage, NETAID was never mentioned as a predecessor.
You can understand my healthy skepticism when it comes to such things now. Even Sir Bob Geldoff saw flaws in this earth event, but anything that gets folks talking about the environment can’t be bad. They say this is a Tipping Point for global warming, but I don’t believe that. The underlying driver behind tipping points is activity at the margin; a big manufactured event never causes the tip…
This event has caused me to make an energy saving move -- I will keep the TV off during Live Earth --
I think that will earn me one carbon offset.
Scams or legit? It depends on your point of view...
July 2,2007
The director of A&R for iLLUMINA Records contacted me through MySpace last week saying he’d just come across my page and really liked ‘Zen Cowboy.’ He cited specific lyrics and said he thought I’d make a great addition to their ‘Connecticut Rockers For Life’ campaign. He left his number and told me to call right away.
I send songs and stories out every day; mostly I get no response, or a form rejection letter. When someone calls unsolicited and they’re from a record company, it gets my attention.
It’s not the first time. Last year a director of A&R at a UK company, Matchbox Records, hit me with a similar pitch. They were putting a compilation together that would reach hundreds of radio and record folks throughout Europe. They loved my stuff and wanted me on board, but they only had a few spots left. I had to make a decision quickly. It would only cost 400 pounds to be part of the project.
iLLUMINA has a unique angle in that their compilation is linked to drunk-driving awareness. It’s unclear exactly what that angle is, but it gives them the illusion of more credibility.
I googled them and the men behind the company. I listened to the iLLUMINA compilations. Mostly, it was their web site material that came up. The bands sounded pretty good, and the web site has lots of testimonials; but what made me suspicious was the lack of legitimate press clippings – nothing from Billboard, the Boston Globe (where they’re based), or Rolling Stone. The execs state to be record biz veterans, but I found nothing on their previous employment.
But I did find several musician forums asking if anyone had gotten a similar pitch via MySpace. Apparently, I’m not so special.
Here’s something worse:
A hip, San Diego free music paper contacted me awhile back through MySpace – The Reviewer. I’d gone to San Diego State, so we had a cool chat – and I sent them my CD. They wrote back saying that they’d love to review it in the upcoming issue. I was excited that a young, hip paper like this would support my music. Then I got a note asking if I’d like to advertise – the email contained direct links to VISA/PAYPAL etc. I told them funds were tight (that’s no lie). When the issue came out, I asked them to send me a copy; I offered to pay, but I never heard back. I want to believe that they just spaced out, but I couldn’t find the review on the web site and he didn’t offer to email a copy of the review either.
Here’s something that’s bugged me for awhile, but others don’t seem so bothered:
Sonic Bids is an electronic press kit service that most of the industry uses for contest and audition submissions. Everyone from the John Lennon Songwriting Contest to the Folk Alliance Showcases uses Sonic Bids. You pay a fee. It’s sent electronically. You save time and postage. Once you sign up, you get daily emails with new, exciting opportunities, sometimes three a day. Each submission costs five to thirty bucks. Many of the opportunities are like airline deals – they are legitimate, but there are few winners – thousands apply.
These contests are no different from the short story and poetry ones listed in Poets & Writers.
All contests are money makers for the sponsors. The odds of winning are slim. Sonic Bids takes a cut of each entry. I’ve placed in a few contests, winning hard cash, so I’m not claiming sour grapes; but if I tally entry fees, I’m clearly in a deep hole. I could easily spend five hundred a week, saving money and time, by submitting to programs I probably won’t win.
What boggles my mind more is that despite these odds and the costs, I keep at it, as do so many other artists. My admiration continues to grow for all those that hammer away at their craft, never losing faith.
But I have no time for those that prey on the ones who don’t know any better. I’m an experienced, around the block sort of guy, and I still fall for spiels.
To be good at your art, we artists must become exposed and vulnerable to get deep into the truths of human emotion. In that process, while under a barrage of daily rejection, a few kind words can lull us into thinking someone really gets what we do…
I’m still tempted to call iLLUMINA Records. I want them to be legitimate, I really do…
But I won’t.
It's still half the price of what it costs in the UK, but it was high enough to get the Senate off their butts to pass an energy bill...
June 25, 2007
It’s been 22 years since the federal government raised gas mileage standards. I had no idea it had been that long, but it’s not that surprising. Why is it getting dealt with now? Because this war has finally woken us up to the fact that being dependent on the Middle East is not such a bright idea. Duh…
Coupled with a growing concern about global warming, politicians are finally standing up to the car and oil lobby. True visionaries, our elected officials, aren’t they?
The last federal mandate to raise mileage dates back to 1975 when vehicles averaged a paltry 14 miles to the gallon. High inflation and gas rationing got politicians off their asses back then. The goal was 27 mpg by 1985. The car companies screamed, claiming they could never do it. Cars would become too expensive, blah, blah, blah…but they did; most with time to spare.
But they’ve managed to keep increased standards off the legislative docket ever since. Jesus. These guys deserve to be taken down by foreign imports -- it’s too bad that it cost the folks in the factory their jobs. But they weren’t innocent bystanders either – arcane union rules have hampered US competitiveness for decades.
Capitalism means companies are driven by profit; the sad reality of a global economy is that a corporation with a conscious can not compete with company that pushes the legal limit on everything. I'm okay with this system if govenment is strong enough to stand up for what’s best for the environment, the people, and the economy. Government must balance these factors and govern wisely.
When business has too much access, then the people get fucked. When politicians allow company lobbyists to write legislation, that’s a major abuse of the capitalist process. To date, car and oil companies have had too much access. Politicians have put their interest in front of the people's, and that's a serious breach of responsibility.
The best thing the US government could have done to assure US global car competitiveness would have been to mandate higher gas mileage standards. Forced to innovate, US companies would have found a way.
But this isn’t just about manufacturing competitiveness, this goes to the heart of our global war on terror. How dependent on the Middle East would we be today if cars averaged 50 mpg? Would we care as much about what goes on there if we didn’t need their oil? Would we have gone into Iraq? What responsibility do oil and car executives have for our vulnerable position?
Mainstream Republicans fought this energy bill because they are still in the oil and car folks back pockets. Shame on them. They claim that cars will become lighter, smaller, and more expensive, that if Americans understood that, they’d be against this bill too. They also say that if cars are more efficient, we’ll drive more, and so raising standards will not lower carbon emissions. I totally disagree, but I'd admire the conservative spin doctor's audacity.
One million Priuses have now been sold in the US. The market has spoken. If GM and Ford had spent more money in R&D for hybrids, perhaps a little less on lobbying, maybe they wouldn’t be in the crapper today.
The Energy bill still has to pass in the House, and the president always has the option to veto, but I think we’re all getting hip to what’s going down in Washington. It’s a shame that it took gas prices near four bucks to get our attention, but now that it has, let’s not lose interest.
Target's use of a Beatle's song turned my stomach.
June 20, 2007
In an era where everything is for sale, it still horrified me to see the Target commercial that bastardizes the Beatle’s song -- Hello – Good Bye.
It’s not the first Beatle song to be used in a commercial, but what made this use particularly irksome was Target’s change of bye to buy -- quite clever from an advertising perspective. I can just imagine how impressed the creative team was with themselves for coming up with such an abomination.
Ironically, it might have been Nike’s use of the Beatle’s Revolution back in 1986 that started this trend of using classic rock in advertising. Not that the Beatles could have stopped Nike, since Michael Jackson bought the rights to Beatle songs in the 70s (although that right does not apply to the actual Beatle recordings); but if John Lennon had been alive, it seems to me, he would have found a way to stop them.
Will a kid whose first exposure to Hello/Goodbye via this commercial always think of the lyric as Hello/Good Buy? Talk about a cultural crime.
This makes me think of the film Demolition Man, a futuristic cop film with Sly Stallone and Sandra Bullock, where people listened to jingles from the 20th century, believing those were the classics of the time – this was due to corporate control of cultural history. It certainly is possible that two hundred years from now governance as we know it today, could shift to the board room.
And then again, corporate culture has been around since day one. DaVinci had his sponsors. So did Mozart, my guess is, so did Socrates and Plato.
Television also came of age through corporate sponsorship. Why do you think those daytime dramas are called soap operas: brought to you by Tide Detergent.
But today, the line between sponsorship and art has blurred. Coke cups sit on the desks of Idol judges. Sports stadiums are known by their benefactor. And even a classy show like Studio 60 uses product placement in ways that are appalling.
The show is about the inner workings of a program like SNL. In one episode, Sting appeared on the Studio 60 show, but really he was just plugging his new CD. Character dialogue actually touted the new tracks. In another episode Studio 60 producers argued with the suits about product placement, dropping names of real products, as they did their best to keep brand names out of the show. Imagine the smarmy looks of the ones who came up with that.
Remember the flak over colorization? That was the process of converting black-and-white films to color. I hated the idea, but lots of people loved it. Imagine if they went back and digitized product placement into such films – Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz wakes up in Kansas with a fresh cup of Folgers. Bogart serves Grey Goose at Ricks…
Don’t laugh, someone’s probably working on it as you read this…
The Jacuzzi is finally fixed; but Cleo has been using it as a place to dine.
June 11, 2007
Jacuzzi Repair: the sequel
A few weeks ago I wrote about feeling vulnerable to both blue and white collar service professionals – last week I fought back against The Jacuzzi guy.
Two seasons ago he’d repaired the leak, heating element and pump, but it started leaking within a month of the repair and it took almost a year-and-a-half to get him back. We traded a few calls, but the ratio was 8:1 in my favor; but at some point I stopped calling because electricity prices doubled over the last year. I couldn’t afford to run the damn thing anyway.
Now that I’m a freelance marketing consultant for small business, I decided to get it fixed; it still took many calls and several months to get him here.
A few weeks ago I posted a picture of his work: the pump was out of alignment; two bolts sat suspiciously by the side of the metal bracket. I paid another two hundred bucks for that.
I filled the Jacuz on Monday and water rushed out of that pump housing like Niagara Falls. I was furious. I called VISA to stop payment. It was too late, but I registered a dispute.
Next, I called Jacuzzi guy and left this message: The thing leaks big time. Just credit my card and I’ll find someone else. It’s clearly not close to being fixed. There are bolts sitting here. Just credit my card. Thanks.
One day passed without a call back. Two days, nothing.
On day three I called another Jacuzzi company. “He used to work with us,” they said. “We had problems.”
With that reputation would Jacuzzi Guy credit my card?
I called again and left this message: I don’t want any trouble; just credit my card. I also told him what X company had said about his work. Just credit my card and I’ll go somewhere else, okay?
Thirty minutes later, the Jacuzzi Guy was on the phone, aggressive and angry. “Who said that? What did they say? Why didn’t you give me a chance to fix it?”
“I don’t want trouble,” I said. “I just want a credit. The Jacuzzi is clearly leaking. This was the repair of the repair.”
“It’s a different leak. I fixed the other one. Your Jacuzzi is old.”
“The pump isn’t on the board properly,” I told him.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It took me a year-and-a-half to get you back here.”
“My parents were sick, the business had to suffer.”
“Monday you told me the pump was bad; when I showed you the receipt stating you repaired the pump, you hummed and hawed, then said, oh hang on, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Your pump had seized up. I fixed it. This is something totally different.”
“You’ve got an answer for everything, but it’s clearly leaking, and you left here saying it was fixed.”
“You didn’t want to pay me to stick around to fill the tank. We could have found that and sorted it out.”
“I don’t recall that conversation,” I said.
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Just give me a credit.”
“I’m not giving you your fucking money back.”
“You don’t have to curse at me.”
“I wasn’t cursing at you. I’ll come over and fix it this afternoon.”
He returned with his son. Last time he was Quasimodo, hobbled and weak; the son did the work. This time he’s standing upright, and he’s rolling around on the ground, twisting his arms inside the Jacuzzi. Our interaction was frosty. We argued more.
He took the pump out. “It’s a different leak,” he declared. ”I’ll have to take the pump back to my shop. I won’t charge you. When this is done, you can call whoever you want.”
Then he got his old employer on the phone.
“I’m not getting in the middle of that,” I said.
Fortunately all he got was a machine.
He left without a goodbye. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.
The very next day he came back with the pump. While waiting for the tub to fill, I go to shake his hand. He refused. I say, shake my hand, I’m going to apologize. “I’m sorry.”
He shook my hand.
Then I said, “But I don’t know you. I can only go by you’re actions and the work. You gave the impression of sloppy work with those bolts. You’re difficult to get a hold of. Your ex-employer gave a bad reference. The Jacuzzi kept leaking. What was I supposed to think?”
He grudgingly admitted that he had some blame here.
And thus ended the sequel of the Jacuzzi Repair Man.
The moral of the story: If I hadn’t gone on the attack, I never would have gotten this fixed, certainly not in twenty-four hours.
My man, Stephen A, got it wrong big time this week...
June 4, 2007
I never expected to gain insights into race relations by listening to sports talk radio, but compare the WFAN to Stephen A. Smith, on ESPN, and you’ll see a big difference in coverage and opinion.
I saw the divide this week in the Michael Vick story. The Atlanta Falcon quarterback has been accused of being a participant in dog fighting – this is a felony and punishable with jail time.
Stephen A didn’t think it was a big deal; Mike and the Mad Dog were appalled. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, but I think race played a part in this.
Stephen A. said, “I’m from the streets of New York City. I know what real crime is, like rape and murder; Vick should not go to jail for dog fighting. That’s not a real crime.”
I’m a big Stephen A fan. He’s from Philly and I agree with a lot of what he has to say, but this turned me right off.
Everyone knows Stephen A is the man, the guy the black athlete turns to when they need to talk to the media – Kobe doesn’t use Jim Nantz to tell the Lakers he wants out; he’s not going to Bryant Gumble either, it’s Stephen A.
But what did Stephen A mean -- he’s from the streets of New York City? He knows what real crime is…
I took it as: look white America, you can afford to worry about what happens to dogs, we African-Americans are just trying to stay alive as a people. We don’t have enough food to feed our babies; we’ve got murder on our door step. We don’t have the luxury to arrest dog killers, we’ve got to find the guy who murdered little Jamal on 128th.
I doubt Stephen A worries about where his next meal comes from, or little Jamal for that matter; he clearly doesn't care about man's best friend, but I bet he worries about ratings...
He’s pandering to his core audience. Does he really believe that all black people in the South Bronx are ignorant of animal rights issues? Apparently he does. On the flip side, do I have to grow up in the hood to know what crime is? Give me a break Stephen A – and don't insult the black community either.
I understood why white and black were divided on the OJ verdict – Most people believe OJ did it, but lots of blacks have been wrongly convicted over the years; too many whites have gotten off; many African-Americans thought this provided some compensation – a high profile black finally bought his freedom, just the way affluent whites have done since day one.
But I don’t see how any one defends dog fighting; and I'm not alone on that.
Sports talk radio is entertainment, but it often crosses over into news reporting – what responsibility does Stephen A have to educate his audience when he knows something as vile as dog fighting justifies jail time? I guess it depends on how it affects the ratings…
According to Sports Illustrated, lots of football players are into dog fighting – nobody knows if its only black football players, but it doesn’t matter – football players of any color have a lot in common with those dogs bred to fight. These men are bred to play football – three-hundred and fifty pound lineman with necks thick as tree stumps – the average player lasts less than three years; and most suffer chronic injuries the rest of their life.
The NFL player is the modern day gladiator. It is no wonder that dog fighting is of interest. But if credible voices like Stephen A pander for ratings instead talking sense, we are not that far away from football being played for the ultimate stakes – to the death.
You only have to look at the rise in the popularity of Ultimate Fighting to see that this is not that farfetched. Maybe one day, dogs will square off against men – hey, isn’t that a lot like bullfighting?
Stephen A might have the ear of the nation, but he’s lost mine.
Shoddy workmanship left me scratching my head last week...
May 28, 2007
Blue or white collar, both leave rings...
Blue:
The Jacuzzi repair man hobbled up the steps like Quasimodo; his son, a pimply teen, followed, carrying the tools. “I had a car accident, disc problems,” Quasimodo said, grimacing. “I also need a hip replacement operation.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Can I get you guys some coffee or juice?”
“No thanks.”
The son opened up the Jacuzzi door and poked around with a wrench and voltage meter. I said to Quasimodo, “You fixed a leak two years ago at the end of the season, and it went bad within a month. I kept calling, but your wife said that you’ve been going through a bad patch, that for a year you were out of business.
Quasimodo nodded.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
“We’re fine.”
I went back into the kitchen to do some work. About ten minutes later Quasimodo called out, “You need a new pump.”
Damn, I thought, thinking it was just a faulty repair that he’d honor and fix at no cost. “How much?”
“Three hundred to six hundred depending on the size, plus installation.”
“Jezz. That’s why it’s leaking?”
“Yup.”
I grabbed the receipt from two years ago for five-hundred bucks and reread the work he’d performed. “Look at this,” I said, “pump repair. You fixed it last time; it hasn’t had an hour’s worth of operation since you did that. How could it need a new pump?”
“Hmm,” he says and instructs his son to check something with that meter.
The Jacuzzi makes a buzzing sound. “We got lucky,” he says, averting my eyes. “We can fix this.”
White:
Earlier in the week I refinanced my house to lower my payment and pull a little cash out to cover expenses. I’ve lived here fifteen years and have refinanced three other times. In the process of getting this loan I discovered that all the prior mortgages were still attached to the house title. Although the banks got paid, the title stated that I still had five mortgages.
“The lawyer who did those refinances was sloppy,” this new attorney said. “He should have cleared that up. You’re lucky it didn’t wreck your credit. “
Folks tend to do what you inspect, not what you expect. If I hadn’t had that receipt, Quasimodo would have stuck me for another pump repair. And a lawyer at two-hundred-and-fifty an hour should do what he’s paid to do.
As Quasimodo drove away in his banged-up Ford pickup, I wondered what he was saying to his son. Perhaps: If that guy hadn’t kept the receipt, we’d have made an extra five hundred bucks. But what I hoped he had said was, “Son, I should have fixed that damn pump the first time.”
Either way the son was probably figuring out how to tell his dad that he was hanging up the tool belt -- he was heading for law school.
Is there good in bad news?
May 20, 2007
This week I considered throwing in the towel after a promising lead for an agent went south. Rejection is part of the publishing process and I've had lots of it; I often spiral for a few hours after getting zinged -- this time was different.
I'm not a quitter. I'm Mr. Confidence. There is nothing I can't do, and I have a track record to back up the bravado, but to date, I have failed to get an agent to represent my fiction. This week I had enough.
"What you need to do," a good friend suggested, "is get the manuscript printed, then die."
He wasn't kidding. Go to ebay and you'll find lots of deceased authors fetching princely sums for unknown books.
This week's rejection was awful because of how positive it was. Here's what happened:
After sending out tons of queries in January for my novel, I finally connected with someone that got me. The agency was a solid, mid-tiered NY group. In early April they wrote via email:
Dear Mr. Williams,
I've spent the last two days completely absorbed in your novel. Chuck's candid, raw narrative left me breathless; I felt as if I were mourning with an old friend in the comfort of my living room. .
This is a quick note to spread my encouragement to you and let you know that I'm passing your manuscript on to X. I will be in touch with you soon.
You can imagine my excitement. No one has ever been this enthusiastic. And yet, I've had many encouraging notes over the years; none panned out. X was the decision maker here, not the note writer; I knew better than to get my hopes up.
But I did. I mean why would anyone send this if they didn't think X would like it?
And each day news did not arrive, I grew less hopeful; then this showed up:
Dear Mr. Williams,
Thank you for letting me read MY YEAR AS A CLOWN. I apologize for the length of time it’s taken to respond; this was a difficult decision for me. I’m also sorry to say that I just fell short of falling in love with this. You’re clearly a talented writer with a keen eye for character development, but for some reason I failed to connect with it fully. I know that’s the most frustrating thing a writer can hear, but I trust that you’ll find (or have found!) a representative who’s whole-heartedly passionate about this.
Thanks for thinking of me and best of luck on your path to publication. Please feel free to send me any of your future projects.
Sincerely,
X (dictated, not signed)
I was talking on the phone when I read that email. The person on the other end thought we'd been disconnected. I had indeed gone mute. My head was spinning. There was bile in the mouth. I ended the call quickly, walked out on to my deck and tossed the cordless phone into the woods.
I didn't sleep for two days. I barely ate. I talked to no one.
The end of this month marks nine years of trying to make a living as a writer. My creative progress has been nothing short of miraculous, but I'm no closer to getting a novel published than I was in year two, when an ICM agent requested the manuscript of my first novel after reading fifty pages (ICM is a top-tier agency).
That book didn't sell either.
I've climbed higher mountains. I moved out of the house before I was 18 and haven't taken a dime from anyone since. I was the first in my family to finish college. I published a non-fiction book, selling 15,000 copies before I turned 30. I once saved a baby raccoon from certain death, but I can't get an agent to represent my fucking fiction.
So I was done. Finito. Sayonara. Hasta la vista, baby…
What brought me back was my ability to keep rewriting. Before that first note had arrived, the rest of the leads from my January blitz had dried out. A few agents had made suggestions (a rarity from what I'm told). I was already rewriting when that first note appeared, but I didn't want to send them the new version since they liked what I'd already sent; instead, I kept rewriting. And that's what pulled me out of the muck this week: I had a new and improved Clown ready to go.
On Friday I rebooted the query process with the fresh manuscript.
Now that I've started a consulting business, the pressure to squeeze cash out of writing has eased. But I still need to disconnect getting published from success. That's not easy in a world where folks judge the quality of wine by the price, songs by the chart position, books by the number of copies sold.
So what was the good in the bad?
Most writers just get a form letter.
X said he'd look at other material.
Someone in the business said she was completely absorbed by my novel.
Blah, blah, blah…
In the end I still got dinged.
This week I was slammed. It was the worst blow ever, almost getting knocked out for good; but I got up before the count of ten. I can't control the reaction to my work; but I can control my response. Next time, and no doubt, there will be many next times, I plan to stay on my feet.
No wonder Cherry Hill was the base for America's most recent foiled terror attack -- the world's first shopping mall was built there.
May 14, 2007
I think of Cherry Hill, New Jersey as home even though I left in 1976 and rarely returned. My mom moved out in ’81, and I lost contact with friends still in town. But this week I’m thinking about Cherry Hill because several of the men caught in the Fort Dix terror plot lived there.
It’s difficult to imagine seeing your father killed by a dictator, or having your friends blown to bits in a car bombing; not that it excuses terrorist acts, but you can see how a kid sours under such circumstances. And yet these young men grew up in New Jersey. Granted, things have changed in my home town, and these men are of a different generation. Pockets of immigrant conclaves did not exist when I was growing up there, but it’s still difficult to imagine Islamist Extremists blossoming in the same place where I lost my virginity.
One of the families moved to Cherry Hill from Turkey in 1992. Mr. Tartar experienced the American Dream -- he started out as a dishwasher and ended up owning a pizzeria near Fort Dix. Unfortunately, his business is on the brink of bankruptcy because of a boycott, despite being estranged from his 23 year-old son. The kid had left home at 18 and got in with the wrong crowd.
What happened in Cherry Hill to make this young man susceptible to such extreme influences?
I can’t imagine anything happening there that could have turned this kid into a potential terrorist. But I’m not Muslim. I’m not Turkish. My father wasn’t a dishwasher. How could I know of anything that this kid experienced?
And yet thinking back to my youth, I realized even in my day, there was an underbelly to what was considered a great place to live, home to America’s first enclosed shopping mall; even Muhammad Ali lived there at the apex of his career.
I graduated high school in 1976 in a haze of pot smoke. In my junior year, the son of a high ranking, law-enforcement officer threatened to kill me because I pressed charges against him for throwing a brick through my folk’s living room window – my step-sister had a party and she knew better than to let him in. We were lucky that's all he threw.
A few years after I graduated, one of my high school teachers hacked his girl friend to bits with a pen knife. In the late 80’s, the rabbi that had led our services, got caught for having his wife murdered.
The Cherry Hill underbelly.
Last year my mom and I returned to see the old neighborhood. The blue spruce we’d planted all those years ago towered over the house; the nearby farm was now a shopping center; but for the most part, things looked the same, much like any other solid, middle-class, suburban American town.
Although that kid got away with throwing the brick through my folks window, Rabbi Nuelander is behind bars, Otto Krupp, the teacher, also got caught, and these young men will pay the price too, if found guilty for this terror plot.
You just never figure this to happen so close to home; and yet if you think about it, it has to happen in somebody’s home town; this time it was mine…
Rockwood Music Hall last Wednesday...
May 7, 2007
Thanks to all those that came out to see our first NYC appearance in over five years.
Where have we been? Well, my marriage fell apart and I dug a hole and buried myself for a while. When I reemerged I wrote a novel. I did a publishing deal in Nashville. I went to Haiti. I had a few short stories published. I made a CD. But I never got back to doing any gigs.
That needs to change…
We had a great time and it seemed like everyone that attended had a good night too. The Rockwood Music Hall is a wonderful venue – low key, friendly, and intimate. It’s in a great neighborhood. I hadn’t been on the east side, south of Houston, in ages. It used to be dodgy around there, but now Whole Foods occupies an entire block just around the corner. New cafes and clubs have sprouted up like weeds.
We did an hour set playing old and new songs, some of mine, some of Gerry’s. Earlier in the year, Gerry and Paul played with me at the Towne Crier Open Mic finals – but that was only two songs. We hadn’t done a real set in a very long time.
When I do an open mic, I'm often by myself, and the time just before I go on stage is when the butterflies flutter. It's a lot easier when I'm with Paul and Gerry, they're a distraction. Gerry just had his hair buzzed, and that was enough to keep my mind off the jitters.
When you're doing several shows a week, you find comfort on the stage and hit the ground running, but when you aren't doing a lot of shows, it takes several songs to find that groove. Because the sound at the Rockwood was great, we felt comfortable right away. We hit our stride early, and by mid-set I felt like we were in my studio performing for friends.
Michael Brunnock helped me get the gig and his band played afterwards. Michael is from Ireland and he’s quite a talent – a little Damien Rice, a bit of Jack Johnson, maybe some Waterboys and Paul Brady. The band is tight and showcases Michael’s songs well. He sings about war, Jesus, and his homeland, love and lost.
For all those that missed us, we’re hoping to get back in early June.
In the event of a terror attack, I was ready, and so were my cats...
April 30, 2007
Jon Stewart said it took the Virginia Tech shootings to make him realize he'd lost site that much worse takes place in Iraq every day. I know the feeling. I rarely think about what happens over there.
This fight for our very existence, as George Bush has called it, takes place while I go on about my life as if it's simply another episode of 24. What's General Petraeus going to do this week to catch those pesky insurgents?
I don't know anyone fighting over there. I certainly don't feel as if I'm under siege. To be honest, until another domestic attack takes place, or a draft is instituted, it makes no difference to me what goes on over there.
That's why putting a deadline on getting troops out is simply an intellectual debate with little consequence to my life. I don't feel the pressure or the pain from this conflict. I've even accepted three dollars a gallon at the gas pump. What can I do about windfall oil company profit anyway?
But is it really necessary for more blood to be spilled here at home before I wake up?
Unfortunately, history indicates that the answer is yes. It wasn't until Pearl Harbor that Americans were mobilized to enter WWII. 9/11 should have been sufficient, and for a brief moment, it was, but no more. I used to get nervous when I went into Manhattan. I had an emergency suitcase ready. I even had one set-up for my cats including a travel litter box. Now I go into the city without thinking about terrorists; the emergency cat supply has long ago expired.
The Bush solution is to extend the tour of duties of our enlisted men and women, to ensure no further Americans will be touched by this war. Democrats have a timetable. Me, I've got a yoga class to make; the cats, they've got mice to catch.
As a kid, I was told this was an effective protective device in the event of a nuclear attack.
April 20, 2007
Anna Nicole Smith. Don Imus. Massacre at Virginia Tech.
Each week the media has a new drama to cycle through 24 hours a day.
But is it a tougher, meaner world nowadays?
I was raised in the '60s. That peaceful decade started off with the October Missile Crisis, moved on to the Kennedy, King, and Kennedy assassinations, then the riots in Chicago, murder at Altamont, and of course Vietnam provided a thread to tie the years together.
I wonder how much worse things would have felt if we'd had 24/hr news coverage.
The first prick in my childhood bubble had nothing to do with these worldly events. It was the Halloween warnings: don't eat opened candy, don't accept fresh fruit, watch out for razor blades in apples. Was this media hype or truth? I never knew anyone that had been bladed by a piece of fruit.
Did NBC really have to air the shooter's video? Why did all of the other channels have to run it a million times too? Was it for the public good or to generate ratings? If it was purely for the news, why did they brand their logo into the footage distributed to the other media?
The power of the news cycle, the luck of the draw. If the Virginia Tech shooting had happened a week earlier, Don Imus would probably still have a job.
How does it feel to face such tragedy dodging hundreds of reporters with cameras and microphones?
Nearly 25% of American kids are on psychiatric medication. Nobody has any idea of the long-term repercussions, and yet parents are willing to subject their children to these drugs -- why?
Kids today suffer from peanut allergies, ADD, and numerous other serious conditions. I don't remember any ADD kids when I was growing up. But I do remember troubled kids were in a special class. We called them retards and most of us made fun of them, if not to their face, certainly to their backs.
Could the Virginia Tech have done anything to prevent this?
When I was in elementary school we often had air-raid drills. It was an exercise for preparation in the event of a nuclear attack by the Russians. When the siren went off, we were told to hide underneath our desks and put our hands over our heads.
One day in the fall of '68, the siren went off. Normally we got advanced warning on drills, but not this time. 1968 was a Molotov cocktail, the assassinations, the riots and protests, an attack by the Russians was not out of the question. And the look on Miss Pelley's face said it all. We got underneath our desks as instructed and put our hands over our heads. Two desks down was Colleen Jenkins. I was sweet on her, but in fifth grade all that meant was extra pushing and shoving on the playground, a little smart aleck talk after class. The siren was still blaring and I shot out from my desk to join Colleen. She didn't flinch or make a sound. I put my arms around her and she did the same to me. We waited for the nuke to drop…
I never met Imus or Reverend Sharpton, but I came close....
The Imus affair shows how polarized we still are on race. Even watching Meet the Press on Sunday where a panel of white and black journalists discussed the firing -- the view differed by color.
Imus was an equal opportunity abuser, but I'm amazed he did this within the context of serious political debate with a litany of politicians and media celebrities.
David Brooks said Imus often went after Jews, but he could differentiate between an Imus slam and the way a Nazi would say the same words. Gwen Ifill from PBS felt differently. She said Imus went after the very best the black community had to offer, young women who excelled in both sport and academics. To her, it didn't matter whether Imus was a racist or not, a racist comment is still racist (Imus called once had called her a cleaning lady).
Earlier in the week, Snoop Dogg clarified the rapper's position by saying that they never go after college educated black women, just the drug addict bitches in the hood…
Tom DeLay called for banning Rosie O'Donnell for her remarks against conservative Christians.
Clearly, we've got a ways to go before this dust settles.
I don't know Don Imus or Al Sharpton, but I almost met both. Here's how:
My Imus Story:
It wasn't until Don Imus started pushing the Flatlanders that I tuned in his show. I knew Jimmie from taking his songwriting workshop in '98. The Flatlanders got screwed by their record company back in the 70's and had been ignored by radio ever since. Jimmie built a cult following through the decades, and the unsolicited exposure by the I-man was unexpected, but welcomed.
I didn't like the show or its humor, but at about the same time as the I-man was playing the Flatlanders, I wrote a spoof song about Martha Stewart, called the Martha Stewart Prison Rag. I figured it was worth a shot to try and get it on his show.
Imus has a weekend mansion not too far from me, and a friend had heard that someone had once dropped a tape off at his house -- Imus liked it and played it. So I drove by his beach front, gated home, to drop off the Rag.
This was after 9/11 and the Imus mail box was long gone for security reasons. I slipped my CD package underneath the wrought iron gate and hoped for the best.
About a week later a man in a beige trench coat knocked on my door, flashing a silver State Police badge. "Are you Robert Steven Williams?"
"Yes."
"Did you drop this package off at the Imus residence in Southport?" He was holding my brown bag with the CD and promo materials.
"Umm, yeah."
"Their housekeeper called us, thought it was a bomb. Any explosive material?"
"Well, it is a satire." The cop wrinkled his brow. I quickly added, "It's just a CD about Martha Stewart. I was trying to get him to play it."
The cop shook his head and handed me back the bag. "Next time, do us all a favor, drop it off at his office."
The Martha Stewart Prison Rag was never aired.
My Sharpton story:
I moved from England to the New York area in 1991. I was head of marketing for a new chain of record stores in the US. My first day on the job, I faced a potential Sharpton led protest against our 72nd & Broadway store.
In those days, music was vibrant, immediate; it still mattered. HMV had made a huge splash in the market. The week prior to my arrival, HMV had fired an African American store clerk. We were part of the international conglomerate EMI Music. Sharpton planned to protest this dismissal based on racism by leveraging our corporate parent's high visibility.
The kid in question was a bad employee and had been fired properly. But when I showed up for work that first day, I had no idea if this was the case. It was my job to defend the company and mitigate the damage regardless of the facts.
I hired a crisis management PR firm to get up to speed on Al Sharpton. I couldn't believe what I was up against. I marketed records. I loved music. This was the last thing on earth I wanted to deal with. I also knew that HMV wasn't a racist company; but an employee still might have done something stupid.
During the week the rhetoric grew. We were told through the grapevine that if we didn't reinstate this kid, thousands would be outside our store on Saturday protesting. Every major network would be there to cover it.
We conducted another internal investigation and determined that the employee had been treated fairly and warranted the firing. I also discovered that HMV was one of the largest African-American retail employers in Manhattan. We did not rehire that kid.
On the Saturday, I was at the store ready to handle whatever might happen. Fortunately, the protest never materialized, and I went back to marketing music…
Six years later, I convinced EMI and HMV to put the first international record store in Harlem. I left the company shortly thereafter. HMV opened up on 125th Street, across from the Apollo Theater in 1999. Although the store was a success, EMI sold HMV. The chain pulled out of the US market in 2003.
$100,000 to the song chosen...
Last week's reference to the movie -- The Secret -- caused several folks to reach out. A few successful business people urged me to continue on the artistic front with a renewed attitude. Paraphrasing -- they said -- One has to smell it, touch it, breath it, and live it completely at all times to realize it -- that's how we made it in business and how you can make it in writing.
In almost all endeavors I would agree, but when it comes to visualizing making art and substantial amounts of cash, the idea is flawed. Some will say that's exactly the reason why I'm not successful in money terms.
Maybe they're right.
But I've been in the trenches for nine years. I've seem immensely talented people struggle to put food on the table. I've seen hacks driving Ferraris. The top thirty or so Nashville songwriters walk the line between artistic integrity and crass commercialism; many songs that rise to number one look simplistic -- that's deceptive. Most successful Nashville writers are extremely talented, highly motivated, and very ambitious. Those songs are not easy to write.
I spent a year considering Nashville, but I realized that I couldn't taste it, breathe it, or live something that I didn't like. If I wanted money, it made more sense to take a music executive job paying 200 grand, rather than a staff publishing position that paid 20. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have gotten the staff job -- thousands beg for those jobs daily (seriously).
American Idol is paying 100 grand for a single song. Why not take a shot, some friends have asked.
I won't be submitting anything because I'd be wasting my time. I don't love that type of music; it's not what I do, or what motivated me to return to playing music and writing fiction. I couldn't win that competition, because I don't breathe it.
There are lots of lazy artists out there that don't take on quality feedback, they refuse to rewrite or learn craft. They won't assume responsibility for the business side either. You often hear them diss the industry and make bold declarations about not selling out. They believe there's a conspiracy to keep their art from reaching the world.
That's not me.
I'm not averse to making lots of money from my art, but it's not part of my vision because to factor that into the equation, would force me to alter what I create, and that compromise will cause me to fail.
Fame and glory might not be in my future, but with my business background, I still have a shot at making a decent living at this. Granted, it hasn't been the case so far, but it's still early days. I've been at this less than ten years. I'm just a late bloomer; well, okay, very late…
and you know what they say...better very late than never...
Foot in mouth this week McCain...
John McCain was on CNN last week declaring the surge a success. "Areas of Baghdad are safe, even General Petreaus can walk without guard or armor."
CNN cut to Michael Ware, in Baghdad, immediately after the McCain interview to verify the situation on the ground. "Senator McCain is off is rocker," Ware said. "McCain's comments were met with laughter down the line from US military sources."
Within a day, McCain's people backtracked. McCain himself, denied saying it, but I saw the actual interview, live. He said that and more. How could a smart guy be so dumb? He's bet the campaign on the success of this surge.
McCain is in Baghdad now buying carpets.
---------------------
It's been an odd couple of months for me. I rewrote my novel, recorded some new songs, and I did some freelance consulting. I also waited for the result of my MFA applications.
The novel was ready, but that feeling wasn't shared by the publishing community. Several agents showed interest, but I got no takers. I pulled it off the market, and rewrote it, yet again. It's in great shape now. I totally believe in it, and I’m thinking positive in the way that movie, The Secret, says you must; but it's not easy to keep doubt from undermining my vibe.
Last night I saw Ricky Gervais interview Garry Shandling on a new program airing in England -- Gervais, is the genius behind The Office. In this new series, he visits his comedic heroes. It's an awkward and amusing hour at Garry's house. At one point, Garry says in regards to success -- you can't get caught up in the results of your work -- it's meaningless.
He's right. The value of my work is not linked to the amount of money it generates. It's so obvious, and yet, it's so easy to forget.
I received an offer for a teaching assistant at Ole Miss. I wanted to accept their gracious offer of free tuition and stipend, but I couldn't make the numbers work. I've deferred the opportunity for a year.
I could have sold my Westport house, but it's not a good time to sell, and I didn't want to give up the last remaining jewel from my life as a music biz executive. I had intended to rent this house out. The numbers were close, but I have outstanding obligations that made this move impossible.
Some say situations are tied to fate, that if it was meant for me to go to Ole Miss this year, it would have happened. I'm not convinced that's true. I think that destiny is forged in real time, that a result is not in stone until it happens. But I do believe it's the culmination of all your effort -- things that occurred years ago still contribute to the future. And so everything I do and think, does affect what happens…
Let's hope I can keep writing, but more important, let's hope someone finds a solution that gets us out of Iraq without starting WWIII…
Mind this...
March 26, 2007
I'm in revolved triangle, one of several dreaded postures that forces my body to twist and turn in ways it dislikes. Before I entered the asana, I told myself that I hated this posture, that I couldn't do it, that my body wouldn't turn in such a way, that in three years I'd made no improvement, and ten more years wouldn't make a difference either.
What chance do I have of breaking this pattern with thoughts like this?
I had my new novel out to several agents in the past three months. I thought positively. Each day I checked email and the post box in search of good news. When I sell this book, I told myself, everything comes good. It will be validation for all the hard work and sacrifice; but deep inside my head, ran another narrative -- what if I don't sell the book, then what?
Must I suffer? Will I be eternally unhappy? Does it mean I suck at writing?
In that story, the answer was yes, yes, and yes.
It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that without external validation I must have no talent, and therefore I will be forever unhappy. And what was worse, I applied this way of thinking to much of my life.
I would say:
When I _____, I can be happy.
It didn't matter how I filled in the blank:
get a promotion
buy a new car
win the lottery
lose weight
No matter what it was, soon after I got it, I'd find new reasons for unhappiness. Sound familiar?
Now I'm trying to break that pattern.
In yoga, when this all too familiar discomfort arises in revolved triangle: the burning in my hips, the pain in the lower back, the awkward sense of being off-balance, I now try to eliminate the story that runs in my head. Instead of labeling these sensations with pain, or finding a reason why I must pull out of the posture, I work to stay in the moment. I am observant, aware, present and undivided. With a neutral mind, I hold postures longer. It allows me to unshackle the very limitations that I alone have established.
If I could keep that same observant, non-judgmental mind when a short story is rejected by a magazine, or the novel by an agent, I'd have a better shot at recognizing ways to move forward with a rewrite or new marketing options. This doesn't mean that I'm passive; on the contrary, by not wasting energy on unnecessary emotional diversions, I can focus on what really counts. My mind is free to find creative solutions, tapping into energy that was once squandered on emotional spirals.
My neutral mind creates possibilities.
All artists must learn to juggle...
March 19, 2007
This week I entered the Kerrville New Folk contest for the eighth year in a row. It's hard to believe that I've been hacking away at this for that long. When I listen to what I was doing back then, I realize how far I've come. Ultimately that's what's most important, but the mountain of rejection I've collected over those years does get overwhelming.
Kerrville is Mecca for many singer/songwriters. It's a two-week gathering in the dusty foothills north of San Antonio, Texas. New Folk finalists have gone on to successful careers -- David Wilcox, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Lucinda Williams, Nanci Griffiths, and Lyle Lovette, to mention just a few.
I went to Kerrville in 1999. I'd been playing seriously for about six-months. I took the three-day course, and attended a week's worth of concerts. I had a great time, and met a lot of interesting people.
I know one person that made the final 32 since I started submitting -- Jan Smith. She got in last year, but didn't make the six finalists. Jan's an incredible talent, and I was surprised she didn't go further. But I've also been surprised at others that haven't made it either.
Back in '99, I heard a lot of good players in the finals, but there were several that I felt were questionable. That's the nature of contests. There's always going to be someone you think you're better than.
At this point I've stopped worrying about whether I’m better or worse. I'm focused on being the very best ME; that's all I can do. Contests are money makers for the sponsors and I don't enter nearly as many as I once did. Literary contests are suspect for the same reasons, but I was a finalist in the Raymond Carver contest, and I bagged an honorable mention in a contest up in Canada. Winning is possible.
Recently I've taken on freelance consulting projects to meet the monthly bills. Although I enjoy the work, it does zap energy from my writing. I can already feel the disconnect. Part of that is psychological, my system shocked back into reality. I was blessed to focus the way I have, but I could now easily let the creativity slide, or not.
That's why I got off my butt and entered Kerrville. I'm still a player. And even when I'm not writing, my writer's eye is on the hunt for insight and opportunity. I'm no different than most artists -- lots of balls in the air, smoke and mirrors, juke and jive -- I juggle to keep doing what I love. I'd have it no other way.
Bare all blogs...
March 12, 2007
A well-regarded British journalist blogged about her sex life under a different name for years; the sex site grew so popular, she scored a lucrative book offer. A week before the publication, a UK tabloid threatened to release her real name unless she granted an exclusive interview and advanced excerpts. After discussing it with her family, she opted to come forward on her own.
Its one thing when Tommy Trailer Trash or Sally Stripper tells all, but when an established reporter goes noir stiletto, it does beg the question -- what's going on? Is blogging about bedroom activities the virtual version of having sex in a public place? Is telling all in print just another fetish? Or is it something deeper?
Considering how fixated we are on sex, it's amazing how infrequent honest sex talk takes place. We all tuned in to Anna Nicole-Smith, red and blue states alike, we gawked and stared at her boobs, and yet most of us struggle to communicate what we want from our partners.
A writer's job is to push the envelope, to make readers uncomfortable, and make them think. Does the Queen of England masturbate? Does Barbara Bush like it doggie style? Most of us shudder at the thought of our parents having sex. But is it a writer's job to reveal everything about themselves?
I write a weekly essay and strive to be as truthful as possible about my life. Sometimes I talk specifics; sometimes I tackle larger subjects from politics to sports.
Annie Lamont, a well-respected Bay Area writer, talks about the necessity of going for the jugular. She's written about her parents, her children; practically everyone she knows. She says those she writes about get mad, but so do those she ignores; they feel left out.
Putting certain things into print would complicate my world and friendships, but I do wonder if this censoring prevents having a wider readership. The more I write and read, the more I realize that truth is stranger than fiction; and yet great fiction is a reflection of truth, and so there's a flaw in that logic. I'm sure Annie Lamont doesn't tell all. She doesn't have to, as long as she stays true to the emotions of her experience. The facts are irrelevant. I too must strive for such honesty, otherwise this won't be worth anyone's time.
I've changed my tune on American Idol
March 5, 2007
A few weeks back I had an epiphany watching American Idol. Honestly folks, I never expected to learn something about my own writing from watching this show, but what surprised me even more, was realizing that this insight applies to all singer songwriters, regardless of genre.
I will admit, when Idol first appeared, I wanted to puke. I, like many music industry dinosaurs, longed for the old days, when true music folks ran the business, and new groups were given more than a few weeks to prove their mettle. Idol represented everything wrong with the music biz. Although some of those issues still plague the program, here's why I've changed my mind.
You can't argue with long-term success. Idol is in its sixth season bigger than ever; few shows of any ilk last that long. Idol has spun-off credible talent. Who could have imagined that an Idol reject would bag an Oscar? The New York Times wrote this week that Idol is the only TV show that brings teenagers and parents together. In an age where kids have the Internet, cellular entertainment, and video games for distractions, this is a remarkable feat.
Now to the epiphany. For those that don't watch the show (which I assume is many of my readers), the 24 finalists are whittled down from a pool of over 500,000. You might not like Simon, Paula, and Randy, but they've been around enough to recognize folks that can sing. When you sift through that many bodies, you'll find 24 who can carry a tune; and yet, all too often, each finalist has a karaoke break down. Many sing off-pitch, lack emotion, and appear completely out of touch with the performance.
Obviously nerves plays a role, but setting that aside, what's the number reason these decent singers derail?
Avid Idol fans should know the answer.
Song selection. Pick the wrong song, or just the wrong key, and a singer, even a fabulous one, will struggle. The wrong song will put them out of their comfort zone. It makes a singer think, instead of feel. It creates a barrier that keeps a singer from connecting with the song.
Picking the right track, or writing songs in a key that best shows off a voice is not as easy as it appears. Singers of all levels all too often misjudge their abilities. I've done it more than I care to admit, but thanks to Idol, I hope not to repeat that mistake again.
Is the poet an endangered species?
February 26, 2007
I wrote an article for this month's Poets & Writers. It's great to have something in such a prestigious magazine in the publishing field, but it was never my objective to be a writer's writer. I am a musician who also happens to write. Once upon a time, I was a music-business executive. Although it's nice to be appreciated by writers, I look forward to the day when my fiction reaches the hands of civilians, folks in the real world, people who don't deal with words for a living.
In college I was mesmerized by prog rock -- bands like Gentle Giant, Hawkwind, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return to Forever, and the Dixie Dregs. These bands were musician's bands. Technically these groups were flawless. They pushed the boundaries of modality, time signatures and arrangements. They often appeared to defy physical laws of nature in their speed and improvisational skills.
Today, most of that music is unlistenable to all but balding male musicians in their fifties.
Writers like Thomas Pynchon and Jonathan Safron Foer are the writer equivalents to prog rockers. There is no denying their technical skills, but their words fail to touch me in the way that Sadie Smith or a Lolly Winston does. Much of it, I can't comprehend; they operate on a different level, but that's doesn't make it better. Gravity's Rainbow was heralded by those in the know as one of the 20th Century's greatest novels. I couldn't get through the first hundred pages. Today, it's almost fashionable to come out of the closet to admit not liking it.
In this week's New Yorker, there's an article about the Poetry Foundation and the brouhaha over the drug money that now fills their coffers to the tune of two-hundred million (that's an insider's joke: it was a donation from one of the Lily Drug Company heirs).
The foundation's president, John Barr, a former Wall Street executive, wants to make poetry more accessible. He wrote an essay that created controversy by saying that poems are written only with other poets in mind.
He's right. Last year I heard the poetry editor of one of the country's leading journals state that he had no interest in expanding his paltry 4,000 circulation. Few others, in his view, would get it anyway. According to him, to expand his readership would require dumbing his poems down. He felt it was his responsibility, as one of the few keepers of the flame, to ensure that poetry upheld the highest standards.
In the days when I listened to Chick Corea, Joe Zawinul, and Stanley Clarke, I snubbed my nose at those that didn't know these folks. I took pride in my chummy, closed circle. Today, you couldn't pay me to listen to an entire Return to Forever Lp. But what if the musical world had decided back in the 70's, that the only viable musical format was prog rock, and that the funding for all lesser forms, like the Village People, and Abba, even Bruce Springsteen, should be eliminated? Where would that leave the music today?
In some ways, this is exactly what the poetry community is doing. It's what the fiction world does when it says Harry Potter is derivative and bad for kids, or that Steven King doesn't deserve a national book award. I'm not saying Pynchon and elitist poets shouldn't be funded, of course they should, but when most of the world thinks going to the dentist is preferable to reading a book of poems, something's seriously out of whack.
I never would have discovered Weather Report if I hadn't first fell in love with the Monkees.
Must poets be forced to choose between writing for the so-called literates and the masses? Isn't there a middle ground? With a two-hundred million dollar base, the Poetry Foundation should be able to support the full-spectrum of voice, from the impenetrable to the whimsical. Broadening poetry's reach won't dilute its power, or its ability to push boundaries, but it will ensure that the poet doesn't become an endangered species, on the road to extinction.
She's a dinosaur, but the princess phone could survive a nuclear bomb...
February 19, 2007
I was reminded of the Pete Townsend line -- Meet the new boss, same as the old boss -- while flipping through the latest AT&T junk mailer the other day.
The full-color glossy was jammed packed with the latest products and deals offered by the new AT&T. I can now purchase all of my communication and entertainment needs from them -- everything from mobile, satellite TV, music downloads, to local and long distance phone service.
It wasn't that long ago that AT&T was busted into pieces to make way for innovation and competition. But in 2007, where a computer becomes obsolete by the time it's shipped, the early 80's, in terms of telecommunications, is the Pleistocene period.
Some will recall no choice for phone service back then. AT&T was regulated by Uncle Sam. You went to Ma Bell for everything. Rotary dial was still common. The answering machine was nonexistent; if you missed someone, you actually had to call them back. All equipment was rented. You had to plan ahead when you were moving, because in some areas, it could take weeks to get your service turned on.
The bust-up took place in '83. AT&T became a series of regional companies; many of those spawned-off Baby Bells, as they were dubbed, were reacquired by this new AT&T.
Meet the new AT&T, same as the old AT&T.
Back then, everyone was confused and concerned. Although we all hated the phone company, it's all we knew. How would things work in the new era of choice? How did one decide what was a viable alternative? What happened if the phone broke? Who came out to fix it, and how much would it cost?
The first choice I had to make was whether I wanted to purchase the phone I rented for five bucks a month -- the princess was the latest in touchtone technology. I figured it was worth buying because it was manufactured to last. As a rental, when it broke, it was on Ma Bell's dime (the cost of a local call). She had to come out and replace my phone at no cost. I bought the princess for $80 bucks.
There were cheaper models already on the market, and I've bought many phones since, but the princess is still in my collection. It's clunky compared to today's wireless versions; it weighs a ton, but those Bell Lab scientists knew what they were doing when they designed it. The damn thing could survive a nuclear bomb; it certainly will outlast me.
For a decade or so, every household in America was bombarded with calls enticing us to switch long distance. Often we were tricked by convoluted sales pitches, and bounced to another carrier without realizing it.
Then MCI got into trouble. There was a new telecommunications act. The Internet exploded. Lucent collapsed. The cyber bubble burst. And here we are with AT&T, once again, a giant amongst a couple of other mega-communications companies.
No doubt deregulation increased competition and provided improved products and services. Over time, we all adjusted to the new telecom world. Live long enough and just about anything comes full-circle. For those too young to remember those heady days, just wait. In another decade or so, they'll be busting up AT&T again.
As I flip through this new catalog filled with great prices and packaged deals, I wonder if the Who got it wrong -- have we been fooled yet again?
I guess we'll have to wait another twenty years to find out...
A beautiful hillside of Port-au-Prince covered in slums...
February 12, 2007
UN Peacekeepers in Haiti are taking on the street gangs of Port-au-Prince this week. I was there last fall, writing about the efforts of the NGO, Concern Worldwide.
There are over two-million people living in Haiti's capital city, and most can't feed themselves. In the worst parts, where gangs still rule, people live in shacks with no electricity or plumbing. Children play on waste heaps, teenagers carry guns, and young adults have no jobs.
I was supposed to a visit a school sponsored by the charity, but it was too dangerous. Gangs were kidnapping people including aid workers, for ransom.
The streets have become so unsafe, parents won't allow their kids to go to school; without education, there is no future for Haiti. Fifty percent of the population is illiterate; if yet another generation grows up uneducated, the country has no chance.
But arresting gang leaders without providing immediate aide and support for the starving and jobless, will result in a new cycle of violence.
The Bush administration has pledged $20 million, an accounting rounding error, compared to the money that is spent daily in Iraq. NGO's, like Concern, do great work down there, but it's simply not enough. Haiti is the poorest country in the western hemisphere.
Last year's elections have provided a slim window of opportunity for change, but people must see progress, otherwise they will fall prey to the promises of a new generation of gang leaders.
Here's one of several vignettes I wrote to help Concern raise funds for schools down there:
Widline Fontus is a sixth grader in the Fabre Géffrard National School, located in the heart of the urban slum of St. Martin in Port-au-Prince. Her favorite subjects are math and French. "I love going to school, but I have a hard time learning and reciting by heart," she says.
Widline wants to be a singer/songwriter when she grows up, singing in English. She's got a shot at realizing this dream because she's one of two-hundred fortunate children that attend a school assisted by Concern's Urban School Health project.
Haiti's school system has been in shambles for years. There is no national curriculum, no superintendent of schools, no PTA. Most classrooms have been neglected for decades. Roofs leak. Electricity is sporadic. There are few desks or blackboards. Kids get nothing to eat because there's no cafeteria, not even a bathroom.
It's not just the schools that are in disrepair. Haiti's infrastructure has collapsed: roads, sanitation, security. The government's ability to provide even basic services is a struggle. Over a half-a-million people live in the Saint Martin slums. Most housing has no indoor plumbing. Many bathe in polluted rivers lined with mounds of trash. Children can often be found playing in these cesspools.
City gangs control the streets. Teens sling AK-47's about their shoulders the way American children tote backpacks. Most locals refuse to travel at night. In 2006, kidnappings were rampant and even ex-pat aid workers were abducted near Wildine's school. Thousands of Haitians needlessly die from senseless violence, malnutrition, and curable diseases. To reach your fifth birthday is a major accomplishment in a Port-au-Prince slum.
"Sometimes I hear the gunshots," Wildine says, "and it makes me scared."
Widline's mother is 40 years old. She raises three children by herself. She is a dressmaker and they live in a one room shack with no electricity or water. They cook on stones in a narrow alley. "We don't go out at night," Widline's mother says. "It is not safe."
With such desperate need, many of the schools are unfit for even the wild dogs that roam the city streets. But for Wildine, conditions have vastly improved thanks to Concern. Funding provided by donors in the US enabled Concern to rehabilitate Wildine's school. They fixed the roof, installed latrines and provided water treatment kits to ensure the children had safe, clean water to drink. The school now has first aid supplies, desks, benches, blackboards, text books.
The Concern program provides a hot meal for each child in school. "Yummy," Widline says about the food. Often this is the children's only meal. Food is an important part of the Urban Health Project, not only because it ensures that children get at least one decent meal per day, but it also encourages kids to attend class. In a society where fifty percent of the population is illiterate, this is critical to changing the Haiti's future.
Crowded conditions create an unhealthy environment for everyone. Imagine a New York high rise without a single bathroom or shower. It is virtually impossible for Haitians to avoid getting sick. That's why another critical component of the Concern program is to provide instruction on basic health and hygiene.
Sadly, there are too many children living in this part of Port-au-Prince that do not attend a school like Widlines'. Those kids need your help. A fifty dollar contribution could provide latrines for an entire school, text books for a classroom, or water treatment kits to provide a child safe and healthy water for an entire year. Please help and give generously.
It might be dangerous on a football field, but it ain't Iraq.
February 5, 2007
During professional football's biggest week, the Super Bowl, the long-term health of its players came under scrutiny.
Make no mistake about it, today's player is a 21st century gladiator. We as spectators, love the big hit, the sound of two human beings colliding in mid-stride. Players thrive on the contact too and they often push themselves to get ready for the game before their bodies are ready. But much of the physical damage doesn't surface until well after the final whistle blows. Earl Campbell, a Sherman tank of a running back, walks with a cane. John Elway wobbles up the fairway. And a few weeks ago, the former all-pro standout for the Philadelphia Eagles, Andre Water, committed suicide.
Water's was suffering from brain damage and depression caused from concussions on the football field. His death inspired, Ted Johnson, the former captain of the three-time Super Bowl champion Patriots, to come forward with his diagnosis of early Alzheimer's. He's 34, and will soon run out of health benefits. In a New York Times article this week, he claimed that future hall of fame coach, Bill Belichek, had made him take the field before he'd fully recovered from a concussion.
No coach can make a player do anything he doesn't want to do, but the threat of losing one's job is usually all that's needed to force someone to push themselves beyond the pain. Compared to baseball or basketball players, footballers are second class citizens. They don't have guaranteed contracts; their health benefits stop after six years even though the odds of injury are much greater. Salaries are much lower too despite the fact, football generates more income than any professional sport.
Still, it's hard to feel sorry for these gladiators. They are hailed as heroes and make a ton of money compared to the average Joe. And yes, they do put their bodies at risk, but so do lots of other folks. Coal miners in West Virginia don't make in a year what a football player makes for a single game. And lets not forget the men and women in our armed forces in Iraq. The odds of death on a football field are minimal; every day at least one US solider dies in Iraq. Military personnel might get a decent pension if they can survive twenty years, but they still earn peanuts for the risks they take. So before we get too carried away about feeling sorry for our grid iron warriors, let's not lose our perspective or forget the true soldiers of the battlefield and the sacrifices they make for inconsequential remuneration and recognition.
I posted this essay on myspace blog and got these comments on the first day:
One thing you might be over looking is that mot of these people. whether it's football, coal mining or iraq were'nt given many economic options in life...all three of those occupations are usually filled by people trying to improve their economic situation...what does it say about our society that we use such people and when we're done with them we heartlessly discard them...more often than not they did not have a choice...I was in a upscale bar watching the super bowl as everyone cheered no one gave a shit about earl campbell, ted johnson, coal miners or iraq for that matter...America has become a surreal dark place of the haves and the have nots..cell phone, suv, condo stock deal...it's pretty much what drives most people..
JL
I chose to see Pan's Labyrinth instead of watching the Super Bowl, so the idea of acknowledging the reality that lies underneath the myth is fresh on my mind. If you haven't seen the movie, I strongly encourage you to go. It fits in perfectly with what you're talking about in this post ... and it's simply an amazing film.
Patricia
The day we stop 'playing' at the field of War, is the day we wage Peace.
War is no game, that's for sure. All 'playing fields' are not created equal.
The 'glory' of victory is a double edged sword; on the football field we cheer,
on the battle field, we pray.
Sobering topic, Robert. Thanks for this.
Tyler
Relax and Renew -- for only three-hundred bucks...
January 27, 2007
Last month's Yoga Journal was as thick as a phone book, chocker block with adverts from clothing, food, workshop and accessory companies. There's nothing unethical with making money through yoga, but as I flipped through the magazine, the line between editorial and advertising began to blur. For me, that's a problem. In yoga, that line should be razor sharp.
Here's an excerpt from the Lounge About column:
Rest is essential to every yoga practice. Unfortunately, many of us find it difficult to slow down….This week, set aside time to light a candle, get comfortable, relax and renew.
All quite reasonable until you get to the bullet points:
Wrap up -- Restore the goodness in you with a flowing cardigan wrap by Eileen Fisher ($158), layered over this stretch silk jersey ($78).
Stretch Out -- There's nothing cozier than snuggling into a good pair of sweats. If you want the warmth, but not the frump, try the silky-soft Benessere Pant by File ($65).
There's no legal or ethical boundary broken here -- Rolling Stone has portrayed rock stars in fashionable brand named clothing (with price tags) for years, but this isn’t rock and roll. Yoga is about the body, mind and spirit. The commercial side of Yoga, all too often tugs participants toward fashion and fitness. The subliminal message is:
Look good and you'll feel good. And you'll feel better much faster by buying these cool looking clothes and accessories.
That relax-and-renew outfit will set a person back over three hundred dollars. The average person must work double-overtime, or keep a stressful, high powered job, to attain this state of fabric bliss. Or maybe the spouse puts in the hours -- odds are, if that's the case, there's going to be trouble in that marriage soon enough. The point is, nobody needs a three-hundred dollar outfit to relax, but when Yoga Journal suggests it, people think that's the short cut to enlightenment.
Ninety percent of Yoga Journal's audience is women. There's even an article this month about why men don't take yoga. That story was full of clichés -- men are overly competitive; women are nurturing and more spiritual by nature. I had no idea women have a greater predisposition towards spirituality. Is that because they lack abilities in science and math?
Yesterday I took the 9:30 yoga class. It's one of my club's most popular. It's always jammed with women, and this time, there was only one other guy. Some of the women were dressed in simple, comfortable attire, but there were several in those outfits you see advertised in Yoga Journal. Towards the end of class, women started rolling up mats. It was especially disturbing when it continued during Savasna, the last posture, when one is supposed to rest quietly to process what took place during class.
Afterwards, at the front desk, I looked into Studio B. Many of the women from yoga were in that Jazzercise session. They'd left yoga to get to that on time. For them, yoga is simply another exercise class in a daily fitness regimen. There's nothing wrong with that, but clearly the spiritual side of yoga is not what has drawn them to the practice. And from the adverts in Yoga Journal, it seems that much of the audience doesn't rate spirituality high either…
According to the ads -- it's America's favorite pizza -- now either they're lying, or America has no taste...
January 22, 2007
A friend asked the other day why I don't just write something that will sell. It wasn't meant to be an insult. "You know you can write," they said. "So just write something commercial, so that you can do what you want."
At first I wanted to smack that person. I was insulted. Can you imagine saying to Van Gogh, "Nobody wants sunflowers, paint fruit; that we can sell."
But once I calmed down, I understood that they were only trying to help. I'm not afraid of rewriting, or hearing constructive criticism; in fact, I love taking on feedback and folding it into what I've got. But I can't write what's not me. I wouldn't be any good at it. It's one of the reasons why I'm not down in Nashville trying to crack the country market.
I know too many songwriters trying to sell songs who don't listen to country music. "Can't stand it," they admit. "But it's the only market that buys songs, so I'm writing for it."
They might get lucky, but they stand a better chance of winning the lottery.
The successful Nashville writers eat and sleep country. It's in their veins. I learned a lot about how to craft songs down there, and I often incorporate that structure to support my voice and musical vision, but I know better than to waste my time selling something that isn't right for the market.
My opportunity is doing me the best I can.
The same applies to the writing.
I enjoy commercial fiction and read a lot of it. Often, it’s the overtly literate writing of a Foer and Pynchon, that turns me off. But I'm not mainstream. The same goes for TV. Deal or No Deal, America's Number One TV show, makes me sick. Most of the reality shows bore me. But I will admit -- I enjoyed the first Survivor, the first two Apprentices, and one of the Idol seasons. After that, the category became a blur.
Looking outside of culture for examples might hammer home the point. Subway is the number one sandwich chain in the country. There's a better sandwich shop in almost every American town, and yet, Subway is tops. The same could be said about the cool,local pizza joint compared to a national chain.
I could start a sandwich shop or a funky pizzeria, but the odds of me making money would improve dramatically if I bought a Pizza Hut franchise. But I don't like their pizza. I'd be miserable in all that wealth. If it was just about the money, I wouldn't go into the restaurant business anyway, let alone a chain-pizza joint; I'd go into something that would assure me huge profit, something like what Haliburton does.
The same can be said about my writing. And ultimately, for better or worse, that's why I can't just whip off something commercial. I have to do just stay true to myself and hope that it resonates with others
I wonder what Dr. King would advise on Iraq?
January 15, 2007
There are no easy answers for Iraq and the risk of failure is enormous, but most of us go on about our lives as if the fate of the world is not being wagered at a high-stakes poker game. Not that the average guy on the street could do anything about it anyway. But it is odd, that here in America, most of us are still not affected by what could become Armageddon.
Listening to the so-called experts last week on TV, most say that 20,000 more troops is not enough. The number is more like 200,000. The generals who believe we should have pulled out, were replaced two weeks ago, by generals who support this new Bush strategy. That doesn’t fill me with optimism about this surge.
The new plan assumes that the Maliki government can function effectively. What are the odds of that? I believe Iraq is already separating into three different countries, like Yugoslavia in the '90s.
I don’t think pulling out fast is the answer either. Regardless of how or why we’re in this mess, a stabilized middle east is in everyone's interest. Therefore, the entire world from France, China to Syria, should play a role in resolving the situation. There has to be a part for the UN too. But this means that the US must share the spoils. Share the decision making. Share the redevelopment projects, and most important, share the oil.
I watched a smug Senator Mitch McConnell, the minority leader, tell America last week that although mistakes were made in Iraq, the Bush policies are working because we have succeeded in preventing another domestic terror attack.
If Al Queda wanted to strike the US, they could do it at any time, any where, and there is little either republicans or democrats could do about it. Not even Jack Bauer could stop them.
That’s not to say there aren’t good people working in the government, or that they haven’t foiled several terrorist attempts already. I’m sure they have, and they’ll stop others too, but the only way to end terrorism is to create a world where people have more reason to live than die. At the moment, much of the planet simply has little hope or opportunity. From Darfur to Port-au-Prince – even parts of the South Bronx, the situation is so hopeless for so many, suicide becomes a viable option, a great career move.
There is enough wealth on this planet to ensure that nobody goes hungry. I'm not so far to the left to think it's all capitilism's fault. But seeing the deposed Home Depot President walk away last week with hundreds of millions is just as disgusting as seeing a deposed dictator live the high-life in South America. The system is broke and it contributes to further this cycle of terrorism by creating another generation of children with no hope.
US policies continue to alienate rather than embrace. Somalia is the latest example. For over a decade, we’ve ignored the plight of those living there, but as soon as an Islamist leadership came to power, we backed the war lords, and now we’re engaging in air strikes. I read an article this week about how the Islamists recruit teenagers for the militia. I’m sure they do, but the war lords have been doing that since the start of the civil war; but that got no coverage. This AP article ran throughout the nation. It was propaganda, a subtle vehicle to promote the idea that Islamist regimes are all evil, that only they would do something so heinous as to recruit teenagers.
Americans don’t pay attention to details. They’re more interested in 'Deal or No Deal,' than to understanding what’s really going on in Somalia. This upcoming week, most of the US will be more interested in getting to know the new contestants on American Idol, than the new generals who are now in charge of our forces in Iraq.
Is it really that surprising that we’re in this mess?
Deal or no Deal -- 20,000 more troops...
I knew I shouldn't have ordered more wood.
January 7, 2007
It's been so warm in Yaroslavi, a city about 150 miles northeast of Moscow, that Masha the bear, a resident of the city zoo, woke up last month from his hibernation after only a week.
And here in Westport, CT, I sit on my deck with bandana and shades, writing the weekly essay in mid-January. The low hanging grey-and-white clouds march eastward overhead. The sharp-angled sun breaks through and warms my face. It grows dark again, as if the curtains have been drawn. The wind kicks up. It feels like rain, and then those curtians open up and it's blue sky for as far as I can see. I swear it feels like summer.
The two cats are on the Jacuzzi cover, sunbathing too. I don’t know if this is global warming, but it hasn't been this mild in these parts, at this time of year, maybe ever.
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I’m playing in the open mic finals at the Towne Crier, a hip club about an hour from here. Top folkies often play there. Christine Lavin, Chris Smithers, and Leon Redbone are scheduled in the next month. I’m pumped, but it’s at the same time my beloved Eagles are playing the dreaded Giants in the first round of the playoffs. By the time you read this, the game will be over, and my gig will be done; but as I sit here in the hot sun on my deck, I’m hoping that I can get through the show without hearing the score. I’ll have the game taped and I'll watch it when I get home.
Chuck Morgan, the protagonist in my new novel, My Year as a Clown, is also a die-hard Eagle fan. I chronicle the 2003 Eagle season as Chuck tries to find his footing after his wife leaves for another man. The football narrative is about loyalty and commitment.
Claudia disliked sports and never understood why I stuck with the Eagles. “I don’t know anything about your American football," she’d say, "but I know they will lose."
She was right, but I stayed faithful.
"Why don't you support another team?" she had said when we lived in San Francisco while Joe Montana was tearing the league apart.
I tried to explain that it wasn't that easy.
"Just move on," she had said.
This has been one of the more unlikely Eagle seasons. After last year’s disaster where they failed to make the play-offs for the first time in five years, they got off to a tremendous start. Then they nosedived, losing five of six, with McNabb going down with a season-ending injury in week nine. At 5-6, it could look no worse, but somehow they turned it around, winning their last five games. They won the division, taking three on the road – Washington, New York, Dallas – and now they host the Giants in the playoffs.
No matter what happens Sunday night, the Eagles were entertaining this year, but I’d be lying if I said it I'd be okay with a loss to the Giants. The Eagles have hit their stride and are the hottest team in the league. It's this sort of unpredictable year that results in a trip to the Super Bowl.
Why not?
As a Philly fan, I know not to get too carried away. We haven't won a major championship since 1983. The Eagles last won it all in 1960...
But here I am again, thinking this will be our year...
All the best for a great 2007!
January 1, 2007
It's hard to believe 2007 is upon us. Y2K seems like another century. It was.
Instead of doing the standard recap of the year (snzzzz), or resolutions (ugh), I'm going to share my GRE experience, the graduate entrance exam. It's a requirement for MFA programs and I spent the last month preparing.
Thank God it's over. It was like reliving high school -- geometry, simultaneous equations, reading comprehension. All I was missing was homeroom and Mr. Johnson's gym class.
The last standardized test I took was the GMAT back in 1984. I scored in the 96% that year. I'd taken a course, studied my butt off, but in 2006 I simply crammed with a book from Barnes -- I didn't bomb, but I didn't ace it either.
In the 21st century these tests are given on computer and cost $140 bucks. At least the tests are offered daily. You can still take a paper administered version, but only a couple of times a year. I'd missed the last one of '06 because I made the decision to apply to these three MFA programs after my visit to Oxford, Mississippi, back in October.
I practiced at home on my PC to simulate the testing environment and quickly uncovered an issue with the reading comprehension section. The text in reading comp is intentionally dense and obscure. The questions are wordy. It's a timed test (you have roughly a minute per question), so really this section is a verbal scavenger hunt. In a paper based test, I could ace this, but the words just don't jump out at me on screen.
I improved with practice, but the testing center didn't have the nice LCD flat screen that I had at home; they had much older CRTs. My eyes fatigued quick on those screens, and by the time I got through the preliminary questions and tutorial, my eyes were red and throbbing.
I had a splitting headache two hours in, just in time for the most important part of the test, the verbal section. If only I could have popped a couple of aspirin, or drank some water, but everything was prohibited from the testing area including coffee, snacks, even wallets and purses. They actually checked your pockets and there were several video cameras hovering above the cubicles.
I was dying of thirst and I've had a brutal bronchial infection for almost two months. The proctor confiscated my water, but he didn't catch the cough drops I'd slipped into my underwear in anticipation of the pocket search. It was tricky fishing them out without getting caught on camera or looking like a pervert, but I managed.
The computer administered tests had other quirks too. The worst was not being able to skip something for later. Once you moved on, there was no going back.
It was also a smart-ass computer, or CAT as they refered to it: a computer adapted test. This meant questions varied depending on how well you did. If you missed a few early, the computer assumed you were an idiot, and started feeding you easier problems. If you blew the first part of the test, it was impossible to get a top score.
I thought I did well on the first half of the verbal, but I took too much time, and had to rush the 2nd half. And that's where the dreaded reading comprehension section was. I had three passages and by the 2nd I was too far behind. I was forced to guess on numerous questions and made unlucky choices.
When the test was done, I got my scores -- in the old days you had to wait 6-8 weeks. I landed in the 65th percentile on the verbal, a long way off from GMAT '84 -- at least it wasn't a total disaster.
I'm sure I would have done better with a paper test. Hopefully it doesn't matter. The stories I submit are the most important part of the application process. At Iowa, GRE scores aren't even considered.
I'm also hoping to get a break for being an older student.
Still, it was a humbling experience, one I hope never to repeat.
Happy New Year and thanks for stopping by.
I won't be needing this book anymore.
Did you get your cards out in time this year?
December 24, 2006
Everyone loves getting holiday cards, but most of us hate sending them. It's a chore, a duty, something that is put off until the last second. "I've got to get to those cards," a friend says as if putting off a root canal.
Regardless of whether you loath or love the annual card dispensing, we do appear to fall into a handful of sending categories.
The one most maligned is the annual Xmas letter, the family recap. These have reached the heights of the fruit cake in the cringe-and-shudder holiday category. I still think the fruit cake wins out as long as letters are kept to one page and well written. But I do wonder why those that send them out appear so oblivious of this lowly status?
Thank God the email card has gone the way of boy bands.
But it's the untouched by human hands card that bugs me the most --you know the ones, they arrive with the computer address label and preprinted card, typically with a snap of the family, or worse, just the kids. Since no one took the time to even write the address, at no point in the process was I thought about. For all I know, I could have been long forgotten, but still on a list that hasn't been culled in years.
As far as I'm concerned, those cards don't count.
At least the hand written address involves a visible review process. Writing my name at the top of the inside of the card would be better, but in my book, the short, personalized note is the card I most appreciate receiving. I only send this sort nowadays, but when I was a vice presidentat HMV Records, I had to send a small forest worth of cards to business acquaintances. The process was ridiculous. My secretary would generate the list and put a pile of cards on my desk to sign. Even if I wanted to write something personal I couldn't because the cards weren't matched to the envelopes.
In the last weeks of December my mail would be clogged with cards from people who had done the same thing. A meaningless exercise -- I would blindly say to whomever I was talking to, thanks for the card, and they'd return the platitude, both of us not having a clue on whether we'd sent or received one.
Things are less complicated now, but since I combined my email addresses with my real-world address book, I've lost the plot. I don't know how to find addresses or make lists anymore, so this year I'm doing it by memory.
But no matter what system I have, it never fails that a few folks will send a card that wasn't on my list. When it arrives with that hand written address and personalized note, I will feel awful. But if they're really a friend, they'll cut me a break and keep me on their list for next year.
Happy Holidays to everyone that sent me a card, even the preprinted sort with the computer address label…
rsw
I dug this out of the scrap book. They used to call me Bob in those days, but the guitar still came out of the case on occasion.
December 18, 2006
It’s Hanukkah. I was a raised Jewish, sort of. I never got bar mitzvahed, but I did go to Hebrew School. We celebrated Christmas and always had a tree, but we burned candles on a menorah too.
I don’t even own a menorah now. I won’t get a tree this year, but in '05 when my mom and step dad came up, I had one. He’s a non-practicing catholic, so there were no wise men or a manger at the house, just tinsel and flashing colored lights.
For years the holidays had nothing do with religion anyway. When I worked in record retailing, this was our busiest time of year. We put in long hours. We got zero time off. But if it was a good year, we’d make a big bonus, and even Santa couldn’t top that.
The first year HMV was in New York, we spent a fortune on Christmas decorations. We had two huge stores on the upper east and west sides of Manhattan. We hired a big-time designer. The stores rivaled Macy’s Xmas look, but the Jewish customers demanded to know where the Hanukkah decorations were. Rabbis wrote letters. Others boycotted. Articles appeared in the local papers. Our chairman in London was contacted by an irate shopper.
I wasn’t officially part of the US team that first season. The board was all Brits. HMV was owned by EMI, a UK company. There weren’t enough Jews in all of England to make the fuss those Manhattan Jews did that year. The executive team was nonplussed. They scrambled to dig up dradles, menorahs, and blue and silver stars. Apologies were made and discounts given. HMV never made that mistake again.
I had one of the best jobs at Christmas – I got to be a DJ in the Manhattan stores -- spinning discs, talking up product, engaging customers. We had these fabulous DJ booths in our Manhattan stores. The sound systems at that time were state of the art.
With Tower Records folding up, this will be the last Christmas for large record retailers in the United States. The digital world accelerated the superstore demise, but it was the discounters like Best Buy and Wal Mart that made record retailing unprofitable. When a competitor sells product below cost, you can’t make it up in volume.
I don’t miss that work, but I did enjoy the camaraderie of the team. We had a lot of great employees. And I do miss the buzz of the stores. Don’t get me wrong, I love the digital age and the convenience of downloading. What’s not to like about Amazon and iTunes? But as a kid, there was nothing like an afternoon in a Tower, walking down aisles of product, rifling through the browsers, checking out girls. Kids today will never know how cool that really was, and that's too bad.
You'll have to take my word that this is Brent and I at the first Cherry Hill East Folk Festival back in 1976. I also produced the show. It became an annual tradition for over a decade.
December 11, 2006
It's the season to be jolly, to reach out to loved ones as well as to those who might not be so beloved. We shouldn’t need a reason to let those we care about know how much we appreciate them, but we do. Maybe Christmas isn't such a bad thing, even if the jingle of the holidays is more about the sound of cash registers than sleigh bells.
I'm a better giver than receiver. But here comes another holiday season with me still struggling to make ends meet. I hope that my actions throughout the year will make up for not buying many presents. It feels cheesy to even say that, but that's the way it is.
My situation is by choice, not necessity, and those that know me well, understand that. They respect what I'm doing and why. And that means more than any gifts I might get.
Having said that, I was the recipient of an amazing act of generosity this week. One of my oldest and dearest high school friends -- Brent Marshall Hess, sent me a beautiful electric guitar. It was surprising and quite touching. All too often gifts are given out of obligation or with anticipation of something in return -- this was a selfless act from the heart.
Back in the day, a crowd used to hang out after school at his house. His folks were divorced. Mom worked and didn't get home until six. It was party central. I spent many a hazy afternoon playing guitar, listening to music, smoking pot and kissing girls at his place.
A few weeks ago I wrote about camping out for a '75 Who show. Brent and I spent a night on the steps of the Spectrum for the 2nd Who show, based on what we discovered the next day, was an unfound rumor.
After high school Brent moved to Michigan for college. I attended Syracuse. I made my way through Canada for a spring break visit. We caught an amazing Johnny Winter/Muddy Waters concert. One day we were stuck somewhere, hitchhiking. It was freezing with two-feet of snow on the ground. The sky was heavy and gray. The winds kicked up. I said something snotty. He said something back. It could have been the other way around, but either way, it didn't take long for the two of us to start slugging it out. Later that night, when we got back to his dorm, we smoked a joint, drank a few beers, and strummed guitar.
We both dropped out of college. I ended up in California. He returned home to New Jersey. Then we lost contact.
Six years later I was in San Francisco on a job interview. I was late and lost and in a panic. I walked into a building for directions. I entered an office on the first floor and asked the receptionist for help. Brent was behind the desk, doing some carpentry work. When he heard my voice, he stood. Instant recognition. We couldn't believe it. What were the odds?
Brent was a good carpenter, but he wanted more out of life. In his mid-thirties, he decided to go back to school to become a veterinarian. It was a gutsy move. I was impressed that he was willing to suck it up to make such a major life change.
I was at his wedding four years ago. I got to see his Mom and his sister. I hadn't seen them in over twenty years.
Brent's now a partner in a practice in Long Beach. He's married with two kids. He still finds a little time to strum guitar. Last May he came to see me read at Orange Coast College. And this weekend he sent me the guitar. I think this is his way of supporting me, giving me the encouragement to keep going. I do feel a bit awkward accepting such a gift, given how many in the world are in much greater need. But it was a wonderful, kind and loving gesture, just the sort of thing I needed to pick me up this holiday season. I really appreciated it.
I hope everyone reading this is as lucky as I am to have such a good friend. Thanks Brent. I love you.
Happy Holidays everyone.
Here's the guitar that arrived over the weekend -- she's a beauty and sounds great.
Reading glasses are now stationed in essential areas of the house...
December 4, 2006
My eagle eyes are failing. I can still read a street sign from a far, but in a nice restaurant with candles flickering, I can’t read a damn thing on the menu. It’s as if there’s a font conspiracy, a madcap scheme to shrink every written word on the planet so that I won’t be able to read it.
Of course reading glasses would solve the situation. I bought a pair of drugstore glasses for fifteen bucks last year. They work great, but I need to have them in reach when I want to read something, which means, I can’t go anywhere without them -- as if that’s going to happen.
I should buy ten pairs and keep one in each room. A pair would come in handy when I'm on the toilet.
I’ve worked on the computer a lot lately. My eyes felt tired, weak, and blurry. I went to the eye doctor.
“We haven’t seen you since 2002,” the doctor says, shaking his head. “I need to see you every year.”
“My insurance is crap,” I tell him. “I’m self-employed, money’s tight.”
He frowns. “This is just like an annual physical, you can’t afford not to.”
Hmm, I think.
He proceeds to give me a thorough exam. I don’t doubt his abilities, but his bedside manner is brusque. He’s harried and speaks as if on auto-pilot.
“You’ve done this a few times,” I say.
He smirks.
But he does test my drugstore glasses. “They aren’t pretty,” I say, “but they do the trick.”
No response.
At the end of the exam, he scribbles me a prescription. “You can see the guy out front for the glasses.”
It’s a posh shop filled with designer spectacles at high prices. I’d need several thousand dollars to station glasses throughout my house.
I walk back to the doc’s office. “Sorry,” I say. “What’s the difference between these glasses and yours?”
“Minimal,” he replies.
I smile, turn, and walk straight out to the parking lot. I head over to the drugstore.
I’ve spoken to a couple of doctors since my appointment and they said at my age if I’m not having eye trouble, there’s no need for an annual pilgrimage to the eye doctor; especially if I get a yearly physical.
When a doctor tells you something, it’s tough not to believe it. How’s a civilian to know what’s really necessary?
The eye doctor says come every year. The dentist wants to see me every six months. The general practioner says at my age I have to come yearly for a check-up. The apple industry association still claims eating one everyday keeps the damn doctor away. How does that factor into all of this?
And yet my insurance doesn’t cover eye or teeth; it makes no contributions for fruits or vegetables either; it does, however, cover 25% of an annual physical, but only once every two years.
It's a struggle to navigate our healthcare system, but at least I can read the fine print of the my insurance policy with these handy fifteen-dollar-drugstore glasses…
1975 - I was a senior in high school and waited in line a week for tickets.
November 27, 2006
That was thirty-one years ago. I was number sixteen in line and scored second row center. It was a frigid October morning that day when over four-thousand people, most of them behind me, bought tickets. An hour later I was taking the SATs to get into college.
This week I'm studying for the GRE, the graduate admissions test. It's a requirement for the writing fellowship I'm applying for. Coincidentally, the Who are appearing in Bridgeport on Tuesday, only ten minutes from my house. No need to worry that I'll spend a week in line stoned. There are plenty of tickets still available.
Back then I cut school, but I did get a spotter to hold my place so I could take a math test. My mom thought I was staying at friends. I did homework in line. I took practice SAT tests. I also smoked a lot of pot. Needless to say, my exam result wasn't brilliant.
There won't be any test conflicts this time around. Nowadays you can choose the day to take the test because it's administered on computer at official testing centers. I can't recall what it cost in the 70's, but I'm sure it was no where near the hundred and thirty bucks it is in 2006.
Back in '75 the Who sold out the Spectrum in Philadelphia within a few hours. Center section on the floor cost $8.50. This week the best seats in Bridgeport were $200 and they went fast, but there are plenty of $50 seats still available.
What does one do in line for a week? We huddled about trashcans that burned refuse. We scrounged wood. We swapped rock and roll stories. We played guitar. We sang Who songs. We talked about how disgusted we were with the republicans. On occasion we'd warm up in someone's car. A treat was a run to Pats Steaks.
Everyone at school knew I'd scored those tickets. The next week when my step-sister had a party, one of her friends stole them. I never found out who the culprit was, but I always suspected Richard Samlin. For all I know, he ended up in jail for bank robbery
I wrote to the Spectrum and explained the situation. I knew the guards and the ticket manager because I'd been in line for so long. They issued me passes. Can you imagine that happening today?
The night of the show was quite a reunion in that center section. Those first rows were full of friends. Many of the ushers were guards that had patrolled the Spectrum steps where we'd camped. They already knew about my situation. They said not to worry; they weren't going to honor the tickets when someone showed up.
Two people with my tickets appeared, bought from scalpers. The guards made them sit elsewhere.
This was the last American show of '75, and local critics called it the concert of the year. Upfront it was pandemonium. This was before that Who show in Ohio where kids got trampled to death. The ushers were overwhelmed and lost control as thousands rushed the stage. We were forced to stand on our seats. Midway through the show my girlfriend fell. We retreated to higher ground(I wrote in detail about this in the short story The Chaperone, which appeared earlier this year in the Orange Coast Review).
I doubt the Who will destroy the stage this week, as they did that night in Philly.
I've got more studying to do, so I better get back. The last time I did geometry was probably when I studied for that SAT. This time around I'm studying sober.
This is the pass issued by the Spectrum to replace my 2nd row center seats.
It's a great time of year unless you're a turkey.
November 20, 2006
I couldn't figure out why the supermarket was so crowded today, and then it dawned on me, Thanksgiving. I've been so focused on writing that the holiday almost snuck up on me.
Maybe it's the weather. We've had lots of sixty-degree plus days the past several weeks. Even today, it's warmish.
I've had four invites for Thanksgiving, which is great since I don't have family nearby, or a girlfriend at the moment. Last Thanksgiving was a debacle for lots of reasons that aren't worth going into. Suffice it to say, this year I want to spend time with real friends.
It's been a tough few months. I've had my new novel circulating and nobody took it. I got lots of encouraging rejection, but few specifics on what to do. One agent said she liked it a lot, but was still passing. She was unsure why. Perhaps the beginning was too slow. Another said there was too much exposition. Another said there wasn't enough.
I hadn't read it since early September, so a few weeks back I took a long hard look at the manuscript. It was coming in at 465 double-spaced pages. I decided to get rid of the back-story, speed up the early pages, and delete the opening scene. I worked around the clock for the last ten days. I cut over eighty pages. I tweaked certain scenes and cleaned up sentences. I clarified and embellished where necessary. I had a good friend review the first hundred pages in detail. The result is a much leaner, meaner manuscript.
I've already got an agent lined up to read it. This week the new improved My Year as a Clown hits the pavement.
This week I also started studying for the GRE. I haven't done math without a calculator since 1985. When I broke out the study guide, I grew despondent. It was horrifying. I couldn't remember anything. It made me question why I'm bothering with graduate school.
Time spent studying could be used instead to write, but an MFA could also help my writing. If I score one of these fellowships where they pay me to go to school, I can't lose because I'd get lots of time to write. And a shot at working with Barry Hannah is truly a once in a lifetime opportunity. Although Barry is supporting my application, he can't guarantee me a slot, so I'm also applying to Iowa and University of Texas at Austin -- they are both excellent schools too and I'd would be a privilege to attend any of the three.
So my pencils are sharpened and I'm dusting off the cobwebs in that part of my brain that once knew how to do geometry, algebra, and fractions.
Damn, it's dusty in here…
Chris Shays is a good man, but this year he should have been voted out of office. It didn't happen. Because the democrats won big, no one is asking why...
November 13, 2006
I was thrilled at the election. It turns out the country isn't as far right as everyone thought. Many of us are either conservative democrats or liberal republicans. Most were unhappy with the war. It wasn't a good year for moderate republicans either, that is, except here in Fairfield County, where Christopher Shays hung on to his congressional seat. The rest of the country felt it was important to send a signal to Washington -- why didn't it happen here?
Some folks will say that it was Shay's character that got him the votes, his record in office, that he's a great guy, a mensch. I voted for the man since the early nineties -- he is all of those things. But this election wasn't about local politics, it was about the war and the overall direction in Washington. Fairfield County should have followed the rest of the country, but it didn't.
Why?
Two things -- the war is too far removed from much of the population here. But perhaps more important, money, moolah, cashola.
Housing might be in the dumps, but Wall Street is booming. There will be record bonuses paid this year. Folks in this neck of the woods couldn't face repeal of those high-income tax breaks put in by Bush.
Is it fair to say that these people don't care about global warming, the kids dying in Iraq, or the millions in this country that can't afford health insurance. If you asked them point blank, of course they'd say they care. Most would mean it too. But if they have to make sacrifices, like putting off that kitchen remodel, or that third house in the south of France, well that's another thing.
The irony is that even with tax break repeal, many here could afford all of that and still not notice the tax burden.
What's most disheartening is that nobody is asking the question. Everyone is back to what they do around here. Kids have to get to school. Folks work out at the gym. The 6:12 am train to the city is as packed as ever. Hordes of Mexican gardeners are blowing leaves. McMansions are still under construction.
Kids still die in Iraq.
This Armani suit cost over a thousand bucks twelve years ago -- at that price, the damn thing should never go out of date.
November 6, 2006
I finally got around to watching the Jackson Pollock film starring Ed Harris. There's Peggy Guggenheim living in extreme luxury while Pollock toiled day to day.
Things haven't changed much for artists. The value placed on artistic skills is capricious, the odds of making enough to raise a family so small, one is almost certain to live below the poverty line. That's why artists moonlight, doing what they can to get by, to keep at their art.
I've been fortunate to have had eight unencumbered years of writing fiction and songs. I worked hard to get that shot, I had a little luck too, but that's run out, and it's time to face facts, I need a job.
I heard a hit songwriter in Nashville say, "Take a menial job to preserve your brain power for writing."
There's a lot to be said for that, but I once earned in day what most menial jobs pay in a month. I can't see myself behind the cash register at Barnes and Noble, unless it's undercover for character research.
My means are modest, I drive a twelve year old car, but I've still got a mortgage -- interest rates have doubled my home equity payment. Last week I wrote about the oil hikes. Property taxes jumped too.
I was busy in the studio this month, and I picked up a free-lance writing gig at Poets and Writers, but it's not enough to keep the house here in Westport, CT, where most people earn well into six-figures.
If I have to get my butt back to work, I will, but I'll need some new clothes.
Although I was on the board of directors of HMV Records, mostly, I wore casual. On occasion I met with heavy weights like Donald Trump, the mayor of Philadelphia, the master architect, I.M. Pei. On those days I wore Armani suits, Egyptian-cotton custom shirts, hundred-dollar silk ties.
I dusted off a few of those Armanis and took them into local retailer Ed Mitchell's, an institution here in Westport, to see if I could get them refitted.
Mitchell's is the king of customer service. Bill Mitchell was at the door to greet me. "Would you like some coffee? What can I help you with?"
I wanted to see if I could get those suits readjusted in hopes of saving a few bucks. "No problem," Bill said.
He introduced me to Mark Taylor, a guy who has worked there twenty-two years. I put on one of the Armani jackets; that suit cost twelve-hundred bucks.
"How old is that?" Mark asked.
It was over ten, but I said eight.
"It's dated, shoulders today are tighter, it's a more tailored fit, the buttons are a good four inches higher."
He gave me an equivalent Armani to try on. It looked good, and it should since it cost almost two grand.
I asked it we could tailor my existing suits, update them. There were a few options, he said, but nothing could be done with the buttons.
Mark asked what the suits were for. I need at least one for interviews, but the clothing depends on the job I seek. Problem is, I haven't figured that out. I’m still hoping that someone will pick-up my novel. There are more freelance writing opportunities to explore. If I can hold off formal interviewing until the post-Christmas sales, I could save a bundle.
We decided I should try on that old Armani to see if there was anything the tailor could do. I was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and casual shoes. Mark gave me a white oxford shirt and a pair of dress shoes, to make sure I had a good fit. I came out of the dressing room with that shirt draped over the trousers.
"Tuck in the shirt," he said.
I laughed. "I haven't tucked a shirt in for almost eight years."
"You're like the college grads that come in here. I've got to tell them what to do."
And there you have it: at forty-eight and still mistaken for an irresponsible college kid.
I could get depressed over this, but maybe it indicates there's still hope for me as a writer….
My Nana turns 96 on Halloween. This photo with my grandfather and mom was taken in 1949.
October 30, 2006
The leaves are falling, daylight savings is over, there's an early morning frost on the dormant grass. Soon puddles will ice over and I'll be wearing gloves. Earlier this week I was actually sitting at the computer with a jacket and scarf. For three days I froze, it felt like an ice box in my house.
I grew depressed not understanding how it had turned so quickly. Then I realized my heater was broken. I was just so busy, working on that Poets & Writers article, the studio was booked almost every day too. I knew something was odd, me and the cats huddled up at night, our teeth chattering.
The boiler conked out when I got a delivery on Monday. Here in the northeast it's oil heat. I've got a five-hundred gallon tank. The fresh oil stirs up the sediment in the tank and on occasion that clogs the system and it shuts down. I didn't realize until Thursday.
To top it off, I got the season's first heating bill -- over five hundred and sixty-three bucks. I'm fixed at $2.66 a gallon. Last year it was $2.16, the year before that: $1.69; it was 85 cents back in 1995. It's enough to make me sick, or at least wear two sweaters and throw an extra blanket on the bed.
I just bought a glass door for my fireplace. Once the fire goes out, the flue sucks out the warm air, and in the morning I come downstairs to a freezing living room and kitchen. This year I'll be able to close it off when I go to bed and keep the heat in.
I thought about getting a pellet stove, but it uses over five-hundred dollars in pellets a season, the stove costs two grand. I'd hate to give up my fireplace. There's nothing like the crackle of oak, the smell of mesquite wafting up through the house on a cold winter day. A half-a-cord of wood only runs a hundred-and-ten bucks.
My Nana, over in England, turns 96 on Halloween. She was born in 1910, the year of Halley's Comet. She's lived through two world wars, the invention of radio, TV, the Internet too. When she was a kid the only food in existence was organic food. Nobody paid a premium for free range chickens or eggs, that's just the way it was. It's hard for me to imagine what she feels like, given what she's seen. Happy Birthday Nana!
Thankfully, the election is coming to an end. Here in Connecticut the republicans ran an ad saying that Diane Farrell had befriended the Taliban. I mean really, Diane Farrell is no saint, but a friend of the Taliban, please, I doubt she could pick out Afghanistan on a map, let alone be in cahoots with terrorists. It made Shays look like an idiot, which to his credit, he admitted.
Catch any political ad nowadays and one can only conclude that all politicians must think that we the electorate are schmucks. Mudslinging has become a high art form. But since 9/11 there's an even more diabolical strategy: keep an eye on the terror alert color scheme this week. Also, look for gas prices to rise post election.
Barry Hannah in his library, Oxford, Mississippi.
October 23, 2006
You can’t imagine the looks I get from friends when I tell them I’m thinking about moving to Mississippi. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. A lot has to happen before this becomes a reality; my three-day trip to Oxford was a first step. Before applying to the Ole Miss MFA program, I needed to see what the place was like, to make sure I could live there.
Oxford is a small university town. Courthouse Square is the hub with stately southern, well preserved buildings. Two-story wood structures with clapboard porches, house independent bookstores, quality restaurants, student haunts, antique shops, and a handful of bars featuring live music.
The University has excellent facilities, the campus looks great, there are modern buildings and well-maintained old ones too. Its spread out across a wooded campus and rolling hills. Football is king, but literature is a close second.
Mississippi is the poorest state in the union, but it’s steeped in a deep, rich literary tradition. Some say the country’s greatest writers were born here. The list is impressive: Faulkner, Welty, Williams, Brown, Ford, Spencer, Bass, and of course Barry Hannah, one of America’s great living writers.
The opportunity to apprentice with Barry is unique. We met this summer at Sewanee. Until I’d met Barry, it had never crossed my mind to get an MFA. I was unaware that some places offer full scholarships as well as living expenses. John Grisham sponsors several fellowships at Ole Miss.
Naturally, it’s competitive. Barry can’t guarantee a slot, there’s a committee, an application process, I'd have to take the GRE. That might kill it right there, I can't add or subtract without a calculator. I don't remember algebra or geometry. It cost $130 to take the test nowadays. But it’s quite an honor to have someone like Barry encouraging me to apply.
Some highlights of the trip -- visiting Faulkner's house. Having lunch with Barry and his wife. Sitting in on a class. Seeing Barry's home, his library, the place where he writes. I also visited Memphis, an hour to the north. I made a pilgrimage to Graceland and Sun Records, the birthplace of rock and roll.
Oxford, Mississippi, it's a great place to visit, it might also be a wonderful place to hang my hat and pen. Last night I went on-line and ordered an application...
Barry took me over to William Faulkner's house -- what a treat to have a great southern writer show me one of the south's legendary literary homes.
Amazon has created a way to present my favorite books and CDs to visitors on my site. From time to time I'll feature friends and teachers, or something that has taken my breath away. If you want to buy something, Amazon will sell it to you. I'm the filter. It's a cool way to introduce you to the artists that have most influenced my work.
Speaking of which, this week I'm off to Oxford, Mississippi to spend a few days with Barry Hannah. I met Barry this summer at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. One day I took a ride off the mountain with him and his dog, Nell, to a nearby Wal Mart. I wrote about that a few months back. Barry and I have stayed in contact. I'm going to Ole Miss to check out the literary scene and talk about my writing.
While I'm there, I'll be meeting another esteemed writer, Tom Franklin. He wrote a critically acclaimed short story collection called Poachers. His most recent novel, Hell at the Breech, is about an Alabama gang of vigilante/criminals in the late 1800's. The book has received rave reviews. I was hooked from the opening page. I'm a big Larry McMurtry fan, this is in that tradition.
On the Connecticut political front, Shays and Farrell duked it out in their first of eleven debates for US Congress. Shays said in one interaction that this isn't a national election, it's about what we can do for the district. In a different time, I would have agreed, but not this year. Farrell retorted: everyone knows that this is a national election. She's right.
The Nobel Peace prize was awarded to one of the founders of third-world micro-finance. The concept is simple enough. Lend poor people fifty bucks, give them training, hold them accountable for the loan. I've seen this in Haiti -- women given cash to buy a few chickens, seed, or flour. They sell products at markets, they earn profit, they payback the loan; sometimes they borrow more to expand. In the process they develop self-sufficiency, they learn marketable skills, they gain self-esteem.
I'm working on a piece about a Haitian woman that was lent fifty dollars. I will detail what she bought, sold, and how it changed her life. When its done, I'll post it here.
Time to pack, I'm heading south...
rsw
That's me at a San Diego recording session circa 1980.
October 9, 2006
Since the dawn of rock and roll teenagers have learned to play guitar to attract the opposite sex. In eighth grade I went out with a ninth-grade girl. No way a boy does that without a cherry-red Harmony electric. A guitar overcomes a lot of personality quirks, but it doesn’t trump a senior with a car. I was devastated when Christine broke up with me, but my first song came out of that heartbreak and it helped with the healing. Although my newly found status as a songwriter was no threat to a guy with a driver's license, it did put me ahead of mere guitar players.
Performing in coffee houses kept the social life active through college, but writing also allowed me to explore feelings, I got to know myself better. Soon after graduation I was married. Tragically, it was time to grow up, get a job, put my guitar in the closet.
Twenty years later I was a vice president for a division of a major record company, wishing I'd never stopped playing. I bought a couple of classic, vintage guitars, dusted off my old Martin too. I rediscovered songwriting. I took guitar lessons, attended workshops, I wrote my wife a couple of sappy love songs. She said that’s nice, then bought me a pair of headphones. We’re divorced now, but the issue was much larger than me and those guitars.
Now that I’m single again, writing songs takes on a new dimension. It’s not the means to score women it was in my misspent youth, rather an additional way to express myself. Recently I studied with Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. They taught me how to dig deep for inspiration, find serendipity. I learned the nuts and bolts too.
Marshall McLuhan said the medium is the message. Songs are potent vehicles, but they are subject to misinterpretation. Sometimes when you write a song for someone, the result isn’t as you expect. I learned this lesson the hard way back in high school.
In tenth grade I had the hots for Donna Duclose, but she was going out with Alex Savage, an eleventh grader with a Camaro. One night Donna and I hung out behind the gym and started kissing. I wrote What Do You Do?. I made her a cassette copy:
What do you do
When your mind is confused
You don’t know what’s going on
But you know you’re the fuse
Savage got a hold of the tape. He drove over in that fast car with a buddy. They burned a couple of wheelies in front of my parent’s house. They jumped out of the Camaro and beat me up. That was the end of me and Donna.
Almost thirty years later, with several years of so-called serious songwriting under my belt, I put my new found craft to work. My marriage was on the rocks and I wrote Going for a Ride: in an attempt to get things back on track:
I want to feel like I did that time we met
When the wind blew through our hair
We drove all day with the top rolled down
Like new found millionaires
My wife never heard it because she left me for another guy before I could play it for her. No song was going to get us back from that.
The divorce wasn’t pretty, but it provided a great source of material for writing. My first few dates after two decades worth of marriage were a disaster, but eventually I met someone that was worthy of a song. Gail and I had similar tastes in music and during the holidays I gave her a recording of a tune she inspired. The song wasn’t for her, but that was a subtle distinction she failed to grasp despite my awkward explanation. She heard it once and fell in love. I blame that damn song for ruining what was a good situation. We both knew it was too soon for me to get into something deep, but I should’ve known better than to write that song.
I’ve written several others for women since, but I’m more cautious about sharing. Maybe She Loves Me was about Nadine, my yoga instructor. I really liked her and I thought she dug me too, but she refused to go out, saying she didn't date students. We had great chemistry, a real connection, so I wrote this:
Maybe she loves me
But she don't know it
Maybe she loves me
Just can't show it -- maybe that's it
Maybe she loves me
But she can't risk a lot
Maybe she loves me
Maybe not
I never played it for Nadine because I valued our friendship, I loved her class. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that. Today we're still good friends. Looking back on how things were, it’s clear that if she'd heard that song, the answer would've been: Not.
Cool Things Down was about a fiery relationship last year. Jules and I burned like a fourth of July sparkler, it was hot, passionate, short-lived. This was inspired by our first fight:
And when you hear the sound of thunder
Don’t run away
Baby, give it one more day
Cause when it rains
It will cool things down
Nothing could have cooled down that affair, Jules ran at the first crack of thunder.
Last week I wrote I Can’t Fall. It was inspired by Sara, a beautiful songwriter I met this summer at a workshop. She's smart, funny, warm, she has an angelic voice and plays a great honky-tonk guitar. We have so much in common that it scared me, but it also gave me an idea for a song. I took a gamble and sent an mp3 to her via email (she doesn’t live locally).
I Can't Fall is about the fear of exposing the heart, that feeling of vulnerability when you’re unsure if the other person is feeling the same. I probably shouldn’t have sent this, the love pundits would say it’s too soon. And yet I know Sara likes me, but this could cause her to put on the breaks. Oh well, it’s too late now:
I Can’t Fall
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
She’s a sports car with a rag top
She’s the sound of a mountain stream
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
I’m a forest after the fire
I’m the eye of a hurricane
And I have walked a thousand miles
To avoid love’s pain
Cause I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
There’s a second chance
For broken hearts that still believe
It’s a simple dance
Anyone can learn this dance of love
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
And she’d be worth it, of that I’m certain
She’d be a star on any team
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
If I let her in
I’ll fall in love
The song was supposed to let Sara know I thought she was terrific, that despite my baggage, I still believed 'Love' was possible. She liked it, but had a few melodic suggestions (that’s the dynamic of going out with a fellow songwriter). They were good ideas and I took them on board. But things felt different between us. She called less frequently, and when we did talk, she seemed preoccupied. Long distance relationships are never easy. I thought the song would boost her confidence to take a chance, but she pulled back. Did the song accelerate the inevitable? Maybe.
Some people believe getting a girl is a lot like fishing -- you’ve got to know how to handle that reel: bring ‘em in too fast or too slow and you’ll lose the catch. When I was a kid, love songs were an essential tool in my bait-and-tackle box. We talked of catching women the way Hemingway would write about the chase for marlin off the coast of Cuba.
There’s no doubt that writing love songs requires that same deft hand of a fisherman, but nowadays for me, getting a girl isn’t sport, it's certainly no game. And yet all too often it feels as if it is. I get sucked into playing with no idea what the rules are. But I’m not alone, I don’t think anyone knows. This engagement between two people is haphazard, with undetermined boundaries, the playing field is littered with causalities, and both sides all too often walk away losers.
I might not have a clue on how to catch fish, or play this game of love, but at least the songwriting provides an outlet, a means to cope with the joy and heartache of relationships.
This is the first time since mid-July that I’m home for more than five days in a row. It takes about a week to find my feet, to get back into a routine. When I worked full-time, I was on the road a lot – Tokyo, London, Sydney. I once commuted to Toronto every week from Westport, leaving the house on a Monday at 5 AM, returning Friday around 9 PM. I don’t miss that.
I took a yoga class each day this week, sometimes two. Although my ability to hold postures was far short of where I was prior to this travel, I’m far enough along in my practice to know that’s okay. I now have the strength to retreat into child’s pose when necessary. Last year I hurt my back pushing instead of listening to my body.
I didn’t get a lot of writing done this week. A few years ago that would have caused panic, but I went with it. I did a lot of cleaning instead. Buried in file cabinets were pages of early drafts and notes on songs, short stories and novels. I saved eight years worth of work, even illegible scribble. None saw the light of day since it was filed, so I tossed it all, over five-thousand pages.
I also found articles on writing, notes from conferences, snippets from song classes, things that I’m sure are very useful, but I’ve never looked at a single page, so out they went. Six large garbage bags were delivered to the Westport dump on Friday.
This week my songs were posted on the 615 Music site down in Nashville. They are part of a song catalog aimed at the film/tv market. 615 has been in that business for over twenty years. They wrote a theme song for NBC’s Today Show.
I’ve spent my whole life hanging out with great musicians so I’ve hooked up lots of my friends and acquaintances. It’s unlikely that we’ll get rich on this deal, but a little cash, a little exposure, it never hurts. It’s one of many things an artist can do to get ahead. If you, or anyone you know, has great original music with vocals, shoot me an email, I’m in need of all types of music.
Also this week:
Poets and Writers Magazine hired me to write an article about the three most important writers conferences – Squaw Valley, Sewanee, and Bread Loaf.
I’d pitched them on a handful of ideas over the years, all were politely rejected, but last month they did print a letter I wrote about an article they’d run on web sites. On Friday they contacted me about writing this piece on the big three writers’ conferences. It just goes to show that persistence does pay off.
The village road committee takes a breather under an acacia tree. I'm on the right in the safari gear.
September 25, 2005
I worked on my Haiti story while in Nashville and Chapel Hill, North Carolina this week.
Drove through the smoky mountains and had lunch in the funky arts town of Ashville. David Wilcox, one of my favorite songwriters hails from this part of the world –Asheville Hardware is a great CD, the titled track is about super-sized corporate retailers like Lowes, putting the local guy out of business. I didn’t find the hardware store, probably not enough people heeded David’s advice to shop local. Ashville had gentrified.
I was mostly writing this week, hanging out in Chapel Hill. I did catch up with friends who teach at UNC: Randall Kenan, an amazing fiction writer, and Alan Shapiro, an incredibly talented poet. Randall and Alan also teach at Bread Loaf and Sewanee. That’s where we met. Check out their work – its thought provoking and entertaining.
I also hooked up with Steve Gilbert, a buddy who I’d met at Sewanee. He's a Desert Storm vet and lots of folks were seeking his view on this war at the conference. Steve is about to quit his job to write full-time. It takes courage to make such a leap and I applaud his commitment. Unless you’re independently wealthy, no sane person would quit their job to do this. It’s nearly impossible to make a living. Most writers are attached to a university to provide a base salary and benefits. But Steve’s wife supports the move, he’s got some savings. I’m rooting for him. He’s talented, focused, and a hard worker.
On a political note:
This Sunday a report came out stating that the Iraq war had created a new generation of terrorists. Contrary to what the administration claims, this conflict hasn’t made us safer. I don’t know how anyone could have thought otherwise. The republican response was clever: if it wasn’t the Iraq war, it would be something else that would generate more terrorists (John McCain said it). He’s right -- you can never totally eliminate terror. However, this war has increased the breadth and speed of the breeding ground by a margin too large to calculate. That’s something McCain failed to say.
How about Bill Clinton on Fox News Sunday morning?
In Haiti -- Tap Taps are the main means of public transport. I ended up on one at four AM out on the central plateau.
The hillside slums of Port-au-Prince have no plumbing or electricity.
September 18, 2006
This week I compiled my notes from the Haiti trip. I also made a visit to the tropical disease doctor in Manhattan. It’s a requirement for all returnees of a Concern third world sojourn. Lots of folks feel fine overseas, but when they return home, they get sick. The visit to the doctor was a precaution.
Dr. Cahill is a good friend of Concern’s founder Aengus Finucane. They go back to 1968 when Aengus was the parish priest of Uli in Nigeria. Doc Cahill founded the Department of International Health and Tropical Medicine at the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland. A visit to his Fifth Avenue office is like stepping into a museum. One room is filled with old leather bound volumes about tropical disease, there’s African wood carvings scattered about, old maps hang on walls above metal filing cabinets.
Several priests and nuns were in the waiting room, I assumed missionaries. A young man was headed to West Africa. A woman had just returned from Pakistan. According to the doc, two folks from my Haiti trip had already gotten sick; I feel fine. A woman in our group brought along handi-wipes with 99% germ killer. At each meal, she handed them out. My hands were never as clean as they were in Haiti.
I’m posting a few more pictures this week, some taken by Delia Dunlap. She works at Concern and was a great assistance translating while in Haiti. Some of you might know her dad, Slim; he was the guitar player in the Replacements (he took Bob Stinson’s place in the late 80’s).
It’s tough settling down after a big trip. I’ve captured the raw notes and generated a list of follow-up questions for the folks down in Haiti. I plan on creating profiles of people to highlight the challenges and heroic efforts of the locals as well as Concern staff. I’m also working on a personal essay, utilizing some of the ideas I learned from David Shields while at the Bread Loaf conference.
This was my first trip to a third world country and there were a few moments when I wondered why I was there. We had a few mishaps too. I want to dig deeper into these areas and see what happens.
I’m off to Nashville and North Carolina this week. Mostly this is a pleasure trip, but I’ll write and read too.
Thanks for stopping by.
Oh, and Doc Cahill’s office called. Turns out I picked up a parasite. It’s off to the pharmacy now for two antibiotics.
The road committee on break underneath an acacia tree -- this group of men banded together with Concern when the only road to town washed out. It took three months to rebuild; without Concern's help, there still wouldn't be a road.
A lovely Haitian cottage; but, twelve people live here with no water or electricity. The closest doctor is two hours by foot. There are no roads.
September 11, 2006
I will spare you yet another 9/11 remembrance. I don't mean to be disrespectful. The weekend was full of media retrospectives. They'll be plenty more this week. These reflections maybe helpful, some are insightful, but much of the motivation for this programming is driven by money. Just the ads for the Katie Couric special with President Bush -- Can it happen again? Made me sick to my stomach.
I just returned from Haiti, where government has failed to provide even the most basic of services to its eight million people. Despite overwhelming poverty, the lack of safe water, health care, electricity and education, Haitians are a hopeful people. They were the first country to say no to slavery.
Haitians are hard working and amicable, but government corruption and failed leadership has created chaos. Haiti is in turmoil.
I'm working on several projects for the NGO Concern Worldwide. They've been working to assist Haitians for over ten years. I just got home and need time to digest what I saw, but here's a quick pictorial of the trip.
Market day in Sodo, a village of 40,000 with only one doctor.
These remarkable Haitian women attended Concern's governance class -- they represented 5% of the attendees -- women rarely take leadership roles in a village. One woman told me her father stopped talking to her when he learned she was running for mayor. That's me in the middle, the white guy.
We were scheduled to see a school, but we couldn't cross this river in a Land Rover. But folks had no problem walking or taking a donkey. According to Concern, Afghanistan and Haiti have the world's worst roads.
We divided into two groups -- here we are reunited before going to the airport.
Women carry everything in baskets on their heads. They have powerful neck muscles and perfect posture. Few Haitians have back issues.
Port-au-Prince street vendors
One Concern program involves lending women around fifty dollars to buy goods to sell at markets. Some women walk four hours to arrive by seven AM to sell their wares.
Another market.
Cute home, but, 15 people live here with no water or electricity.
Field of dead corn in Saint E'dau.
Over 70 villagers attending a class on local goverance sponsored by Concern.
Only $60 / a night, the Hotel Kiram. Due to the recent spate of kidnappings in Port-au-Prince, we were told not to leave the hotel unescorted. But we had satelite TV with CNN. The food was great too. Mostly ex-pats and Haitian Americans stay there.
The traffic in Port-au-Prince is chaotic, and yet there are few major accidents.
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Tropical Storm Ernesto blew through my backyard and toppled this sixty year old willow tree.
September 4, 2006
My six-week summer jaunt is over – well, sort of.
It’s great to sleep in my own bed and hang out with my cats. I did yoga today with my favorite instructor. But I’m off to Haiti on Wednesday. Concern Worldwide wants me to write about their efforts in the western hemisphere’s poorest country.
On Friday I got three hundred dollars worth of shots: tetanus, diphtheria, pertrussis, hepatitis A, and a polio booster. I’m popping malaria tablets.
Concern is interested in something similar to what I did on Somalia. I’m not sure what this story is, but I’ll go down and see what jumps out. They also want me to develop materials for high school kids, to teach them about what’s happening in down-trodden countries.
I’m putting the final touches on my novel (yet again!). I got great feedback at Bread Loaf and Sewanee, but I hadn’t had a chance to make those revisions. I’m also finishing off a short story for a big magazine out west that will remain unnamed.
I haven’t picked up my guitar since I’ve been back, but later on today I will! I’m dying to write new songs. American Songwriter Magazine had a blurb on me last month. I stumbled on to a UK site last week that wrote an in-depth review of my CD. I’ll dig that up and post excerpts soon. Poets and Writers published my letter about authors and web sites. LetterPress published the 2nd part of my web site series.
I got a great response to last week’s essay about the war at Bread Loaf including some feedback from those responsible for the conference. It was gratifying to be part of such a quality group of writers and a thrill to write my first poem.
It was tough to ignore President Bush’s comments last week about Iraq. He said:
If we give up the fight in the streets of Baghdad, we will face the terrorists in the streets of our own cities.
As long as there are people who see greater value in death than living, the United States can not protect its citizen’s from domestic terror. Government cannot provide a safety guarantee, it’s impossible.
The politics of war, republicans painting democrats as weak on terror – it’s an effective strategy, but it doesn’t make us safer. I don’t blame republicans for trying, its part of the democratic process, for better or worse. What’s most disconcerting is that most Americans can’t see this ploy for what it is.
Next week I’ll report on my Haiti trip – stay tuned.
Hanging out at Robert Frost's cabin at Bread Loaf in Vermont.
August 27, 2006
I spend most days alone, writing. Often I only leave the house to take a yoga class. These last six weeks have been most unusual – Sewanee Writers’ Conference in mid-July, the SummerSongs Song Writing Retreat; for the past ten days, Bread Loaf.
I’m soaking in the last of the conversations, workshops and craft classes, enjoying the exchanges of ideas and material. This was my first non-fiction instruction. I presented my Somalia piece and it was well-received. David Shields, the instructor, suggested that I write the back-story, the tale of how I wrote it. That's the weak link of the article, the fact I never went to Somalia. And yet David believes this is the most interesting part of the story. By revealing how I got that level of detail without going to Somalia, I will crystallize the real story of kids playing soccer to promote peace. By detailing the uncertainty of my research, the challenge of coaxing information out of voices on a phone, and addressing the difficulties of describing events I didn’t witness, I will uncover a larger truth.
I’ll have to kick that around to see if I’m up for the challenge. Next week I'm off to Haiti to write up another story for this NGO -- I'll stay open to David's approach this time around.
One thing I thought odd this week was the lack of talk about the war – rarely did it come up in casual conversation, it wasn’t addressed in workshop, nobody presented material on the subject. When I brought it up, folks agreed that it was odd. About forty percent of the Bread Loaf conference is under thirty -- if there’d been a draft, how would the vibe here be different?
At the one-minute reading where fifty people read – I wrote a poem addressing the war…
Half-Mast
My son heads off to college this fall,
but if there was a draft,
it might have been Baghdad
There are no signs of war in my affluent
white suburban town,
only talk of kitchen remodels, private schools,
and country club affairs
In a neighboring blue-collar town
fresh flowers front the war memorial
and municipal flags fly at half-mast
Families mourn their dead
and fret over loved ones still overseas
Returning sons and daughters carry the cost of duty in ways I cannot imagine
I hawk my novel and press the flesh
here at Bread Loaf,
ignoring the responsibility writers must bear
in times of conflict
Someone else’s son is under fire at this very moment
Blood stains his dusty camouflage fatigues
Day turns to night
as the sun burns in a smoke-filled Arabian sky
People talked about my poem through the week, several thanked me for broaching the subject. One teacher came up immediately after the reading and shook my hand. I hope it sparked further debate because there’s a chance that the next great American voice will come from a young person at this conference. If they aren’t galvanized by what’s going on now, what hope can we have that a voice like Solzhenizyn or Havel will emerge when things really get bad?
Of course some might say ground-breaking art can't explode out of a prestigious writers’ conference where most attendees are over educated and insulated from world events. When writers are too disconnected, they're in danger of losing the pulse of the people, the vitality of the street.
How could Bread Loaf address this?
Recruit young kids from poorer neighborhoods, former soldiers too. Hire faculty with a track record of activism. Schedule programs to spark discussion. Examine books that have made a difference.
In the meantime, folks like me will keep pushing the issues to the forefront one person at a time.
The Bread Loaf Inn -- host to the annual Bread Loaf Writers' Conference
August 21, 2006
I’m at the Bread Loaf conference in Middlebury, Vermont. It’s the most prestigious of the writers’ events and the hardest to get into. I’d heard that folks here were snobs but so far I’ve had a great time and everyone is friendly.
Bread Loaf is an isolated compound on top of a mountain. We are surrounded by verdant hills and rolling meadows. The buildings are quaint, but austere. Twenty guys share two showers and two toilets. But Bread Loaf is steeped in history. Robert Frost was one of the founders, this is their 81st year, Toni Morrison attended Bread Loaf.
I’m trying not to compare this to Sewanee or Squaw, the other two big writers’ conferences, each has its pros and cons, and that’s the way it should be.
I’m here for non-fiction. Although I co-authored a successful business book in 1990, I’ve never taken formal instruction in this area, so I’m learning a lot. Non-fiction is a broad category, but so far my workshop material has been memoir. It’s a hot category but one that troubles me. I used to think memoir was for movies stars and politicians, but nowadays anyone can write one, and they do.
I’ve experienced a lot of life over my forty-seven years, but I’m not compelled to tackle such a project. I’m not that fucked up, my father didn’t abuse me, my mother didn’t force me to watch her have sex. I know that’s unfair, I blame the fracas over Frey for this intolerance.
My workshop leader, David Shields, says the popularity of memoir is an extension of what’s happening in other media, reality TV for instance. He also distinguishes between an autobiography, which must adhere to the facts, and a memoir, which is one’s recollection.
Last night I read for five minutes in the blue parlor, an old-fashioned room with colonial striped wall paper and high back chairs. There was a good crowd and nine other attendees read. It’s a supportive atmosphere and people seemed to like my stuff. I felt good about my delivery.
It’s non-stop with lectures, classes, panels and readings. There was even a short film series with a post-discussion session. I’m trying to pace myself, but I feel guilty whenever I skip something. Today at 5:30 there’s yoga, so I’m going and hopefully that will give me a boost.
I’m here for another week and if the 2nd goes only half as well, I’ll be pleased. Enjoy the last days of summer...
I was at SummerSongs this week teaching a course on how to place music into film and tv.
August 13, 2006
There’s a razor-thin line between our stable existence and chaos, and yet we must live as if that barrier is a mile-wide and made of tungsten steel, it’s all we can do, otherwise we’d become paralyzed. Last week’s terrorist news was another reminder of the divide’s fragility.
I was in the Catskills near Woodstock, teaching at SummerSongs, a songwriting camp. It’s a place to learn, perform, and write. It’s a musical paradise where one can share and hear great music twenty-four hours a day. There’s no cell reception and only dial-up internet access at camp, one truly can unplug.
But after five days in this bubble, word filtered in about what happened in London.
Suddenly a friend from California who had planned to meet her children in New York the next day was confronted with a difficult decision: should she allow her kids to board that NY bound flight.
There was no right or wrong answer, but an answer was required nonetheless.
You often hear that it’s a new world post 9/11, and it is; but it’s not that far removed from when I grew up in the sixties, when presidents were being assassinated and children were told hiding under a school desk was an effective way to survive a nuclear bomb.
Back then planes were hijacked to Cuba and razor blades were in apples. Perhaps the world came closest to total annihilation in October, 1961.
In the 70’s there were gas shortages and impeachment, the end of the Vietnam War and hostages in Iran. Chernobyl made me feel as if there was no where to hide. In November, 1980, the day Ronald Reagan got elected, I felt as if war with the Russians was inevitable.
I don’t think anyone could have predicted that the cold war would be over by the end of that decade. I was in East Berlin and literally saw the wall fall. Perhaps things aren’t as bleak as they appear, or maybe civilization has just been lucky.
After much tribulation my friend thought it best that her children take the flight, but she left it up to her twenty-year old daughter. “If you don’t feel comfortable at the airport, she had told her, “turn around and go home.”
Mother and daughters are now together here in New York and for the moment the thought of terrorism fades.
There will be more unanswerable questions ahead for all of us. If only our leaders could exhibit the courage, compassion and love that my friend did that night with her daughters. The Beatles said all we need is love, that's a bit naive, but love certainly can't hurt.
At Sewanee I got to hang out with the immensely talented writer Christine Schutt (national book award nominee for Florida)
August 7, 2006
I’m in the Catskills for SummerSongs, a songwriting camp. I’m teaching a class on film and tv, and yoga (but not at the same time). I’ll also do a bit of individual coaching.
I’m writing this on what has been one of the hottest days I can remember here in the northeast. I lived in Phoenix for a year and once it was 123, so I know heat, but without A/C, this is brutal.
I ended up at Barnes and Noble to work on a submission that is being considered for an anthology called Best New American Voices 2006. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll make it to the finals, but just the fact that I’ve been asked to submit is a great honor. The twenty writers ultimately chosen for this will get incredible exposure.
I’ve been writing full-time for eight years and have amassed hundreds of rejections. When something positive like this happens, at first I assume that there’s a mistake, that they’ve mixed up the manuscripts. But this time around that isn’t the case and regardless of whether anything comes of this, it’s great to know that my writing is starting to get recognized.
I’ve also got a piece running this month in Letter Press, a newsletter for writers by Zeotrope editor, Brandi Reisenweber. It’s about why a new writer should have a web site and describes how I ended up putting this site together. I’ve also got a letter to the editor of Poets and Writers running in their next issue on the same subject. It was a busy month!
After all the socializing at Sewanee, it was nice to be back home with the cats for a few days. I caught up on my sleep, did a bit of writing, even attended a few yoga classes.
I left Saturday morning for the Catskills. My mom and step dad are taking care of the house and cats, so I'm posting this Saturday morning because I'll be off-line until Friday.
Stay cool and thanks for stopping by.
rsw
Me and Barry Hannah, chillin...
July 31, 2006
I just got home from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference in Tennessee. Underwritten by the Tennessee Williams estate, it was the most lavish artistic conference I’ve attended with lots of great food and drink. But the highlight was the afternoon I took a ride with the great Mississippi writer, Barry Hannah. We went to a Wal-Mart, in Winchester, down in the low land of Central Tennessee.
Barry’s been writing short stories and novels since the sixties and has won countless awards, he was nominated for a Pulitzer and a National Book Award.
Barry was very supportive of my work and believes I’ve got what it takes. I can’t describe how that feels from such a highly regarded writer. We hung out a lot. He even invited me up to where he was staying. And yet we couldn’t be more different. He’s southern to the bone. I’m a Yankee. He’s Baptist, prefers bourbon, crawfish, and cigarettes. I’m a Jersey Jew. I like sake, sushi and yoga. But we do share a love of literature and music, we both love people and history.
It was a sultry afternoon the day we took that ride. Barry was having a cigarette outside the dinning hall, his short-haired mutt, Nell, was on her stomach, tongue out, trying to stay cool.
“Got to get my glasses fixed,” Barry said. “Want to take a ride with me and Nell?”
We hopped in his ’97 Jeep. Nell got in back next to the tackle box and fishing poles. There was a book about Texas and the Histories of Herodotus back there too. Barry lit another cigarette.
The University of the South is on the Cumberland Plateau, 2800 feet above Winchester. Coming off that mountain was like going back in time. We passed a Texaco that looked like it was from 1955. The churches were small, the homes modest, the cars were all American.
“Been listening to a conservative twenty-four hour radio station,” Barry said, laughing. “You can’t believe the stuff they talk about -- bombing Iran and Syria, sending Bibles to Muslims. Can you imagine?”
We pass the Shaw Carpet plant, the area’s largest employer. It’s at least five football fields wide, the pale brick dates back to the 70’s. A plain white sign by the roadside reads: Plant 24. I point it out to Barry and he shakes his head. “Folks deserve better,” he says, “you know.”
I ask him about his early days. “I’m from Clinton, Mississippi. My state has produced some of this country’s finest writers, Faulkner, Welty, Percy, Williams. I wanted to be on that team so bad, I was going to do whatever it took. I’d have been happy just to be the water boy.”
Barry Hannah didn’t carry hand towels for long, but four years ago he faced his greatest challenge, cancer. “I used to be a fine tennis player,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Now I have trouble walking, but I’m lucky to be alive.”
He went on to tell me about his new book. “Church burnings,” he said, “all types, synagogues, mosques, too. This preacher knows his nephew’s doing the burning, but he just can’t turn him in, you know.”
We talked more about my work. We talked about his teaching at Ole Miss, his twenty years of drinking, his lovely wife, his children and grandkids. It was just one of those afternoons that I’ll remember for the rest of my life, you know.
Could be Cambridge in England, but it's All Saints' Chapel, University of the South, Sewanee Tennessee...
July 24, 2006
I landed in Nashville on Monday. It was so hot it felt like I was standing in an oven. But it was a great trip. I celebrated getting my publishing deal done with my lawyer at the Palm and had three other promising meetings that I won’t jinx by saying anything else; but if they develop, you’ll read about it here.
Now I’m in Sewanee at the University of the South, for the annual writers’ conference, underwritten by the Tennessee Williams estate. The school is on the Cumberland Plateau and at 2800 feet, it’s an island, and a lot cooler in temperature and politics.
Intended as the southern Harvard before the Civil War, the North took it out, but afterwards, the university received money from Oxford and Cambridge to rebuild. In recognition of this support, the buildings were designed to look like those grand English institutions. I lived in Cambridge for a year, so it’s quite odd to see structures that look like Kings, Jesus, or Trinity College. I keep expecting to stumble upon The Cam and see punters.
But I hate the first day at any conference, and this time was no different. I don’t know anyone. I keep to myself. I wonder why I came. And then I start thinking I suck, that I’ll never get anywhere with my writing, that I should hop the next bus out of here.
After a day or so, I settle down. But most people here have MFA’s, that’s a masters in fine arts, which allows them to teach college creative writing and other English courses. Many have Ph.Ds. I’m far enough along in my writing to not feel intimidated or stupid, but at times, I do feel out of place.
I’ve heard some great stuff, the attendees are technically strong, some are incredible, but too often I’m finding that the material doesn’t infect me in the way that Tolstoy says great writing must. In fact he claims that writing can’t be taught. I learned that my third day from Alice McDermott, when she delivered an overview of Tolstoy’s argument on the subject (now I sound like a fucking academic).
It’s a long conference. I’m here another week, and this morning I was itching to go. But I went on a hike today and it gave me a chance to talk with people I hadn’t met yet, and now I’m thinking the extra week might be worth it.
People are friendly, it’s quite social and after the late reading there’s drinking at French House, a stately stone structure on campus. These informal gatherings run deep into the early morning. I’m also playing squash, doing a little yoga, and as you can see, some writing.
There are poets and playwrights here too, so that’s been a real treat to hear. I rarely read poetry. I’ve written about that before, but still haven’t done much about it. Maybe this time around that will change.
Okay, I’ve got to find a place to do laundry before the next event starts...
I made my fourth trip to visit the hugging saint this week. I was one of about a thousand people Amma (mother) embraced that day. The experience is different for everyone, and each time I go, I get something new out of it too.
I also have a friend who travels in her inner circle and that provides a unique view into this spiritual road show. He’s been successful in business, he’s well educated and he claims Amma’s the real thing. There’s no denying she has a powerful affect on most people. I’m not sure who or what she is, but she is an extraordinary person.
Perhaps she should go to the Middle East…
Last year I went for a hug with a friend that I’d met through yoga, I’ll call her X. She was much more advanced in her practice, but I was surprised when we arrived that she headed straight for the priority seating even though we had no special passes.
“Can’t you get one from your friend?” she had asked.
“I try to avoid that,” I told her. Perhaps I’d made too big of a deal out of this contact, maybe I used that connection to convince X to come with me because she was only interested in being friends, maybe I thought bringing her to see Amma would change her mind. But I never said that my friend would get us special treatment and I was surprised she had asked.
When Amma arrived, X got up without saying a word and sat within five feet of where the hugging takes place. Although I was impressed with X’s assertiveness, I never would have had the audacity. But a half hour later I moved down too. I had to admit, being that close was very calming.
We still had several hours before our hug (they give you a number), so we wandered about browsing the kiosks selling various enlightenment paraphernalia from incense to scarves, books and DVDs.
The line moved slowly and X started looking at her watch. “Where’s your friend?” she said. “I’ve got to be back by four to pick up my kids.”
I’d been on the look out since we’d arrived, and almost immediately after X had asked, he appeared.
I’ve done some consulting for Amma’s organization and I used that as a segue-way into asking the favor. He was reluctant, but since I was helping them he said he would try.
My friend spoke to the head swami who stands behind Amma like a guardian angel. He blew in Amma’s ear while she was hugging someone. Suddenly we were next in line. Then X was in Amma’s arms, and even though we told the ushers we weren’t a couple, Amma pulled me in for a joint hug – it was as if X and I were in the womb of the universe. X was crying and Amma was murmuring a blessing in an ancient tongue. Time stood still. Amma hugged me three more times and gave me an apple, something she only gives to a few visitors each day.
After-hug reactions vary, some cry, some smile, some stare off into oblivion. I felt overwhelmed with that much Amma contact, and to have shared something this intimate with X, I was thrilled and convinced that it held great significance, but X had other thoughts.
“Amma had it wrong,” she had said on the way home. “I wanted my own hug. I’m upset and angry.”
“My friend says Amma knows everything.”
“She misunderstood,” X said, “she heard it wrong from that swami.”
X often says that everything happens for a reason. And yet if X hadn’t been so bold earlier that day. If she hadn’t asked if my friend could help us. If I hadn’t been so eager to please, we never would have gotten that joint hug.
I’m still friends with X, but we’ve never spoken about that day since. There is strong energy between us, but it sometimes turns negative. I don’t know why given how committed both of us are to living a balanced, compassionate life.
I didn’t tell her I was going to see Amma this year, I couldn’t face another disappointing experience. I guess we both still have a lot to learn about balance and compassion. Too bad, I know X could have used the hug…
I started another blog this week...On the Mat
July 10, 2006
It’s time to find an agent for my new novel and get this thing sold. Some say visualizing the book at Barnes helps. I’ve been rejected so many times over the past eight years, it’s much easier to brace myself for the inevitable ‘no,’ than naively think all will come good.
But acting like a writer by writing, and having confidence by getting my stuff out there, is a pragmatic proxy for visualization, and that’s what I’m doing this summer.
I’m off to Nashville soon, to attend the Sewanee Writers’ Conference at the University of the South. I’m also finishing a couple of short stories that a major California magazine is waiting for (no guarantee though). A piece I wrote on 'why emerging writers should have a Web site,' will appear next month in Letter Press, an on-line newsletter for writers.
A friend of mine shot me a few book industry statistics this week that explain why it’s so hard for a new writer to break through:
58% of the US population never reads another book after high school
42% of college grads don’t read another book either
70% of US adults haven’t been in a bookstore in five years
No wonder agents are reluctant to take on new clients.
And yet I can’t help but think that the book industry is its worst enemy. I’m an avid reader, but I must confess, I struggle to get through most of the Art and Literary Journals that arrive at my house. I see a lot of them because I often receive a subscription when I submit for a contest.
Of course I couldn’t get through Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, so what do I know?
I’m no red neck or Blue Collar comedy fan, but I’m not some Upper East Side snob either. I just find much of today’s literary scene filled with pyrotechnical language that might impress with a sentence or two, but all too often leaves me feeling nothing but insecure and stupid for being clueless to the writer’s intent.
I’m not saying books need to be dumbed-down, but they do need to be relevant. Zadie Smith’s On Beauty is my favorite in the past year. I’m sure there are other books out there that I’d like, but it’s too bad many are kept a secret.
This week I started another blog – On the Mat. I write and do yoga everyday and this blog will bridge that gap. There’s also a lot about yoga in my new novel, and so this blog will be both me and Chuck’s view on things.
I’ve been doing the The Connecticut Philadelphian now for a few weeks, and it’s a lot of fun. While I’m away, I might even have Chuck take over.
July 3, 2006
I attended the fourth annual Women of Concern Luncheon in Manhattan last week, honoring Ann Curry, co-anchor of NBC Dateline and news anchor of NBC’s Today.
The luncheon not only celebrated the lives of women worldwide, but also recognized their achievements in business and in efforts to alleviate human suffering.
Concern conducts emergency and development work in thirty of the world's poorest countries, with a significant focus on women because they are often the engine of change in these devastated areas. Despite few basic human and legal rights, women hold the family together and provide a foundation to village life.
Concern teaches women and children to read and write, they provide the tools and money necessary to farm and sew, to produce products that can be sold and bartered. Concern shows the world's poorest women that it’s possible to reach their potential, that they can become stronger, healthier, more confident, and independent.
In a world where the need for organizations like Concern grows daily, I wonder how they stay motivated. There’s always a new disaster or another flare-up of fighting somewhere. At the luncheon I learned that the killing in the Congo dwarfs Darfur. How can that be possible?
I don’t know how aide workers keep their spirits up, they are underpaid and overworked, but I can’t imagine a world without them.
I didn’t know much about Curry because I don’t watch the Today Show and I rarely see Dateline, but her list of journalistic accomplishments is impressive. She spoke eloquently about her parents. Her father was Irish, her mother, Japanese. They told Ann from an early age to do something with her life that mattered, something that served the public good, that only through such actions, could one be happy. They also taught her never to give up, especially when it seems winning is impossible.
I guess the folks at Concern have heeded such advice.
I’ve done a few things that mattered over the course of my life, but not enough.
Part of shifting to a writer was to address this issue, and now that I’m making a final push to break-in, Curry’s words resonate. I won’t give up in September, I’ve come much too far for that, but I won’t have the luxury to write full-time as I have for the past eight years, and that will make what I’m trying to do even more difficult.
But I will persevere.
I had the privilege to study with some incredible authors and songwriters and work with a gifted editor. I’ve written three novels, twelve short stories, and about a hundred songs since 1998, but that first novel was awful and only a dozen or so of the songs are worth hearing.
I’m not resting on my laurels. I’m shopping my new novel. I’m going to Sewanee and Bread Loaf, two important writers’ conferences later this summer. I’ve just completed solid drafts of two new short stories, which could form the basis of a new novel.
And I just started a new blog – The Connecticut Philadelphian –- inspired by Chuck Morgan, the protagonist in My Year as a Clown.
The blog is about the frustration of being a loyal Philadelphia sports fan during a twenty-year period where each of the major teams always disappoints. Loyalty is a theme I explore in the new book and I use Chuck’s unwavering support for perennial losers as a vehicle.
For those that have visited the What's New section of my site, you’ve seen my experiments with video. I also just revamped my MySpace page.
Now all I need is a little luck, but compared to the human suffering going on around the world, my situation is of little consequence. Just living here in America and being healthy is like wining the human lottery…and if you’re reading this, you too are a winner…
Thanks for stopping by during the holidays...
rsw
The Bush Administration acted like fisherman posing with their catch this week when they foiled a so-called plot to blow up the Sears tower.
June 26, 2006
Most of us are so busy with jobs and family we don’t have time to get the details on major news events. We catch the headlines and return to our lives. This week most Americans heard that the FBI foiled a major terrorist cell in Miami planning to attack the Sears tower.
The government wasn’t shy about detailing the bust, holding several press conferences and acting like a group of fisherman on a dock posing with their catch.
And yet one FBI official said this group was more aspirational than operational -- meaning they talked a good game, but had no contact with Al Qaeda or ability to carry out a threat. This band of so-called terrorists had never been to Pakistan, they weren’t Islamist extremists either. As Maureen Dowd said, they probably couldn’t find their local Sears, let alone the Sears Tower.
But that didn’t stop the administration from making sure it was the story of the week.
And yet it’s the last thing they wanted in regards to the covert international banking records they’ve been trolling through. Cheney went ballistic when it got reported this week. “They're carried out in a manner that is fully consistent with the constitutional authority of the president of the United States,” he said. “They are absolutely essential in terms of protecting us against attacks."
Nobody said that the program is ineffective, the issue was oversight. The founding fathers set up the system of checks and balances for a reason. Every time we learn about another circumvention of the process, the administration says it’s necessary to protect us against attacks.
So why did the government thump their chest as if they’d caught an Al Qaeda domestic cell, but wanted the SWIFT banking program news squelched?
Politics.
The FBI did a good job busting up that Miami group, it simply didn’t warrant all the media attention. Tracking international bank transfers is appropriate as long as the proper oversight is in place.
Come November many Americans will vote ‘strong and wrong’ over ‘weak and right’ based on the fear drummed up by Republican campaign tactics, but this is a false dichotomy. It takes strength to admit mistakes, it takes even more strength to correct it, so far this administration appears weak on both fronts...
Moving to California with everything I owned -- June 1977
June 19, 2006
When I was in California last month I met with West magazine, The LA Times Sunday glossy. Recently they added fiction and Amy Tan oversees editorial. Amy is one of the patron saints of the Squaw Valley Writers Community (she was discovered there). Martin Smith, the magazine's senior editor, was my Squaw workshop leader two years ago. Last month Marty was kind enough to give me an insight into the type of short fiction they seek.
Now that My Year as a Clown is in the final stages, I’m going to try and write something for them, but it has to be California based.
That's not a problem. Back in 1977 I crammed all my possessions into a Chevy Vega and headed west with two-hundred-and-fifty bucks stashed underneath the passenger seat. I broke down twice during the 3200 mile trip and got hit by a car in Salinas. I was only thirty miles away from my final destination, the beautiful Carmel Valley, where a high school friend, Steve, was staying with his Aunt and Uncle.
But the uncle caught Steve selling pot out of the guest house by the pool. When I arrived, Steve was crashing on the sofa at a guy’s house in Seaside, the rough area on the Monterey Peninsula near Fort Ord. Fortunately, the other folks living there gave me five days to get my act together.
I was eighteen and believed that in California anything was possible.
I had a place and a job in four days and soon friends from back east started showing up. It truly was Hotel California. I ended up sharing a house with two east coast buddies that turned out to be gay (I had no idea). Three years later their romance fell apart and both ended up in San Francisco. Dan died in the late 80’s of AIDS; I don’t know what happened to Bob.
Talk about bad timing -- two gay men show up in San Francisco in 1981 thinking they've found nirvana -- little was known about AIDS then.
During those Monterey years I also worked as a waiter at The Del Monte Lodge, one of the world’s great golf resorts. I used to work for an irascible character named Joe Jordan. He’d been a bartender there forever and he knew all the celebrities and old moneyed folks like Mr. Firestone and Mr. Hoover Vacuum. Joe’s gin fizzes were legendary, but once Bing Crosby died and the Lodge was sold, the writing was on the wall for Joe. Today that famous pro-AM is still played at Pebble, but it’s called the AT&T and the gin fizzes are made from a mix.
This week I’ll draft a few stories from these memories and see what develops. Hopefully something decent will materialize…
Efforts by the Elman Sports Club to promote peace continue despite continued problems in Somalia.
June 12, 2006
In a week where the US kills a terrorist leader and Hamas declares the truce with Israel over, the news in Somalia slips underneath the radar. Nobody really cares about that country anyway. If I hadn’t written a soccer story about it, I probably wouldn’t either.
A so-called radical Islamist militia now controls Mogadishu despite US efforts to back the war lords. You might recall that they were the bad guys back in 1993 when two Black Hawk helicopters were shot down during a mission to capture one of them.
The war lords are the good guys now because this Islamist militia has links to Al Qaeda. It's unclear whether they do or not, but this group is in power because the world has ignored Somalia’s problems for the last fourteen years. Imagine New Orleans after Katrina without a government for that amount of time.
Last summer a legitimate regime was established in Somalia, but it struggled to wrestle control of the capital from these war lords. The United Nations and the surrounding African countries pleaded with the US to help this new government, but we were preoccupied with the war on terror and only paid attention when Al Qaeda supposedly penetrated the country.
"You've got to find and nullify enemy leadership," one senior Bush administration official was quoted as saying in the New York Times last week. "We are going to support any viable political actor that we think will help us with counterterrorism."
This is a tactical response that is short-sighted and at the root of what ultimately creates more terror. Regardless of whether this Islamist group has ties to Al Qaeda or not, backing the war lords has created such animosity amongst Somalis, we have virtually guaranteed creating another generation of suicide bombers and Osamas.
New Orleans is still a mess despite the United States’ vast resources; can you imagine the condition of Somalia after fourteen years of civil war?
Instead of being a catalyst for improvement in Somalia's schools, health care and infrastructure, we opted for the role of Al Qaeda’s best recruiter.
Perhaps a religious party controlling the country is what is needed to bring order out of chaos. Let's not forget that our republican party has radicals within its fold – some want to ban evolution from the schools, others quietly support groups that bomb abortion clinics. Of course most religious republicans are decent Christians and tolerant of other’s beliefs. Is it possible that that same might be true for Islamist leaders?
Killing Zarqawi was a positive step for this war on terror, but until we get at the root of why so many people hate us, we will never win. US policy toward Somalia is one example of how we make the problem worse.
This book was blinked one letter at a time...
June 5, 2006
I wrote a synopsis of My Year as a Clown for the Sewanee Conference down at the University of the South in Tennessee. Sponsored by the Tennessee Williams estate, it’s one of three top US writers conferences.
Only one in five applications is accepted, so it’s an honor to receive one of the slots.
I also get to submit 60 pages of the manuscript to one of the staff. Any of the three authors I short-listed would be amazing – one is a national book award winner, the other was nominated several times, the other was up twice for the Pulitzer – its that sort of conference.
A synopsis is difficult because it has to be entertaining and functional without any of the subtleties a novel allows. I’ve spent two days writing and rewriting the damn thing and I’m sure it’s still to long at 800 hundred words. For the moment, I can’t find a way to cut it.
In the midst of this frustration, a good buddy sent me a book written in the nineties – The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It’s a remarkable little story written by the former editor of Elle Magazine while suffering from “locked-in syndrome.”
I had never heard of that, but soon discovered it’s worse than Steven Hawking’s condition.
Jean-Dominique Bauby had a massive stroke at age 43 and was left with no bodily movement except for the ability to wink in his left eye, yet his brain was fully functional. He literally winked this book one letter at a time using a code developed by a speech therapist. Talk about a challenge.
Bauby died two days after it was published and the book went on to be an international best seller. It’s quite a testament to the human spirit and the ability to remain human in the most inhumane of circumstances.
Yesterday I sat on my bed and sealed one eye. Keeping perfectly still I tried to formulate a single sentence, then another. Then I tried to break it down one letter at a time. I gave up.
The next time I moan about anything, I’m going to think about Bauby and how resilient he remained during his final year.
I hope lots of folks went to see the Gore film. It doesn’t matter what your politics are, global warming affects all equally, showing no discrimination or partiality towards red states or blue. It’s an issue of utmost importance.
Another issue worth looking into is the recent request by the Bush administration to obtain search engine data from the Googles of the world. We’re not talking about just securing data about suspected terrorists, we’re talking full access to all search engine requests by anyone at anytime without a warrant.
I’m all for the government protecting us from terrorists, but if we continue to strip away civil liberties, who will protect us from the government?
Inconvenient Truth -- a must see...
May 29, 2006
I saw “An Inconvenient Truth” last week, Al Gore’s film about Global Warming. It’s a documentary of his slide presentation given around the world, interspersed with shots of nature in retreat (e.g. glaciers), or in uproar (e.g. Katrina).
The next day I was at the Southport Racquet Club where I do yoga and play squash. For me, it’s mostly a “Hi, how are you doing” sort of place. I don’t often get into deep discussions, and that’s as much my doing, but I did bring up the film to the guy I was playing squash with.
He’s British, successful at something, in his mid-fifties. He’s also literate. We’ve talked about Shakespeare, the OED, and on occasion he stumps me with an obscure word (I never have a clue).
When I told him about this film and how disturbed I was at the situation, he said, “There are lots of scientist’s that claim we are not the cause of global warming.”
“Actually that’s not true, and in the film Gore addresses this issue head on.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does, but it’s a liberal perspective and others could easily refute that evidence.”
“That’s the amazing thing about this,” I tried to tell him. “Gore takes on those arguments, the cyclical nature of warming, the trends over time, he debunks every argument.”
“Yes, but…”
“And there’s the memo from the oil company describing their strategy to discredit the science, that’s why you think there’s still an open issue.”
“I’m sure it’s not that cut and dry, there’s two sides to every debate.”
It was clear I wasn’t going to convince him, so I asked if he’d provide the counter argument here on my site as a way to balance my urging that if you’re reading this, you must see the film. He balked.
“It would take too much time, I don’t have all the facts.”
“But you were so confident about the counter argument to Gore’s position. Just say what you told me.”
“Look, I’ve had a busy week, it’s Memorial Day weekend, I want to enjoy it.”
My guess is, it will be awhile before he and I play squash again.
Americans are blessed to enjoy any weekend. Lot’s of folks don’t have that luxury because they are scrounging around for their next meal. But this indulgence is why we are the biggest contributor to global warming, that and corporate greed. Why is it that a Chinese Car manufacturer can produce cars with better gas mileage than GM, Ford or Chrysler?
Why did the oil and car lobbyists claim for the past thirty years that raising mileage standards would hamper our competitiveness and jeopardize national security?
I’m all for profit and the free market (I’m a Harvard Business School graduate), but sometimes the government has to step in and say we all have to suck this up and get it done, otherwise we’re screwed.
It didn’t help that we, the US consumer, loved our gas guzzling autos, but now that we’re paying over three bucks a gallon, wouldn’t it be nice if we had more than just a Japanese hybrid to choose from? (Okay, there are a few Ford Escapes now available, but not many).
Talk about lack of competitiveness.
I urge you all, regardless of your politics, to go see the film. Last year’s hurricanes, floods, and record heat were not part of a cycle that will run its course, this is directly related to carbon emissions. The US is still the world’s largest contributor to the problem.
We have to do something about this now, and we can. It’s a moral responsibility that we cannot escape. If we all just do a little it can make a big difference. It starts by talking about it with our friends and family…
Thirteen years later we're supporting the very war lords we sent these men to capture.
May 22, 2006
I’m putting the finishing touches on my novel. Next comes the search for an agent. I’ve got several interested, big and small, east coast and west. But you have to send it out one agent at a time, so who do I choose first?
Most believe an agent at a big firm is the way to go, but for me what’s most important is to find someone that loves my work and believes in the potential for much more. They need to be so enthusiastic that they can’t rest until they place my book. Besides, the publishing world has narrowed, any agent that’s been around for awhile knows the players.
I will make that decision soon.
While I write the Fairfield County Congressional race heats up. It’s already garnering national headlines – the moderate republican, Christopher Shays, in office since the late ‘80’s, is up against former Westport Selectman, Diane Farrell.
I like Chris, although I don’t agree with all of his positions. I have no idea what Diane stands for, but I hope during the course of the campaign she will do what other Democrats must do -- provide a vision to turn this country around.
Taking control of congress is not enough, because without a new direction, Democrats will not win in ’08. Now is the time to lay out a realistic Iraq exit strategy, and bring a fresh approach to the economy and deficits. The war on terror must continue, intelligence needs gathering and coordinating, but it must be done legally.
The most likely outcome, however, is two years of finger-pointing – congress at Bush, Bush at congress. Perhaps a stalemate is better than going to war with Iran, or opening up more Artic drilling areas.
Two recent Bush moves have angered me: supporting the warlords in Somalia, and the continued tax cuts for the rich. No one cares about Somalia, so what’s the big deal some have asked. It’s true that I’m more sensitive to that country because of the Elman soccer story I wrote, but it’s bigger than that.
Until we show the world that we believe one American has the same value as one Somali, we will never end terror. Folks, it’s that simple. Our arrogance and hubris is Al Qaeda’s best recruiting program.
Regan supported the Taliban when they opposed the Russians and look what happened. Now we support the very same war lords that US soldiers died trying to apprehend during the Black Hawk Down incident. Dumb.
We must show the world we can lead through humility, that we too are willing to make sacrifices. At the moment the only Americans making sacrifices are the men and women overseas and their families.
Back in Connecticut, the mud is already flying. Farrell’s got plenty of ammo, but we don’t need change for the sake of change, we need change to get us back on track.
Diane, I implore you to speak truth, cite specifics, lead.
The US is undermining the new Somali government in the name of stopping terrorists -- last year I wrote an article about kids in Somalia playing soccer as a means to spread peace -- hundreds of Somali's were killed in recent days -- I hope the guys I know on the team are safe.
May 15, 2006
I’m unclear what was more surprising this week, to learn that three of the four major phone companies had handed over millions of call records to the NSA, or that half of America isn’t bothered.
It’s a new world since 9/11 and the administration must do whatever it takes to stop Al Queda. Anyone that questions this is soft on terrorists.
Half of America believes that if you’re not doing anything illegal what’s the difference?
Many of the laws repealed by the Patriot Act were put in place to stop the abuses of power by Nixon. That administration was under pressure from an unpopular war and the oil crisis – sound familiar?
Nobody wants to hamper the government’s ability to track down terrorists, however, unlimited, unchecked authority is not necessary. When I wrote that piece about Somalia a few years ago I made several calls to Mogadishu. Was that sufficient cause for the NSA to track me?
Speaking of Somalia: In the name of catching terrorists we’re backing the war lords because they are aligned against local Muslim extremists. Last year a new government was formed after 14 years of civil war, but it still does not have control of the country. US support of the war lords undermines the effort to install this government; but Somalia has long been rumored to harbor Al Qaeda operatives. It doesn’t matter to us what damage we do if the war lords can help us fight terror.
What about the children of Somalia who have never known a stable government? I wrote about these kids and interviewed some of them, they’re great kids, but our policy to get terrorists no matter what the costs, clearly places a higher value on our children. This is short sighted and will only create a more fertile breeding ground for terrorists.
This cycle of hubris is something all powerful countries fail to recognize – the Greeks, the Romans, the British, the Germans, the Japanese, they all became their own worst enemy.
How many Americans recall that we funded the Taliban against the Russians in Afghanistan? We gave Osama Bin Laden money, arms and training. Perhaps we are already our greatest threat.
There was a time when I felt that the US was noble enough to overcome history, that we could actually lead the world to a greater prosperity for all. There’s nothing wrong with looking out for our own interests, but to pretend that we do what we do for the greater good is hypocrisy. Besides, the rest of the world is not stupid.
Apparently President Bush thinks we are. Last year he told us that the NSA was only screening international calls. Now we learn millions of domestic calls have been monitored.
What else isn’t he telling us?
We must lead by example, not rhetoric, but time is running out...write your congressman, vote for change in November.
I'm still in California -- my reading / performance went well
May 8, 2006
I drove out to California when I was 18 in a 1973 army green Chevy Vega. I had a guitar, a nine-inch black and white TV, a suitcase jammed with clothes, and three-hundred bucks. It was 1977 and California was still the land of hope and dreams. When I left in ’86 for grad school in Boston, I thought for sure I’d be back...
I guess it’s still a possibility, the LA air is cleaner despite worse traffic, but the highways are falling apart, the aqueducts are crumbling, and there’s lots of graffiti. My choice would be the Bay Area, but property is expensive.
It was gray and cloudy when I landed on Wednesday at LAX; add some rain and it was the set of “Blade Runner.” I rode a shuttle to a cold, dank building housing the cheapest rental car option on the Internet. The guy in front of me looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. His companion, a woman in her mid-thirties, was dressed in a tight short skirt and a tank top with a Playboy bunny on it.
“I can’t rent you a car without a credit card,” the guy behind the counter said.
The customer pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “How about two thousand bucks, cash?”
“I’m sorry but I need the credit card.”
More bills are peeled from the wad. “Five thousand?”
“Can’t.”
“Will ten do it?”
I wondered if the guy would pull out a gun and say, “Here’s twenty, now give me the fucking car.” But he shoved the cash into his back pocket and left without a fuss. I half expected to see them on the lot trying to hitch a ride, but much to my relief, they were nowhere in sight when I pulled out of the lot.
It was uphill from there. The reading and performance at Orange Coast College went well. There were over a hundred people in attendance, lots of food and drink, the magazine looked amazing.
I got hooked into Orange Coast from my two trips to the Squaw Valley Writers Community. Amy Tan, Alice Sebold, and Michael Chabon were all discovered at Squaw. It’s a supportive atmosphere and I learned a lot. It’s also a great place to network. I caught up with several Squaw contacts this week.
While in town I also visited two good friends that I hadn’t seen in ages. It’s amazing after so many years to be able to pick up as if no time has passed -- that’s real friendship. I’m on my way to Sacramento now to see my sister.
I'll add more when I return home on Wednesday. Thanks for stopping by.
rsw
I'll never do this in yoga, but I might quiet my mind.
May 1, 2006
Whenever I read about one of my successful Harvard Business School classmates in the papers I feel like a failure. Most rake in the bucks and here I am, post-divorce, struggling to pay the bills as a fiction writer.
Of course it’s by choice that I do what I do, but my ego thinks otherwise, and it likes to have a good moan. In yoga we are taught to neutralize the ego, to quiet the mind, to focus on the mat. It never stops to amaze me how often my mind wanders, especially at those times when I’m trying so hard to eliminate all thought.
"Don’t think anymore," I say to myself, thinking about what needs doing this afternoon.
My mind is an unruly child throwing a tantrum in the supermarket because he can’t have Fruit Loops. I’ve made my mind sit in the corner, I’ve denied it food, alcohol, chemical and natural substances too, but my mind has a mind of its own, and lately it’s led me down dark alleys.
This often happens whenever I have success. Good news is like a cup of coffee and a donut. I feel great for an hour, on top of the world, and then I crash with a need for more. But success doesn’t brew up in pots, at least not for me. It comes in drips, and it might be months, sometimes longer before a few more drops come my way.
Yoga helps to balance these mood swings, but I’m not advanced enough to smooth out all of the bumps. This week I’m heading out to Orange County to read the short story The Chaperone and perform the companion song Your Favorite Lullaby. I should feel elated, but I’m low because a few story rejections arrived this week. That’s just the way this business works, even the most successful writers get rejected, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
The joy must come from the writing, not the accolades. It’s easy to say, but hard to remember.
They say yoga is not a competition, that it doesn’t matter what anyone else does, your practice is about you and your mat, nothing else. Life should be that way too, and so when I read this week that one of my classmates got fired and received ten million dollars in severance, I was only pissed off for a few hours.
The equivalent for me at the moment would be getting a hand written rejection letter from the “The New Yorker.” It wouldn’t be quite as good as ten million, but in the fiction world it beats the hell out of a form letter…
A McMansion emerges from the ground to devour a teardown here in Westport....
April 24, 2006
While the president shook up the cabinet this week, the November election is underway here in Connecticut. At least two House seats are up for grabs, including my home district where the incumbent republican, Christopher Shays has been in office since the late eighties.
I’m still in shock and awe over the state of Iraq. The continual miscues by the Bush administration on everything from global warming to intelligent design continued this week with Karl Rove stepping down to focus on the November elections -- not mentioning that the new evidence in the CIA leak scandal might make it best for Rove to keep a low profile was so typical; also from the administration: the FDA came out against medical marijuana – politics over science once again.
With this disgust of Washington, one would assume the democrat, Diane Farrell, a former Westport Selectman, would have my vote locked up, but she doesn’t.
Farrell ran Westport for eight years during the period that will be looked back upon as the era of the McMansions. She did nothing to stop the tearing down of trees and the building of monstrosities. People in town were giddy at the skyrocketing house prices and eager to destroy what made Westport so desirable: the bucolic setting within commuting of NYC.
No doubt it would’ve been difficult for Diane to get elected by taking on an issue that most residents had no interest in, but she could have done something during her 2nd term. It would’ve been the right thing to do, it’s what leadership is all about. But she had higher aspirations, and needed the money to take on Shays.
Now that McMansions don’t sell as fast, Westport has hired a consultant to generate zoning options. There is only one thing worse than a McMansion, an empty one. Some say it’s too late. It probably is, but as long as there’s one plot of land with trees standing, legislation should be enacted.
Shays is a good Republican, a moderate. That party needs voices of reason to keep it from moving further right. McCain courting Pat Robertson makes me very nervous. But Shays’ boss isn’t helping his cause at the moment, and despite Farrell’s lack of national experience and inability to deal with McMansions, Republicans need to be put on notice before they decide to invade Iraq.
I’d love to send a Democrat from this district, but Farrell must show me that she’s got the guts to stand up for what’s right. It’s easy to throw stones at Shay’s record, I want to know what she’ll do if elected. She’s still got six months…
If you think I’m exaggerating the teardown situation, click here to see a map of the town’s current activity (this has been going on now for ten years!):
Already had a lot or responses to this essay -- one person wrote:
Hey, don't you own a Westport house? You've benefited big time from this rise in property.
Yes I have -- it's the crux of the biscuit. I also drive an SUV. I'm one big blob of contradictions.
Another wrote:
How could you even think of voting republican this November?
Considering voting republican and actually pulling the lever are very different actions. As stated above, there's still six more months for candidates to make their cases.
Summiting anything isn't easy.
April 17, 2006
It was fitting that over this holiday weekend I worked on the religious theme in my novel - My Year as a Clown.
Chuck Morgan, the writer protagonist, is struggling with his book. My editor suggested that I recreate the first page of his story to show rather than simply say Chuck’s novel stinks. That’s a great idea, but not easy to execute.
Chuck’s story is about his grandfather’s escape from Russia in 1903. Why he is writing about this is just as important as what he writes. How he improves his book and what he learns about himself along the way is growing in importance to the overall story.
To get up to speed on Russia circa 1903 I watched Fiddler on the Roof. I also Googled. Now I’m reading Sholom Aleichem, the Yiddish author whose story, Fiddler was based on. I also interviewed a rabbi and have asked Jewish friends about their Judaism experience. Next on the list is Checkov and Tolstoy.
This little addition is having a domino effect. Now I have to tweak Chuck’s family and friends in several scenes as well as alter the backstory -- the detail that doesn't make the book but still contributes to who these characters are.
I spoke to someone the other day whose parents survived Auschwitz. I asked him if he’d experienced anti-Semitism while growing up. He hadn’t, but said that he’d come from a small town with few Jews. “I knew I was different.”
“How so?” I asked.
“At holidays all my friends were off visiting relatives or hosting family. We had no relatives, they’d all been killed in the holocaust.”
That triggered thoughts of a distant relative that had the same concentration camp tattoo on his forearm that my friend’s parents did.
I’m not sure how I’ll use this, but that sort of insight can take a story to another level.
Finishing a novel is like climbing a world-class mountain. Every time I round a bend, I expect to see the top, only to discover more terrain. I know the end is near, but this is where the trail is most treacherous. It’s often when the unexpected strikes. Regardless of what’s ahead, I intend on summiting. Turning back to base camp is simply not an option.
I'm in Costa Mesa next month to read and play at the Spring Issue release party of Orange Coast Review
April 10, 2006
I lived in California from 1977-1985 and back then Orange County was just a place you drove through on the way to LA. Now it’s riding high on the notoriety of the TV show – the OC. That program’s even a hit in England.
I live in the FC, Fairfield County. Although there are no orange groves here, the two counties have a lot in common. Both are now metropolitan areas in their own right, but they got their start as suburban heavens for the wealthy -- New York in the FC’s case; LA, for the OC.
Maybe it’s the proximity to Hollywood that got Orange County that sexy TV show -- we got the depressing Ice Storm. Perhaps it’s the Long Island Sound; it pales as a body of water compared to the Pacific. But it was John Cheever who immortalized this area with the tale of a man swimming across town through neighborhood swimming pools.
On a hot summer night here in Westport, many a saucy tale of sex, money, drugs, and power can be told. Maybe I should come up with a pilot based in Fairfield County.
So how did a Westport writer end up getting an opportunity in the OC?
Four years ago I met a fiction editor at a Connecticut Songwriter Association meeting. We bumped into each other at the coffee table and she agreed to take a look at my novel in exchange for feedback on her songs.
At the time I had no idea she worked with several major publishing houses or that she taught at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers conference, a prestigious west coast event where Amy Tan, Alice Sebold and Michael Chabon were discovered. I’ve attended that conference twice now, once as the Thayer Scholarship winner.
On my last trip to Squaw, I met someone who is now one of the editors at Orange Coast Review.
I’ll be reading my short story called “The Chaperone,” and play the companion song, “Your Favorite Lullaby.” The story is about a father who escorts his son and friend to a hard core rock concert, the song explores another aspect of parental love from the perspective of a son dealing with his mother’s dementia.
The song was co-written by my friend Paul Winsor. The story was inspired by a Hate Breed concert in New London. Paul got stuck taking his son and friend to the show and begged me to come along. The music was awful but I got a great story out of it and next month you can find it in the Orange Coast Review.
Nana's a remarkable woman and still has a hearty appetite for life, as well as fish and chips...
Tuesday, April 4, 2006
I left my Nana’s flat at 6:30 am and hit the M25, the circular motorway around London at 7. When the traffic’s good Heathrow’s only an hour or so away. My flight was at 11:55, but I got to the terminal just as they were closing check-in, the traffic was that brutal. Four tortuous hours and if not for a few seconds of fast talking, I would have missed the flight.
I kept my cool through most of the drive, but when I missed the turn off for the rental cars and ended up in another traffic jam I screamed F#$K and pounded the steering wheel.
Not the best way to end six days in the UK, but now that I’m on the plane, listening to Gregorian Chant through noise-cancellation head phones, I’m calm.
I caught up with good friends, former work mates, and family this week. I had lots of late nights, good chat, and British beer, but it wasn’t all fun and games. I also attended a funeral.
Auntie Annie was my Nana’s sister. She was 99. I don’t recall much about her, but I know her daughter and grandson. It clearly wasn’t the best part of the trip, but it did give me a chance to see several of the family I wouldn’t have otherwise caught up with.
Nana Claire, or Auntie John, as some call her, had nine brothers and sisters. Now only Bussie and she are alive, but Bussie suffers from Alzheimer’s. At 96, my nana moves around well and knows what’s what, but I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to live this long. I’d love to have experienced life before radio, but I’m not sure I’d want to outlive everyone that I knew.
I cried when I left her apartment this morning and each time I leave England I wonder if this is the last time I’ll see Nana, but something tells me it isn’t.
I was last here in August of 2003. I was still married, but a week after returning from the UK, my wife left. Hopefully nothing so dramatic will happen in the upcoming week. The divorce is old news, but it bubbled back to the surface because people here haven’t seen me since. When I lived here in’92, my marriage was at its peak. For many here, the news was a shock. I must admit it was strange resurrecting all of this, and at times I had to disentangle the tale of Chuck Morgan and myself, since I’m smack in the middle of all the details in Chuck’s divorce (Chuck’s the protagonist in my current novel).
Enough of that…
I heard a lot of new music on this trip. Some of it I really liked – The Kooks, The Streets, and the Keiser Chiefs, are bands worth checking out. Niles Barkley had the number one song this week in the UK. Its noteworthy because it’s the first single to top the charts solely through downloads.
Speaking of charts, Garagaband.com is featuring Lullaby this week on their home page – it’s Folk’s Track of the Week.
I did a little yoga on the trip but not enough. I’m dying for a class. I also missed playing guitar this week, and of course my cats. But soon enough I’ll be back at my desk writing and all of this will seem like a dream…
In London all week visiting friends and family...
April 3, 2006
I lived in England for three years. Both of my parents were born in London. Most of my relatives still live there. I spent ten years working for the British company EMI Music Group. I love this country's history, the music, the people, the pubs, even the blustery weather.
I moved here 16 years ago. It was 1989. The Berlin wall was still up, Saddam hadn't invaded Kuwait, Kurt Cobain probably hadn't tried heroin yet.
Walking up the High Street in Southend this morning, nothing much had changed. The same shops that one finds all over Britain are still here -- Boots, Marks and Sparks, Woolies, Next, Barclays, the Halifax. Parking is tight, the roads are narrow, the streets are clogged with lorries. But it's great to see a downtown filled with people.
But I did spot a Starbucks (ugh).
My second visit to England was in 1969 -- my parents were splitting up and they sent me to stay with my Nana and Grandpa. I was eleven and oblivious to the summer of love, but remember going to Hyde Park the day the Stones played.
England had only two TV channels and neither broadcasted 24/7. In '89 there were four channels. Today Nana's got about twenty -- not as many as my cockney cousin who's got a thousand via satellite.
My Auntie Roma loves the TV show Footballers Wives -- it's a juiced up version of Desperate Housewives. They resurrected Joan Collins, who plays a wealthy woman who rescued an eight year old boy from a Brazilian ghetto. Now he's a UK soccer star and she's his mother and lover -- as you can imagine, it's a big hit, but it's dreadful.
Expect an American version soon.
It's great catching up with family and friends; old work colleagues too. To travel this far and feel as if I'm home, one can't beat that. I'm not sleeping much and I'm doing a lot of driving, but I can catch up on the winks when I fly back Tuesday.
Until then, cheerio from Old Blighty...
rsw
I watched "Fiddler" this week as part of research for my new novel...
March 27, 2006
Is Google a verb?
Why would anyone purchase an encyclopedia nowadays? I’ve used Microsoft’s Encarta, it provides lots of information, but its got nothing on that first set of World Books my family bought when I was a kid.
It was as if the entire universe and all of history was there on our bookshelf. Sometimes I’d take a volume and randomly leaf through it. R had everything from robots to rugby; ancient Rome too.
I sound like my parents when they told me about the days before TV. Why does the past always look better?
Maybe what's missing today is simply that ability to wander through random bits of information -- everything is so targeted, there's no opportunity for serendipity.
------
I Googled a lot this week because I'm developing themes and sharpening characters in my novel. I tweaked sentences, added and deleted paragraphs, I drew upon experience for specifics, but I relied on research to go deeper.
In “My Year as a Clown,” the character Chuck Morgan, is coming to grips with his wife leaving (for the record: none of the facts in this novel are true, I made it all up, including this sentence).
Chuck is not religious, but now that he’s single, being Jewish is an issue. How and why needs some of work.
Chuck is also struggling to write a novel (no surprise there). The story is about his grandfather who escaped from Russia in the early 1900’s. The Jewish theme in Chuck’s novel parallels my story arc. In the draft I allude to the novel and Chuck’s difficulties, but my editor suggested I recreate a passage of his book to show Chuck’s progress or lack thereof.
It’s a great idea but it requires research because I know nothing of the era. I need specifics on clothing, food, furniture, and lots of other things too.
My mom suggested watching “Fiddler on the Roof.” I knew all the songs, but I’d forgotten the story. Watching the movie was an easy and fun way to start the research.
Google provides facts, but I still need the emotion. On Tuesday I’m going to England to visit my 96-year-old grandmother. The trip was planned ages ago, but the timing is now perfect. Nana was born in 1910, but her parents fled to London from Russia earlier in that decade. Fiddler and the Internet gave me a good overview, but Nana will provide the sort of detail that can’t be Googled.
The London trip will yield other writing benefits. Chuck’s ex-wife is British, and my editor thought she didn’t sound British enough. While I’m over there, I’ll listen carefully for those little twists in the language that I can sprinkle into the dialogue for authenticity.
I’ll bring my laptop along so hopefully I can upload next week’s essay from there.
Until then, be well…
rsw
I'd love to get to the top fast, but it's more realistic to expect my writing opportunities to come one step at a time...
March 20, 2006
This week I put my butt back in a chair to rewrite my novel. There's a lot to do, but I made good progress. With any luck I'll have this done by the end of April. In the meantime I learned this week that The Orange Coast Review will run my short story about a night at a hard-core rock show.
The idea came from a Hate Breed concert I attended at a beat-up club in the salt-water town of New London, Connecticut. My ears rang for days, but it was worth it.
I worked on this story for three years. I sent out earlier versions and got lots of rejection letters as well as a few encouraging words; but I never gave up on it.
Last December a friend from the Squaw Valley Community of Writers conference told me I should submit to Orange Coast because they were new and their first issue received rave reviews. I overhauled this story once more and sent it out.
This week I took another step upward -- the piece will appear in the review's second issue due out in May.
Other steps taken this week:
Your Favorite Lullaby is tearing up the folk charts on Garageband.com and has maintained a 5 out of 5 rating the entire week.
Will You Come Out Tonight peaked at number 20 on the folk/rock charts and then kicked over to the folk charts and got battered by the folk Nazis. Okay, I'm just a little sensitive because a couple of them really hammered it.
But having Track of the Week boosted my website traffic and a few music promotional companies stopped by interested in talking business.
It's great to receive positive feedback and offers, but when someone likes me, I get nervous. I wonder what their real angle is. This suspicion carries over into my personal life. I'm sure that's not a good thing, but it's the way it is at the moment.
The shoe is on the other foot as I coordinate contracts on forty songs for the 615 Music Film and TV library. I'm excited about the potential for my own songs and thrilled to bring others along, but it's tricky doing business with folks I know. The key to not jeopardizing these relationships is to be straightforward about the opportunity. The likelihood of anyone getting rich on this deal is small. It's about getting on base and seeing where it leads.
Making money as a songwriter or fiction writer isn't easy, but often artists think any business deal is like laying your hands on a winning lottery ticket -- i look at it this way: anyone that promises a jackpot is probably a crackpot.
But artists often get suckered into thinking this is the big one. I speak from experience. This week someone heard my song on Garageband and loved it so much they wanted me to be part of their upcoming promotional campaign -- it was going to be HUGE they said, MASSIVE, baby. They also wanted me to pay eight hundred bucks.
It was still difficult to say no to someone that was telling me I'm great, but I did.
I believe this company is legit, but they need to soft peddle their sales approach.
Maybe I've just made the biggest mistake of my life, but so be it if that's the case. I'm here for the long haul and if something this good came to me in the first month of marketing my music, I don't doubt that there'll be other chances.
This experience made me feel better about how I'm handling the 20 or so artists I've gone to contract with. I've tried to be straight forward. I've explained the good and the bad. This deal isn't for everyone, but it's a fair and realistic opportunity.
As a writer I've found that my most compelling work comes from being honest and open; it's not a bad way to do business either.
I was hot last week on Garageband.com.
March 13, 2006
Solitude is a writers’ best friend. It’s when the work gets done. But last week I got bogged down in business activities and put in only a few hours each day on my novel.
I was taking advantage of being Garageband.com’s folk-rock track of the week as well as putting the final touches on my film/tv deal with 615 Music down in Nashville.
I wanted to ignore everything and write, but I just couldn’t. Contracts needed to go out and the paperwork required fine tuning. While I juggled that I hired a company to send out an electronic press kit to four hundred Internet music sites; but I still needed to put something together for them.
In the chaos I discovered I enjoyed the hustle bustle of making phone calls, sending out emails, following up with various parties to make something happen. It’s what I used to do when I had an official job in the music business. I was pretty good at it back then, and I quickly fell into the swing of it.
-----------------------------
There’s a new section on my web site – it’s called Film & TV.
Over the last year I was working to secure a deal with 615 Music, Nashville’s Emmy winning production house. I'm helping them create a library of amazing songs to be marketed to the film and television industry. 615 has extensive contacts in the entertainment business, they’re great people and very committed.
I know lots of talented independent musicians and we’ve already moved to contract on forty songs. Another three CDs of music is under review. I seek tracks across all genres, so if you know someone great, let me know.
Once things get going I’ll post features on the artists I’m working with as well as where their songs get placed.
What’s interesting about all of this is that I stumbled into it. I was having lunch with Jason Blume in a restaurant across from the Bluebird Café. Jason has written lots of hits, as well as several songwriting books for Billboard. Jason told me that the songs on my CD would never get cut in town, but he did think the material was strong enough to find their way into film and television. That’s how I ended up at 615 and now several of those tunes are in the library too.
-------------------
I floated another song on Garageband.com. Since the folkies were giving Will You Come Out Tonight a hard time for being too produced and polished, I put up in the folk category My Favorite Lullaby to show them that I can scale down too. So far the reviews have been strong -- it came out of the box with a rating of 5 out 5.
I’ve been added to several Internet radio stations this week. I’m not sure what reach they have, but even if only ten people listen, that’s okay. The only way to build a fan base is one person at a time.
I also sent out a blurb to my email list of roughly three hundred, but it contained several typos. In the age of spell checker there is no excuse for such a mishap. There's no point explaining; a writer should eliminate such things. I’m smarter than the average bear but I still amaze myself at how I can screw up what a sixth-grader could catch.
There’s more to tell, but I should get back to my novel. Joy Johannessen provided an insightful review of my latest draft and it’s time to get back to the book.
Until next week.
Robert
Big week on the music front -- the first review of my CD ran in the indie music site -- smother.net -- and 'Will You Come Out Tonight' is Garageband.com's track of the week in folk rock.
March 6, 2006
"I Am Not My Job” is almost a novel in of itself. Commanding narratives are matched with equal musicianship. The music is rooted in folk rock and ambitious pop landing nicely with smile worthy hooks."
Smother Magazine
Will You Come Out Tonight is track of the week on Garageband.com in the folk/rock category.
GB isn’t one of those popularity sites -- songs rise up the chart based on reviews by GB visitors. That’s what makes this opportunity so interesting – it’s pure music democracy at work. Friends can’t review the song, they can only pick a category to evaluate -- GB selects specific tracks.
To break the top 40 you have to be a one of the best songs in the first round – I’m now in the next round and been as high as 20, but this success also put me on the folk chart and here I’ve ruffled a few folkie feathers. The worst comment came from a reviewer who claimed to see hit potential in my song, but slammed it anyway because it wasn’t his cup of tea.
I don’t expect everyone to like my stuff, but that review sent me from a 4.7 to a 3.6 rating. You don’t actually see the numeric score (1-5), but since I already had over twenty reviews averaged into my rating, this person must have given me a 1 for my rating to drop that much.
A single review put a damper on twenty-five glowing comments. I know this is an overreaction, but I couldn’t help it. This is why I haven’t done much with the CD. I didn’t want to face hearing how awful it was from pundits, critics, and guys like folkie Frank. I’m not sure why I even floated Will You Come Out Tonight on Garageband.com. But now I’m glad I did.
I got into this funk because it took eight years to release my first CD. I wrote hundreds of bad songs before finding my voice. When I finally settled on this twelve, I recorded them several times with different arrangements and keys. By the time it was finished I was totally burnt. I couldn’t bear to hear these songs anymore, but this week I listened to the entire CD for the first time since September. I still hear a lot of things I could have done differently, but it’s certainly a lot better than I remembered.
It turns out – I’m my worst critic.
That has to change and I should take advantage of this profile on Garageband so I hired MusicSubmit.com to blitz four-hundred Internet music sites – bloggers, podcasters, reviewers and radio stations. The electronic press kit includes a press release, bio, photos, three tracks and a link to Garageband’s homepage.
I’m also sending out an email to my list – you probably got one if you’re reading this (I promise to keep those to a minimum, but if you want to be removed just shoot me an email).
In the meantime I’ll post results from this blitzkrieg in the “What’s New” section through the week.
Here are a handful of reviews from Garageband.com:
Great song
The singer nails a distinctive vibe right off the bat, and then proceeds to reinforce the feel with interesting phrasing, good range changes and a few quircky inflections (primarily in the chorus). This really makes the chorus into a strong hook. Great use of backup vocals as well. They compliment the mellow breathiness of this singer. The song tells a story of a young woman dreaming her way through a lonely, mundane life. Well crafted words, well performed guitar and drum work. Total winner! (folk genre? go for folk rock...or ?, oh , who cares! this tune is happenin!)
- imike from Sedona, Arizona on 25Feb2006
Great lyrics, nice melody
I really enjoyed the lyrics in this song, the story, and the way the bridge flowed into the chorus. I had a hard time with the notes in the word "moonlight", they didn't seem to fit for me, maybe holding a single note for that word would work a bit better. The background vocals were a great touch, and I think they helped flush out a lead vocalist that was a bit soft.
- woodpile from Comox, British Columbia, Canada on 2Mar2006
Good song
There's great competition in this catagory, and tunes like this raise the bar. The singer has an honesty to his voice that makes him believable. There's conviction in the singer's voice and he stays right in his range.
The melody here, along with the catchy phrases(ing) are refreshingly original and suit nicely to the mood which by the way is set by the well played guitar licks that has its own melody, and the drums which seem to want to hold everyone back.
The music is so inviting, it's easy to get into the lyrics. I like the colorful way the "small town girl" story is told, and the hook is there in the chorus to be remembered.
-Great Job!!
- MichaelPaul from Medford, Oregon on 12Feb2006
Beautiful song...
This is a keeper, truly nice job... was this the song Adam Sandler sang to Drew Barrymore in Wedding Singer? ;--) Obviously it isn't but now you know the feel and style. I thought the production was nice, sounds like a professional job. The musicians on here are good, tasety guitar solo, nothing too over the top and you can tell there's some skill there. I like the "out-of-phase" sound on the guitar. I like the harmonies in the intro guitar line, are these overdubbed or are there two guitarists?
At times the vocals sit on top of the mix a bit too much which I think makes the vocalist pull back a little bit during the chorus'. This also makes him a little out of tune at 1:36-1:46. Hardly noticeable. I really like the melody, it takes some turns jumping the octave in places that fit but that I wouldn't expect. The lead singer has a great, rough, quality to his voice (rough meaning un-tamed, not Jack and a pack rough).
Great Backup singers, they are mixed perfectly in the back and really make the song.
Most songs I wouldn't give a Garageband.com award and now with this band I have to choose between 3! Grooviest Rhythm, Smoochiest Love Song or Best Potential Movie Soundtrack... hmmm... I knew a girl named Davida.
- celt_rock from Saint Albans, Vermont on 11Feb2006
review
nice guitar solo in the begining. the singer is interesting. this song has a very laid back feel to it.
- JamesIsaak from Van Nuys, California on 1Mar2006
good
very soft nice calming music i like the vocals and the guitar i also like the drum line i hope you guys doo good with the music...
- chunkymunky877 from Unspecified on 1Mar2006
country/folk/poppy sound
Nice sounding ballad right from the beginning. Voice sounds good too. The instruments are well played, intelligent. Good arrangement. Text is fine 'cause it flows & matches the music. Nice melody, back up vocals.
- mcarlson from Marseille, Paris, France on 28Feb2006
Groovy Stuff!!
Drums are fabulous on tthis track . I love the intro to this grrove soundin' song. Nice torso swaying song. Harmonies are very creative. Nice way to incorporate female vocals. This song has the whole package. Great guitar sound. Production stands out a swhole for this song.
- amandacevallos from Houston, Texas on 27Feb2006
February 27, 2006
I might have been the last person on the planet to read this...
I completed a draft of my new novel and sent it to Joy Johannessen, my editor a few weeks back. She helped out on The Lovely Bones, so I’m fortunate to have her assistance.
While she edits, I plan on catching up on some reading. Last night I completed The DaVinci Code. I’m probably the only person on the planet that hadn’t read it.
Okay, it moves great, the whole Jesus/Grail narrative is fantastic, but I was shocked at the prose – Brown makes Grisham look like Fitzgerald. It’s a train wreck but I still couldn't put the damn thing down. And yet I was left unsatisfied in the way I often am when I watch one of those Hollywood Summer Blockbusters.
When I mention to friends who are not writers that I didn’t think it was very good they look at me as if I’m mad. They must think: poor guy, can’t sell his novel so he’s got to slam the one book everyone in the world says is the best thing since, well, I’d say Jim Frey’s memoir, but DaVinci came out before that...
And yet most of my writer friends think DaVinci Code is junk too.
Specifically here’s what I disliked:
The characters were thin, the dialogue clunky, often the historical information was forced into conversation, the character interaction was awkward and stiff. I often found his descriptive phrases jarring for their lack of clarity or inappropriateness. I’m surprised an editor didn’t give it a good polishing. It wouldn’t have taken much because the plot is so good, but I don’t think they had any idea this was going to be such a hit.
From previous postings you know I’m not a big fan of America’s favorite television show either – but for the most part, the finalists on American Idol are great singers. I’m just not a fan of vocal pyro-techniques. I don’t like Celine Dion, Mariah Carey or Mary J. Blige, but all three are fabulous singers. I prefer Lucinda Williams, even Janis Joplin who was notorious for hitting clunkers, but these women have an intangible that goes beyond moving through three octaves of perfect pitch, they sing as if they are singing for their lives.
Still, I understand why Idol is so popular. I don’t understand why DaVinci Code was so massive, but more importantly, I don’t see how the editors allowed it to go to print as written.
My guess is – they’ve all been promoted and odds are one of them will find out I wrote this and I’ll never get published again.
Anyway – next up on my reading list: Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. Zadie is an incredible writer and I’m looking forward to delving into Cambridge, Massachusetts, the setting for this book – I lived there for three years.
On other news:
This week I co-wrote a dance/hip hop tune for a friend who is a fitness instructor. He’s just opened up a studio and I wrote a theme song with Gerry McKeveny. We are working on a number of projects together and we needed a name to represent this joint effort. At the moment we’re going with:
The Kraker Jaxs
My song Will You Come Out Tonight was rated a 4.7 out of 5 on garageband.com this week. It’s entered the 2nd round of competition and is now #31 on the folk/rock charts. Not bad considering it entered the charts two weeks ago at 119…
Stay tuned and stay warm…
Camp gurus Penny Nichols, Sloan Wainwright and David Roth -- this weekend at WinterSongs
February 21, 2006
I taught a workshop this weekend at WinterSongs up in the Catskills on placing songs in Film and Television.
It was only five years ago that I first attended a camp run by Penny Nichols – it was her 2nd – SummerSongs 2000. She only had thirty attendees that week, but now close to a hundred show up each August at Ashokan. There are three other retreats -- two on the west coast.
Over the years I’ve helped with the marketing and at one point I was on the board of advisors (maybe I still am). Penny was the vocal arranger on my CD – I Am Not My Job. Her work is getting rave reviews on Garageband.com for the harmonies on Will You Come Out Tonight – which just entered the folk/rock charts. In it’s first week it won four awards including Best Male Vocals – the song has a current rating that puts it in the top 1% of all songs on the site – we’ll have to see if it can maintain such lofty heights – but it’s great to get off to a good start and I couldn’t have done it with out Penny’s help.
Penny also battled breast cancer last year and although she’s still not out of the woods, her prognosis is good. It’s great to see her at camp. Her voice and spirit are strong and it was wonderful to hear her singing again and to see that beautiful smile.
David Roth, a key instructor who has been with Penny since the beginning, underwent an operation for thyroid cancer just a few months ago. He made a rapid recovery and he was has returned to form this week.
Another staffer, nurse Fran Stone, rescued a dog out of burning apartment building -- she almost died of smoke inhalation. Her lungs are still not functioning properly, but she was there providing support to the attendees for aches and pain, lack of sleep, a touch of the nerves, or flu. She’s a great singer and writer too and from her performances over the weekend you’d never know she was only at 75% lung capacity.
The love that has grown out of the SummerSongs community has mysterious healing powers. There is no doubt in my mind that this energy has helped these three navigate difficult and often seemingly impossible terrain.
It is an honor and privilege to be part of this group and although I’ve returned home and can barely hold my head up (I stayed up each night until three and was up at 6:30 to lead yoga) – I wanted to acknowledge what took place this weekend and thank Penny, all the staff, and the attendees for what was another fabulous songwriter’s retreat….
I’ll be posting lots of photos in the What’s New Section soon…
More popular than Madonna, U2, Mary J. Blige or Mariah Carey...
February 13, 2006
America was given a choice last week: watch the very best the music industry has to offer or watch folks clueless at how little talent they have get humiliated in front of the American Idol judges – it wasn’t surprising who won out…
Is it any wonder why James Frey’s so-called true story was such a hit? Or why America was even more captivated by Oprah’s apology.
I often brood over the state of art today, but in reality, things haven’t changed much...
In Ann Rynd’s book The Fountainhead, published in 1943, Ellsworth Toohey, an architectural critic has such disdain for his readership that he elevates mediocrity and declares Howard Roark, one of the field’s pure talents, a hack. Ellsworth has no trouble convincing the public of his truth…
In the end Roark’s work triumphs, he even gets the girl, but in 2006 there appears to be no underestimating of the public’s taste -- Skating with the Stars, Fear Factor, The Bachelor in Paris.
And yet in these bleak days there is hope –
In this wilderness of paparazzi culture Bruce Springsteen somehow survives. He’s ignored fashionable trends like pairing up with today’s hot hip-hop stars. He hasn’t released a CD full of standards. He’s not hiring Rick Rubin to produce his next record.
For those that did watch the Grammy’s, Bruce appeared alone to sing the title track to his latest CD – Devils and Dust. Carrying the torch once held by Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan, Springsteen is a worthy successor and doesn’t shy from what matters – from Forty-one Shots – to the Iraq war. Last year’s solo tour was Springsteen at his best.
But if he’d come up in today’s music business, he probably wouldn’t have gotten a deal. Bruce’s first two Lps didn’t sell well and Columbia debated dropping him before Born to Run was even conceived. No doubt if that record had flopped, the label would have dumped him.
I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without Bruce Springsteen.
Growing up in Jersey myself, I’d seen Bruce several times before Born to Run, so maybe I’d still have caught him around. In interviews, Springsteen claims that if he’d been dropped by the label, he’d have kept playing because that’s all he ever wanted to do. I don’t doubt his resolve, but I know lots of excellent musicians in their forties that never got a break and their lives are not pretty -- drugs, divorce, jail – who knows what would have happened if Columbia had dumped Springsteen in 1975.
Thank God they didn’t.
It was rather depressing a few weeks back hearing how Frey couldn’t sell his book as fiction; when he called it a true story, it was gobbled up.
I must not let the vagaries of the market get to me because as long as I can see Springsteen’s star burn bright in the dark sky, there’s still hope for a guy like me.
----------------
February 6, 2006
Last week Nataliegirl 222 from Texas wrote via my Tag World site saying she dug my homepage. She called me cutie. Of course she’d sent the same message to hundreds, maybe thousands of guys.
Tag World is a new competitor to MySpace, the on-line community where thirty million or so kids hang out. Lot’s of bands use MySpace to promote music, and since I’d just released my own CD, I decided to join both.
Odds are if you’re of college age you’ve got a MySpace page. This fact wasn’t lost on Rupert Murdoch, who bought the on-line community last year.
TW is still in beta test and when I joined in early January it had only three hundred thousand users. Its membership doubled during the month. Nataliegirl 222 joined just a few days ago and she was already zooming up the popularity charts with hundreds of friends and postings galore from admirers.
I had uploaded music and pictures to my TW page and blogged on the Frey memoir as well as a Congressional Town Meeting here in Westport, CT.
Not surprising, my site was as popular as the science club back in high school and I was that kid who ate lunch alone. My only friend was Ryan, the TagWorld greeter (he’s everyone’s friend). After declaring his friendship he told me to email everyone in my address book to come visit.
I wasn’t about to give TagWorld my address book but I did mention it here on my official website. I got a few visitors but they clearly came via this site. To be honest I had no idea what these on-line communities were, but within minutes I figured out it was like hanging out in home room in high school or a college frat house – not quite my cup of tea anymore.
And then Nataliegirl 222 sent that email and it arrived the same day that the Hartford police reported teenage girls being sexually assaulted by guys they’d met via MySpace.
I returned to my TW site and noticed that I’d had one other visitor – official TW visitors leave their photo after stopping by – I clicked on it and learned she was a fifteen-year-old from New Jersey (I have no idea how she ended up on my site). Hers was filled with photos you’d expect from a teenage girl – she was bored, she smoked Newports, she hoped someone was having a good party this weekend. Her photos weren’t provocative like Nataliegirl 222, but a few approached that gray area.
The potential for abuse in on-line communities is obvious, and site administrators do have some safeguards, but what might be doing greater harm is how on-line communities exploit a teen’s need to be part of the crowd. One is constantly aware of where they sit in the social pecking order. Everyone is encouraged to campaign for more votes and more hits.
It’s a great marketing strategy because this popularity contest drives traffic to the collective hive so that advertisements can be sold.
I’m sure most kids have this in perspective, but what about those that don’t? It doesn’t take much for a fifteen year old to become Nataliegirl 223.
I told one kid at my health club who was home from college about Natalie. He told me odds were, she wasn’t real, that it was a porn site using a fake ID to fish for prospects.
It didn't dawn on me that spammers had infiltrated TW -- coming through the TW email system lulled me into thinking she was legit. And from all the postings she had, I wasn't the only one that thought she was real...
Why do porn operators catch on to what’s what faster than parents or regulators?
A first step to correcting this situation is for parents to get on-line to learn what their kids are up to. The government should also make sure on-line operators are doing everything they can to make sure children understand the risks. These sites must also make it impossible for spammers and perverts to reach these kids. If they can't, maybe they should be shut down.
We can send a man to the moon, one would think we could flush out porn spammers.
As for me, my Tag World site remains, but now that I see what all the fuss is about I’ve lost my enthusiasm for setting up the MySpace site – I guess I’ll look toward more traditional methods for promoting my CD.
The crowd was heated at the Shay's Town Meeting in Westport last week...
January 30, 2006
Last week I attended Christopher Shays’ Westport Town Hall meeting. He’s our US Congressman, a moderate republican who has held the seat since 1987.
I was surprised at the agenda: congressional ethics, domestic spying, the war on Iraq – I thought people would want to discuss taxes, federal spending in the area, road works and jobs – but everyone was keen talk about the big issues. Both sides were present and passionate. Several times Shays had to quiet the crowd. At one point he spoke to us as if we were unruly school kids. He said this was the only meeting in the district where people were shouting at one another.
On one hand this anger is alarming because it highlights the division in the country. If it can happen here in a town where few of its residents are over there, what’s it like in Bridgeport where vehicle armor is more than just an intellectual discussion? On the other hand, it was great to see the passion because it meant the people in attendance cared enough about what’s going on to speak out.
The two hundred or so in attendance skewed sixty-plus. Is there anything significant about that? Is it fair to say that the young are too preoccupied with their youth, and those 30 – 60 are too busy making money and raising kids. Perhaps? But I bet they’d all crawl out of Starbucks to voice an opinion if a draft was instituted, or God forbid, a suicide bomber hit Grand Central.
To be honest, I didn’t think many people in town even knew we were at war. I’m fairly aware of the world outside of Westport, but I will admit that I too get caught up in my own affairs and forget that people are dying everyday over there.
Madeline Albright was also in town last week campaigning for Farrell at a thousand dollar a plate fund raiser. I guess if you attend such functions, more than just kitchen remodels are discussed, but since I left the corporate world I don’t mix in those circles, so I can’t say for sure.
As a writer, most of my friends are liberal, and we do talk politics, but I was surprised at their surprise when I told some I had attended the Shays meeting. It’s difficult to expect politicians to take a stand against partisan politics when the electorate can be just as partisan.
Freedom of speech cuts to the bone of what it means to be an American and yet I felt the pressure not to speak in that Town Meeting. I also felt ostracized amongst my peers for admitting that I’d attended a republican event. If I’m feeling pressure here, what hope do Iraqis have of speaking out in their country? What example does this set for the rest of the world?
We can do better and we must….
When a friend appearing at a Westport Art Center event needed a last minute guitar player, I was able to get the amazing Gerry McKeveny to save the day. Gerry and I have worked together for years and we will be appearing around the metro area in the upcoming months.
January 23, 2006
This essay ran as an op ed piece in the Westport News this week.
The Westport Arts Center was recently under fire for allegedly not supporting local artists. Even though I’m an emerging writer in town I didn’t give it much thought. But I was at the center last week to see a friend play, and it made me think more about the issue.
As a former music industry executive who has handled numerous pro bono strategy assignments for non-profits including a brief project for the Lincoln Center, I would advise the Westport Arts Center to promote local talent when appropriate, but a mandate of Westport content would be a mistake.
When I was Senior VP of Marketing for a record chain in Canada we often came up against the well-intentioned, but ill-conceived Canadian Content law, requiring radio and TV to carry at least twenty-five percent Canadian programming. There simply wasn’t enough quality content, and ultimately it tainted the great Canadian artists as well as Canadian stations because they were forced to carry inferior programming.
A quota at the Westport Art Center would lower the quality and limit its scope.
While at the center I checked out the Brooklyn exhibition which had created the brouhaha. I’m no art expert, but I thought it was excellent. In regards to their music programming, I can say confidently that what’s on offer is impressive both in breadth and quality.
After the show Thursday I gave the director my CD, and hopefully I’ll get a call, but I certainly don’t want special favors just because I live here. My work must stand on its own. Having a world-class Arts Center in Westport is an opportunity, not a threat.
But I will confess that in this McMansion era, if something doesn’t break for me soon, I must return to the corporate world to pay my mortgage and taxes. Moonlighting as a writer of fiction and songs wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I could also cash out and move somewhere else to pursue writing. And that's not the end of the world either.
Despite Westport’s rich cultural heritage the Arts Center can not ensure that local artists survive here. It’s a complex issue, but quite frankly, it’s too late anyway. Today’s resident artists have already made it, live with their parents, or have a spouse supporting them.
Still, I’m optimistic.
I’ve just completed a publishing deal in Nashville focused on film and television for my songs. The new novel is almost done. One of the editors of The Lovely Bones is assisting me. Last year I was a finalist in the Raymond Carver short story contest.
None of this guarantees me anything and it’s unclear whether I’ll be here next year, but that’s not the Arts Center’s problem.
I look forward to the challenge, I am open to all possibilities, and if the folks responsible for the arts in Westport have ideas on how I can get to the next level, I’m all ears…
If I'd had a crap childhood...
or my ex had left me for another woman...
or I'd come out of the closet...
...I'd have a book deal too!
January 16, 2005
A few months ago I was in a book store with a friend who bought Jim Frey’s memoir, A Million Little Pieces. She’d seen the Oprah program with his mom in the audience and was intrigued. “It’s a true story,” my friend said, peeling the Oprah sticker off the front cover.
I used to think memoirs were for past presidents, CEOs, movie stars and sports legends, but nowadays even the postman can write one. It doesn’t hurt to be a former teenage prostitute or abused by a priest growing up. In Jim Frey’s case he had serious addiction issues.
But Jim Frey’s memoir would never have sold that many books if it hadn’t been marketed as a ‘true-story.’ Frey’s a good writer, but that same book pitched as fiction sells five thousand copies. That’s why when he first tried to sell it as fiction, he got nowhere. Repositioned as a memoir it was bought by Random House.
Memoirs are the publishing equivalent of reality TV.
“Although some of the facts have been questioned," Oprah said on Larry King, "the underlying message of redemption in James Frey's memoir still resonates with me, and I know it resonates with millions of other people who have read this book and who will continue to read this book."
I believe Oprah’s statement is sincere, but there’s no way she would have endorsed this book if it had been fiction. Of course she can’t admit this. But it wasn’t her responsibility to check the facts; apparently publishers don’t believe they should either.
One publisher said in The New York Times, “Nonfiction is not a single monolithic category as defined by the best-seller list. Memoir is personal recollection. It is not absolute fact. It's how one remembers what happened.”
I don’t disagree, but where does the line get drawn?
Mr. Frey claims that only eighteen of the four hundred or so pages of his book are in dispute. But those eighteen pages made a huge difference to the narrative, to the drama, to the consequences of his addiction.
Clearly a percentage of facts ‘correct’ can not be the benchmark.
The good news is that subsequent memoirs will be held to higher standards and scrutiny.
As an emerging writer and former music-industry marketing executive, I often think of angles to launch myself into the national spotlight. If only I had a serious addiction or health issue. My wife leaving me for another man wasn’t bad, but it’s not enough to garner headlines. If only she’d left for another woman, or I’d come out of the closet.
On days when another rejection arrives in the mail I seriously consider lying about my childhood or sexuality.
And yet I am a Harvard Business School graduate who walked away from a promising executive career to pursue writing. That’s not a bad angle, but I realized that I wanted to be known for my writing, not for what I gave up to write.
Facts are irrelevant in good fiction because it is emotional truths that touch reader’s hearts. It’s what provides insight into the human condition. It’s why Anna Karenina has resonated with people for over a hundred years and will continue to do so. It is why only a handful of the thousands of memoirs being cranked out by today’s publishing conglomerates will be remembered.
But despite this set back, memoirs make money as do reality TV shows, don’t expect either trend to slow until the profit dwindles. In the meantime I write fiction, striving for truth without regard to facts or current market conditions.
Nana Claire celebrating her 95th birthday last October.
January 9, 2006
My ninety-five-year old grandmother sent a letter this week saying she grieves for the future her great-grandchildren face given the situation in the world today.
Things aren’t good for lots of reasons but I was surprised by my nana’s comment since she was born in 1910 and has lived through the depression and WWII. It also made me wonder if growing up in the sixties was worse than this.
I was five when JFK was shot and we were sent home early from kindergarten. Many of the fifth and sixth graders were crying and I thought that strange. I have no recollection of the ’61 missile crisis, which is a good thing since that was probably the closest we’ve come so far to blowing up the planet.
I didn’t know who Martin Luther King was, but when everyone started talking about a King getting assassinated, I knew things were bad.
I had an idea of who Robert Kennedy was on the day he died. I was about to leave the house for school when the TV repair man showed up. He came bearing the news and my mother broke down crying.
The Chicago riots at the Democratic Convention were another sign of unsettled times but it would have taken actual fighting on my street to puncture my bubble of summer innocence filled with sandlot baseball and a stingray bicycle.
I was in eighth grade for the first round of gas rationing and wondered if there’d be enough gasoline by the time I was old enough to drive. Nixon resigned when I was in tenth.
No wonder I often act as if there is no tomorrow.
Kids today seem more concerned about getting Xbox 360 than with what’s going on in the world. If there was a draft, things would be different, and I am surprised to find myself in support of reinstating it.
If we’d had a draft we might not be in Iraq today. If I was in college, I’m sure I’d feel differently, but the vibrancy of youth culture and protest in the late sixties had relevance even if it didn’t change the world. With only a few exceptions, I hear little protest in today’s popular music – it’s all about getting the party started.
It’s hard to quantify if times are worse now. They certainly don’t feel like that euphoric period right after the Berlin wall came down. But was that time really any less threatening? The glory days of the nineties still had the first Gulf War, Somalia, the first Trade Center Bombing, Oklahoma City and Bosnia.
Maybe the threat of disaster is always close by. It’s not as if times were peaceful for long during the reign of China, Greece, Rome, France or England.
The difference today is how events penetrate the lives of average citizens. We are under a barrage of information on all fronts all the time. How would World War II have played out under twenty-four hour news coverage?
There’s an assumption that the media would have reported the concentration camp activity but after last month’s revelation that The New York Times held off for a year on the domestic spying story, one wonders what can be believed at anytime during war. If The Times can cave to the administration’s pressure, one must imagine that the White House has a direct link into Fox network news.
Nana Claire lived in London during WWII and her recollections of that time include the camaraderie, the heroic acts of uniformed men, the kindness of strangers. If she’d lived on the continent and somehow survived the concentration camps, her feelings about today might be different.
But it’s not a question of whether it’s worse now or not. It doesn’t matter because it’s bad enough and we should know better. After ten-thousand or so years of civilization we should have learned how to get along. We can send a man into space, we can map the human genome, we can provide a television channel that broadcasts soap operas twenty-four hours a day, but we haven’t progressed one iota on our ability to get along as a species.
Maybe that’s what my grandmother was getting at when she sent that letter.
1976 -- That's me on the left with a mop on my head, hang on, that's my hair...
January 2, 2006
It’s hard to believe that its 2006 – thirty years ago I welcomed in the new year at a Bruce Springsteen concert at the Tower Theater in Philadelphia. There’s a DVD in the ‘Born to Run’ anniversary box set of that era and I can’t believe how scruffy the E Street Band looks – Bruce wears a ridiculous knitted hat and Little Steven is in a suit more appropriate for a pimp…but that night at the Tower the band was in white tuxes and Bruce came out in his stock biker-black leather…
I was a senior in high school and had no idea what I would do with my life, but if someone had told me that in 2006 I’d have just released an album and was finishing up a novel, I would have probably thought that was cool – but maybe I would have also wondered why it had taken so long.
What do I see for 2006?
I rarely make resolutions but I can’t ignore that this is a milestone year for me because I’ve finally burned through the financial reserves. My writing and music must generate enough cash to pay the bills or I’m back to work.
I could get a roommate or sell various assets like my prized Gibson 1966 355, but I’ve got four more months before I have to make a major move. In the meantime I’m focused on completing the novel – My Year as a Clown and getting the word out on my new CD.
But no matter what happens this year, as long as I keep writing, 2006 cannot be a failure.
Of course there are more important things going on in the world. It would be great to see Iraq stand on its own so our troops could come home, but I doubt anything but a token withdrawal will happen this year.
I worry about the potential government abuses of privacy in the name of the war on terror – wiretaps, torture, confinement without charges – you’re either with us or against us – if I criticize the government in my writing will they monitor my email and phone?
When I wrote that piece on Somalia, I made lots of calls to that country and I wondered if this had alerted the FBI.
Although we are a so called nation at war, here in Westport, Connecticut, one would never know. The shops were packed at Christmas and you couldn’t get a table at most restaurants on the weekends. As the death toll rises in Iraq perhaps more people will realize what’s at stake.
844 American men and women died in Iraq in 2005.
Technology shows no signs of slowing and so I must address this in my website including the ability to blog and podcast.
I use the Authors Guild software and when it was first introduced. It was one of the best packages out there, but not anymore. I’ve spoken to their president and he assured me that it would be taken care of in the fall. I don’t know what happened but a Guild website without a blog is like a music site without the ability to sample songs.
I watched the music industry do everything it could to slow technology. They fought downloading and streaming and allowed Apple to take 75% of the digital market. Technology has the potential to do the same to the book business and you can be assured that the industry will do everything it can to slow it down too.
Todays’s emerging author not only needs to write well, he needs to generate a buzz. That’s why this web site is an important part of my effort. Your support and feedback is essential to the process and I gratefully appreciate it. Look for enhancements in 2006…
Thanks for visiting over the holidays and have a Happy New Year!
rsw
Christmas at my house this year...featuring mini-tree
December 26, 2005
Although this is a time to show love by giving gifts, it’s also a reminder that I should let those around me know how much I appreciate them during the rest of the year.
My Mom and step father are up from Florida and we attended a party with about fifty other people at my bass player’s house. Paul’s wife, Barb, was diagnosed with lung cancer back in February and for awhile Barb didn’t think she’d see her daughter graduate high school. Barb’s completely cured now. Talk about miracles. She needed no reminder this Christmas that her family and friends loved her.
I’m grateful too for the love and support of those that have stood by me since I left the corporate world. I take comfort knowing that they love me regardless of whether I make the best seller list, but on occasion I lose sight of this.
The season of celebration and joy comes with its companions – disappointment and anger. I do my best not to get caught up in the hype and inevitable let-downs of expectations unfulfilled, but I couldn't avoid it twice this month.
Since my Mom was coming up this year, I decorated the house for the first time since getting divorced. Going into the basement to retrieve the Christmas boxes brought back memories and for a few hours I wandered about in a daze.
But what hit me the hardest this season was something that on the surface appeared innocuous -- a Christmas card from a college buddy, a guy who was once one of my closest friends. He wrote: Happy holidays – oh yeah, you’re always on holiday…
I know he was joking, but jokes have an underlying truth, and it upset me because it’s not the first time that I’ve heard this seven-year-vacation remark.
I’m fortunate to have this opportunity to make a run at my dream. Lots of people never get the chance, but many who could, hide behind excuses. It’s convenient to say that if I hadn’t had children, or a sick mother, or alimony payments, I could have made it as a writer, a painter, or a whatever.
Some so-called friends shake their heads wondering why it’s taking so long to sell one of my novels given the amount of time I’ve been at it. In my darkest moments, I too wonder…
Turning a dream into reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Perhaps it was the concept of being a writer that had attracted me, the life of Hemingway for example -- chasing bulls, hunting lion, fishing off the coast of Cuba – it couldn’t have been the actual writing because that isn’t very glamorous. Writing is a lonely business, difficult and tedious.
But the feeling of completing a project is indescribable. Knowing that I’ve touched someone’s heart through music and words is a remarkable feeling.
In 2005 thousands of visitors hit this website, people purchased the CD, publishers printed my short stories, and agents took my writing seriously – these are things I never thought possible...
And with the love and companionship of friends and family I see no reason why anything else that I dare to dream can’t come true.
At the holidays it is easy to get down on myself because it appears as if everyone else is so happy. All too often I don’t see what I have, but this year my eyes are open and I see the good fortune…
Merry Christmas and Happy Hanakuh…
rsw
I was too late to take advantage of a today's brief thaw...
December 19, 2005
An early blast of winter kept everything in a deep freeze for a couple of weeks here in Connecticut. I had intended to clear the gutters of the leaves and twigs and rake the last of the fallen debris before winter arrived, but everything was under a block of ice.
The first snow fell and began to melt right away, but a sudden temperature drop turned that slush to ice and the follow-up storm dumped four more inches of snow on top. Any area that wasn’t shoveled turned into an ice-skating rink around my house.
Fortunately I had placed a seasoned-oak order back in September and a chord sits dry underneath my deck.
Now that I have a lap top I write in the newly painted living room and hear the crackle of burning wood, as well as enjoy the warmth of the hearth. But at night when I go to bed I must leave the flue open to allow the last of the embers to die out. In the morning the downstairs is freezing.
On my runs to Home Depot I had noticed glass covers for the fire place. I’m not a big fan of these because they’re clunky, but they keep the cold out when the fire is on its last legs. With oil over two bucks a gallon, I need to take energy conservation measures.
If I could find a cover that was smaller than the designer wrought-iron grille that fronts my fireplace, one might not notice the glass cover behind it.
I went over to the Depot yesterday. A row of lawnmowers stood in the aisle where I had seen those covers. I asked one of the guys with the orange vests where the covers went. He said, “We sold out of them a few weeks ago. We’re bringing in the lawn and garden items. Can I show you the ’06 lawn mowers?”
I removed my wool cap and gloves and looked at him like he was mad.
Retailers are much more sophisticated than they once were. They have fancy sales tracking software, advanced demographic data and consumption stats to indicate the optimum merchandise mix, but what demographic in the Northeast on December 18 is thinking about lawn mowers?
A writer must pay attention to detail, observe the world around him, shouldn’t good retailers do the same?
But there’s the rub. It all depends on what you call a good retailer. It used to be one that best catered to the needs of consumers. Today a good retailer is one that delivers consistent quarterly earnings growth.
It’s better for Home Depot to sell-out of fireplace covers than to carry the inventory through the off-season. Because the big-box discounters wiped-out most of the competition, they don’t have to worry about losing customers. Next time I must come early or suck it up and pay the higher price of a specialist -- if I can’t afford to pay that higher price, tough.
There’s no denying the value that places like the Home Depot provide, and no doubt local retailers were just as guilty of bilking consumers when they didn’t have competition either. That’s why the free market economy is the best thing going, but consumers need options and it’s up to government to ensure that we have them.
Last week I tried to get my CD placed on consignment in the two remaining music stores in town – Borders and Barnes. Both used to have an area for local artists. Not anymore. I had to call corporate and complete a number of forms. It will take at least twelve weeks for somebody to get back to me on whether they can do it.
I should have supported the local music and book stores when they were still in business...
At least nature showed some mercy last night. It rained and the snow is finally melting. A small window of opportunity has opened and I called my guy who does the gutters. “Sorry, pal,” he said, “you and everyone else didn’t jump on this. I think I can get there right after the holidays.”
My New Year’s resolutions will be to clean out the gutters in spring, order the fire place cover in June, and sort out the Xmas shopping by August.
I won’t forget local merchants either. They might be an endangered species, but as long as they exist, they’re worth supporting because once they go, those big-box discounters will turn into big-box gougers...
Some people believe you've got to reveal all to get attention nowadays...
December 12, 2005
In this age of ‘tell-all’ memoirs the more despicable the act, the better the chance of getting published. Hitting bottom is no longer sufficient. Nowadays one must shatter into a million pieces and provide front row seats.
The ability to fashion a sentence is still important, a sense of timing and plot can separate you from the tell-all stampede, but this Jerry Springer trend leaves me cold. I believe the ones that will be remembered won’t be the most sensational, but the ones with the most honesty.
I write fiction because I don’t want to be boxed in by the facts. For me it’s about staying the course with the emotional truths. But last week I provided what some might say was a Springeresque essay. I did fret about sharing the experience of sleeping with a married woman, but these essays are about how things affect my writing and nobody encouraged me to be more brutally honest than Carly (the woman I was involved with).
Carly had an uncanny sense to know when I was sidestepping real emotion in my writing. She often urged me to do better.
When we stopped seeing each other I told her that our experience was too big to ignore. At the time we were in the middle of a hailstorm of hurtful emails. When I told her that I was writing about us she said: write what you want, nobody cares.
She also claimed that I was a master at painting myself a saint in our relationship. She often found flaws in my facts, and she was right, but I always stayed honest with my truth – our problem was that her truth was different and we couldn’t reconcile the gap.
Carly’s remark made me wonder if the novel about my divorce was skewed for the same reason. There is the danger that I will describe the character based on me as the perfect husband, and my ex-wife, a shrew. I’ve worked hard at eliminating this bias, but I know I can do better.
Even though I had permission to write whatever in last week’s essay, I called my sister for another opinion after posting. She said she wouldn’t have been too happy with some of the passages if she’d been Carly.
I shot Carly an email and told her that I would change whatever she wanted. She requested that I remove one paragraph and I did.
Her response confirmed my suspicion that she might not have meant a lot of the other things she had said either.
But this was the payoff paragraph, the punch-line that encapsulated the true nature of the later part of our relationship, at least from my perspective. If this had been an excerpt from my book, the publisher would have strongly advised against that deletion.
Since there was nothing at stake it didn’t cost me to make the change, but if something of greater value had been on the table, would I have been as accommodating?
Everything that I write is true except for the stuff that isn’t -- the one exception to date is the piece on Somalia – the facts in that story are all true. But in my fiction none of the characters are real. They are composites of folks I know, as well as characters I’ve read about or seen in movies. They are part of my imagination and reality.
The facts don't matter as long as readers feel something authentic in my stories, something that reminds them of their own experience. That’s why honesty is essential, but that’s different from stating accurate facts.
Does Carly exist?
If I did my job, it doesn’t matter…
Up in flames -- another relationship bites the dust.
December 5, 2005
They say great art comes out of pain, that a happy artist is unproductive, that being in love is the worst state of mind for a creative. For the past three months I have been up to my eyeballs in a torrid affair of passion, deceit, and tragedy, and yet through it all I maintained a solid creative output. But now that it’s come to a crashing end, I’m in limbo, stuck. I can’t concentrate. I stare out into the garden wondering how I got in so deep so fast.
Here’s the abridged PG version:
A beautiful, married woman (let’s call her Carly) told me in August that she felt dead in her relationship. She and her husband were living separate lives under one roof. Years of counseling hadn’t helped. I told Carly that my wife had left for another man and that she should do everything she could to fix her marriage.
But since my divorce I’d run from the women interested, focusing on the unavailable, some married, some not. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone, but I was circling the ring of fire without realizing it.
Carly remarked after the affair started: I chased after you but you caught me…
On her second visit the husband grew suspicious and within hours their marriage unraveled.
Carly was from out of town and I tried to send her back home to salvage things, but she insisted that it was for the best, that her marriage ended years ago.
Two days later she was home but her husband refused to reconcile.
I made no promises, she sought none and we kept seeing each other.
Her husband called me four weeks into the affair – we’d met once at a party. He said I couldn’t imagine the pain he was in – I understood all too well. When I explained, he asked how then could I do this to him?
I apologized mumbling something about the answer being complicated, and it was, but that was no excuse. On the other hand, I wasn’t the cause of their downfall, in the same way the guy that had slept with my wife didn't end my marriage either.
Up until this point I was just along for the ride, flattered that this bright and articulate woman was so interested in me. I wasn’t happy about being the catalyst in the collapse of her marriage, but she swore that I had liberated her and at first that’s how it appeared.
But when Carly whispered in my ear that she loved me every thing changed. I told her that she was crazy, but she didn’t stop and I grew disorientated. My emotional defenses broke down and in that confusion the door to my heart opened.
Things inevitably got rocky and when Carly sent an email claiming a veil had lifted, I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. In that email she said everything about us was wrong. She apologized and wished me well, but she couldn’t see me anymore because it reminded her of all the bad things she’d done.
We’d stubbed our toes a few times in the past month and I’d always felt she wasn’t fully aware of what was happening. On several occasions I had encouraged her to try and get back with her husband. I’d considered getting out too, but I had little experience in ending relationships. I figured waiting to see how the holiday unfolded was sensible, but I was okay that it was over.
Given how this started it was unlikely to last, but the Dear John email seemed harsh and I was surprised at how much I hurt. This was the first relationship since my divorce that mattered and even now I miss Carly, but this pain runs deeper than that.
I must have grown accustomed to talking to Carly at the beginning and end of each day (mostly on the phone). I enjoyed having her in my world despite the drama. But more importantly, I realized how difficult it’s going to be to find someone that I’m compatible with, someone I can truly trust with my fragile heart.
I also struggled reconciling how something so wrong felt so right. Carly and I had shared some incredible times -- there were tender moments and engaging late-night conversations. She also took an active interest in my writing and I got her into yoga. Even in our disagreements I learned a lot.
There was a flurry of emails this past week and when I started this piece it was unclear how it would unfold. Our exchange was like the clash of foils. Carly had me on the defensive much of the time, even our conciliatory statements had an edge. But in the end there could be no winner.
When she called, hearing her voice made me cry.
We brokered a peace treaty, but things were said in those emails that we will regret, things that had more to do with our own fears. We are too often at our worst with the ones we love. If only relationships could end with compassion we might not be in such a hurry to get out.
Although Carly and her husband are still on track for a divorce, they are talking; who knows, maybe they’ll find more in common now that that they don’t share the same roof.
As for me, the pain has passed and I’m writing again. I just hope it's true that through sin comes redemption. Rest assured there will be no more married women in my future unless I'm the husband.
If I were a screenwriter tasked with coming up with an ending for this story the Hollywood version might have Carly and her husband back together and me drifting into oblivion. The French take would have Carly and I getting back together for one last passionate night, then she would reconcile with the husband. In the Swedish finale the three of us are alone to ponder our belly buttons. Perhaps in the Dutch treatment, driven by unfaithful wives, Carly’s husband and I end up together…
– If it was up to me I’d go French…
Nails have no business coming in liquid form...
November 27, 2005
I got carried away after the good results from a week of patching and painting and thought I could tackle a quick clean-up of my upstairs shower.
I removed the caulking which had turned a murky mildew color with a handy caulk remover device. I thoroughly cleaned and dried the area in preparation for the fresh caulk.
I had purchased a new tube of caulk while on a paint supply run and cut the nozzle at a 45 degree angle as instructed. I locked and loaded the caulking gun and pulled the trigger, but nothing came out. I kept pressing, but the nozzle remained empty.
A blank?
I shifted the tube around, made sure the safety wasn’t on, and pulled that trigger again. It backfired and gunk oozed from the rear.
Turns out there’s a seal inside the nozzle that also needs breaking.
Once that was done, the stuff spread quickly into the base of the shower where the tile meets the marble flooring.
The caulk was a cream color and that should have been my first warning, but I plowed ahead filling up all the gaps. The creamy paste turned rubbery and dried almost as fast as I applied it. I kept putting more in and wiping, but each time I rubbed my finger through the caulk that seal turned coarse and sandpapery.
I don’t have a lot of experience doing this sort of work, but I know that calk goes in like toothpaste, smooth and easy, it doesn’t dry quickly, it’s supposed to be white.
My hands were covered in this stuff and I couldn’t get it off with paper towel or a rag. But I kept applying more into the area of the shower refusing to recognize that something was fundamentally amiss.
It wasn’t until my thumb and index finger stuck together that I stopped to look at the package directions.
Of course by then the gun was covered in the stuff and I couldn’t get at the directions or warning label.
I took a screwdriver to wedge the tube free, destroying most of it as well as liberating this nightmare substance from its container. It now covered most of my hands.
Although much of label with the directions was shredded, I still managed to read:
In the event Liquid Nails Adhesive touches your skin use paint thinner immediately otherwise…
Liquid Nails came in the same tube as caulk, it clearly said it was for tub and showers, but...
Good thing I was painting this week.
I ran downstairs and dumped thinner into a bucket and soaked my hands for ten minutes. Paint thinner is like acid and my hands were killing me, but at least that stuff came off.
I rubbed my hands in warm soapy water and moisturized with skin cream, but my hands still stung and the tips of my fingers, where most of the gunk had been, were in bad shape – in some places a layer of skin went missing.
Five days later, my hands still hurt.
I couldn’t type for two, couldn’t play guitar for three, still can’t open a can of cat food…
My DIY initiatives are on a brief hiatus until my hands heal, but the downstairs looks great and I’ve gotten lots of complements already, so I won’t give up. But you can bet from now on I’ll be a lot more careful with what I buy -- I’ll read directions too.
A few wrong turns while painting last week, but all's well that ends well...
November 21, 2005
Last week I wrote that I could flip back and forth between writing and painting, but once I broke out the brushes on Sunday things got complicated. But that's okay -- the downstairs looks great and I still learned an important lesson about my writing.
The job was full of detours and dead ends, not dissimilar to how a novel gets written. Most of the drama involved getting the right color choice.
I wanted a Zen feel to the living room and sought a cool and soothing vibe. I hit the paint store and bought a sample of Wales Green. I splashed it on the wall and knew immediately that it was too bold, almost electric. On the advice of the guy in the store I moved two down on the lightness scale to a Celadon Green.
It was cloudy that day I painted and I got so caught up in just getting it done I wasn’t thinking about what it looked like – anything was an improvement from the dirty walls I had, but in the back of my mind I was thinking maybe this green was still too loud.
And yet I kept painting.
That nagging thought kept trying to get my attention, but I was determined to get this done. Despite the dull-gray light coming through the windows that made the wet paint look like a day-glo color, I was confident that when it dried all would be good.
But the damn green never toned down.
Celadon should be called Miami – it’s the sort of green you see in a South Beach hotel sipping daiquiris poolside with ocean blue and deck-chair white.
If my house was in South Florida it would have been perfect, but my living room is in New England -- the greens here are a lot more protestant than catholic…
I called Barbara Winsor, the wife of my bass player, Paul. She designs wine labels and on occasion does color consulting for homes. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before.
When she arrived, she started laughing. “I wished you’d called me first.”
And for another hundred bucks worth of paint I was back in business.
With Barb’s help we settled on Mosaic Green – a much earthier tone that provides that cool, soothing feel I sought. Now you can almost hear the sound of ‘om’ when you look at the walls.
I live and learn, but it appears I do the living better…
But this was my first paint job in ages and what straight guy does color well? By the way, I’m red-green color blind to boot!
Choosing a color takes practice, it requires experience, it also helps to have some taste and a sense of style. Writers have choices to confront every day too – point of view, tense, plot, characters, not to mention words…
It takes practice and trial and error -- I’ve written stories in the first person and rewrote the whole thing in third – it’s a quagmire, but unless you’re willing to get down in the mud you just can’t get to the grit that'll move a reader.
Now that the paint has dried and the furniture is back in place, all is as it should be. I’ve still got the upstairs and the kitchen to do, but I’m in no hurry to tackle that. I’m sure I’ll make more mistakes, but I now have the confidence to know that even when things look bleak, I’ll find my way out -- the same goes for the writing…
Paint, brush, & laptop...
November 14, 2005
Rivers Rutherford, one of Nashville’s hot writer/producers, said at a workshop: if you need a job to pay the bills, do something mindless to save the brain power.
If the difference between having to use your brain or not is only a few bucks on hour, that makes sense, but if you’re a lawyer or doctor and want to write songs, what then?
Maybe you need to have your head examined.
I certainly didn’t undertake fiction for better pay, but as I ponder possibilities to generate cash to keep writing, there’s something to be said about a job that doesn’t require much thought.
This week I’m painting the downstairs of my house. It’s been twelve years, it’s long over do and while I was in the midst of it all I discovered the benefit of what Rivers talked about.
But painting isn’t as mindless as I thought or as easy. When I started out I brimmed with enthusiasm -- I’ll knock this out in a few days.
I soon discovered that I didn’t have the right tools and there were lots of little jobs that had to get done before I could paint. I had rotting trim, peeling wall paper, and there was lots of patching and scraping too. I even had to rewire the surround system. I spent the whole week prepping to do just two rooms and I only broke out the paint brush this morning.
But somewhere along the way I realized that the break from writing was helping the ideas flow. I’d write for a few hours, do an hour of prepping, go back to the writing, do a bit more prepping and before I knew it I had made good progress on both the novel and the painting.
My new book is called My Year as a Clown -- it’s about my divorce, but it’s not really, I mean most of the things in the book didn’t actually happen, except for all the stuff that did.
So I’m painting and writing and I can’t believe how run-down I let things get, how dirty my house had turned. But what was more surprising was how quickly a little paint tidies the joint up. As a friend said to me: you can’t get a better bang for your buck than paint.
At some point, with scraper in hand, I realized that the condition of the house was a reflection of myself, that it must have something to do with how I felt about the demise of my marriage. I must have turned inward and didn’t give a damn about how anything looked, not my house, the car, or me…
I had to stop the prep work and hit the lap top – that insight needed to be in my story.
Being present and aware for when the truth of a situation reveals itself is something you don’t hear talked about much in workshops. It’s not easily taught, it’s a gut feel, it’s visceral -- you know it when you see it, but it’s hard to explain how you know. Maybe it’s got something to do with letting go, not thinking too much. And maybe that happens when you work on a task that doesn't require a lot of brain cells. Maybe that's what Rivers was talking about...
In the coming weeks I'll be painting the rest of the house, if the insights keep coming, who knows, maybe I'll consider painting the outside too.
Name recognition might be the number one reason these folks get elected...
November 7, 2005
Tuesday is Election Day. Although here in Connecticut there are no congressional or senate seats on the ballot, there is an opportunity to overhaul Westport’s bureaucracy because our First Selectman (the town’s name for mayor) is stepping down after eight years in office. Positions for Board of Education, Finance, Planning and Zoning are also up for grabs.
Local elections are not as sexy as national campaigns, but in many respects the opportunity to make an impact is greatest on the this level. Less than ten thousand votes will get the First Selectman job. For other positions, a few thousand votes secures victory.
Campaign signs have littered front lawns for the past month and the mailbox has been jammed with flyers. Education, property taxes and the relocation of the YMCA are the hot local topics. Candidates have been making phone calls and pressing the flesh at the rail station, Main Street and the library.
The local papers write stories and the candidates run editorials and ads, but most residents, including myself, don’t have a lot of time to study the issues. For those not voting along party lines, the key determining factors are ads and mailers.
Here’s what I learned from going through the mail:
John Izzo, the republican candidate for First Selectman wants to protect education because children are our future. He’ll also protect seniors because they have worked hard and deserve elected officials who will represent their interests. He intends to preserve open spaces by developing a plan.
Gordon Joseloff, the democratic First Selectman candidate, says experience counts. He’s spent fourteen years as a town meeting rep and claims to have provided leadership in securing school expansion and modernization programs.
Kristin Lafleur, a republican, running for Board of Education is dedicated to educational excellence. Her democratic opponent takes a slightly different tact -- she is committed to maintaining the excellence of the Westport school system.
The democratic finance team cares about maintaining the town’s high quality services and financial strength, while the republican counterparts claim that they will provide focus on what is best for Westport in a fiscally prudent way.
I’m sure if I wade through the fine print in the campaign literature I will have a better shot at ascertaining the differences amongst the candidates, but the use of vanilla slogans makes me think politicians are counting that I won’t.
Of course in a race where three thousand votes secures victory, simply being the candidate with the most friends in town might be all that’s required. So why risk alienating anyone by explaining how to provide excellence and prudence.
Ultimately we the electorate, get what we deserve. Until we demand specifics from politicians, they will not be held accountable once elected. We all want a government that will protect us from terrorists and bird flu, provide unparalleled education and infrastructure, support the poor and elderly, as well as minimize bureaucracy and taxes.
Now there’s a slogan that could get my vote….
With only two days before this election I must scour the Westport websites for positions by these candidates and talk to neighbors to learn what they think -- this is one vote that shall be cast based on more than just a slogan…
I've got to pick up the pace on my writing to avoid running out of time...
October 31, 2005
In flight – Nashville to New York City
Leaving town used to be a disruption to my writing but having a laptop has already made a difference (I picked one up last week). Even though I only worked on the novel a couple of times on this trip, it kept me in touch with the story and that will make it a lot easier to hit stride when I’m back home.
And that’s critical because I must have this novel completed and sold by the end of March 2006, or find some other means to keep afloat.
Working from home requires discipline and since the break-up of my marriage I have worked virtually every day, all day. Mostly I write, taking breaks for yoga and squash, but I also play guitar and compose songs. When I explained this to a friend last week, she questioned my definition of work…
If an idea comes about a scene while I’m in the shower – is that work? Does strumming my guitar count? Does writing a song qualify? What about a free write?
One could say that a writer never has down time because being a wordsmith is only part of the job requirement – a writer must also be a keen observer and curious, a writer must get his hands dirty by getting out in the world.
Of course a writer must write, but hunkering down in front of a PC all day isn’t necessarily the best way. And yet, for some writers that might be just what’s required. It all depends.
For me going at things in a straight line inevitably takes me off course. Often I hit the target when I meander and don’t think so much. Sometimes I get there by taking a break.
I am confident that I can finish my novel before I run out of money, but it’s going to come down to the wire. It will require playing out the rest of this game with no mistakes.
I must also prioritize and not be afraid to make tough decisions.
But I’ve been preparing for this moment over the past eight years.
I am like an NFL quarterback in late December with a play-off spot on the line. The success of a last-minute drive comes down to all of the hard work that brought him to this point – the off-season conditioning, the pre-season trial and errors, the ups and downs of the fifteen prior regular season games.
I’ve worked hard at my craft and spent years finding my voice. I abandoned my back-up plan long ago. I have put it all on the line, but it is not surprising that it has come down to one final push with the clock winding down; at least I’ve managed to keep all three of my time-outs.
Stay tuned…
The writer's essential travel items...
October 23, 2005
I’m on the way to Nashville once again, but this time I’ve got a lap top and I’m writing in the air while my iPod blasts smooth jazz into my head to block the two salesmen sitting next to me yapping about a sales call gone bad.
Yes, I’m back in the twenty-first century, and while the convenience is undeniable, I’m not clear my life has improved.
I wonder how Shakespeare would have taken to a laptop.
While I waited to board, folks were hammering out messages with their thumbs on Blackberries. Cell phones rang. The guy a few seats away talked so loud on his mobile I couldn’t hear myself think.
I was so busy writing on the laptop when the boarding call came, I dashed to the gate and left my hundred dollar sunglasses on the seat.
Maybe Hamlet never happens in the age of technology.
Oh to write with ink and quill upon parchment.
And yet I rarely write with pencil, in fact, when I do, my hand cramps so bad I have to go back to the PC.
But I do love using a good old Number Two pencil, it’s organic, full of fiber. The sound of lead etched on 8 ½ by 11 yellow-ruled has a panache that the rattle of a keyboard fails to evoke.
But Number Twos also bring back dreaded memories of taking standard educational tests like the SAT. Maybe that’s why I went digital…
My first PC was the trusty Tandy 1000 – bought at RadioShack for a thousand dollars – it had a ghoulish green screen and 128k of RAM. Those 64k floppy disc drives handled the programs and documents, but the flimsy plastic discs weren’t called floppy for nothing.
There were no fonts or fancy formatting options but it was a helluva an upgrade from the IBM Selectric typewriter. At the time that was considered state of the art, it had those round balls for font changes and a clunky reverse button for whiting out errors one letter at a time.
The dot matrix printer was the only affordable home option. It wasn’t pretty, and yet the digital feel of the letters did give it that futuristic look in the way that Pong, the video game, did.
I wrote the World’s Largest Market on a fifteen pound laptop back in 1988. It was thicker than a briefcase and the LCD screen could only be read in a light that wasn’t too bright or dull. The two-hour battery lasted thirty minutes on a good day.
The battery on this new laptop is supposed to last four hours, but at the moment the pilot is saying turn off all portable devices, we're about to land.
I’ve made great progress on this essay during the flight, if I didn’t have this laptop, I probably would have slept through the journey.
Maybe Shakespeare would have enjoyed the age of technology, perhaps he’d have written even more. But it’s tough to say, pundits can’t even agree on whether he wrote the plays.
My guess is that Shakespeare would have been amused by the technology, he’d have dabbled with it, perhaps written a sonnet or two on it, but I think he’d have gone back to quill and parchment – or at least to ball point pen and paper.
Would the plays have been better?
I doubt it.
I for one wouldn’t want to mess with the time/space continuum to find out – what he produced on quill and parchment has suited us for over four hundred years and no doubt it will do just fine for another four hundred.
And yet the next day I find myself in CompUSA down here in Nashville drooling over some new gizmo and thinking -- if only I had this I'd finish that novel...
It's come down to busking on Wall Street to make ends meet.
October 17, 2005
There's a guy at the squash club that used to ask how my book was coming along. He made a lot of money in investment banking and was impressed that a Harvard Business School grad had dropped out to write a novel. He assumed that I'd sacked away big bucks.
For years he asked about the book and I'd say I was still writing. His furrowed brow would narrow and his steely eyes would gaze at me, he'd shake his head. He stopped asking in 2003. Now we rarely speak.
Last week the Harvard B-School alumni magazine arrived in the mail. It details what the school is doing, but mostly it contains updates about alumni -- baby announcements, marriages, promotions, career changes and the like. I enjoy reading about my class of 1988, but on those days when I'm frustrated about trying to make a living as a fiction writer, it's not so easy to hear that so-and-so is now running XYZ Corporation. It makes me think: if he could do that…
And then for days I beat myself up about leaving the business world.
Worse, I find myself belittling others for their choices, for climbing the corporate ladder when it is so obvious that the power and prestige don't bring happiness. But really, who am I to pass such judgment? Especially since as a struggling writer I'm not so happy myself.
Fulfilling a dream isn't everything it's cracked up to be. My journey to become a writer is fuzzy on the edges, it's just out of reach and often feels farfetched and impractical -- that's why it's called a dream.
I feel like an Alchemist with a room full of lead. Eight years and all I've managed is a little gold dust; and if I'm completely honest, I don't know how the hell I created that and I'm unsure whether I will ever replicate it, let alone hit the mother lode.
I've just released a CD called I Am Not My Job. I wrote the title track because of the social pressure to explain why I had left the corporate world. I grew tired of being asked what I did and it felt presumptuous to say I was a fiction writer without having anything published.
Ironically now that I've had a few minor successes, I've come full circle -- I am my job once again -- self-worth tethered to the success of my writing.
In my darkest moments I wonder: if I fail will anyone like me anymore? Will I have let my family and friends down? How will I face myself?
Maybe it's the rain. The sun hasn't been around for a week and I might just need a melatonin boost. But the pressure to generate money from writing is building. I abandoned the back-up plan long ago and I'm now burning the life boats to keep afloat. If I don't get a break soon, I will have to give up writing full time.
Most days I'm okay with that because somehow I will find a way to keep at it. But I realized years ago that I'm not a gifted writer in the sense of a Fitzgerald or Updike, I'm a journeyman who is just too stubborn to quit. Writing doesn't come easy, therefore what I lack in pure talent must be made up by hard work. I'm not afraid of the challenge or the rejection, but even now there are not enough hours in the day.
I know that the quality of my writing is not judged on the amount of money I can generate, but it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that this is the only means of determining its quality.
Ultimately it doesn't matter what anyone thinks, it's about what's in my head.
As I put the finishing touches on this essay, the sun is finally breaking through and I'm already feeling better. That's what I value most about writing -- it's in the exploration of what I'm feeling that I find my way out of the dark…
Cops, soldiers, guns and dogs are now a common sight on NY City subways
October 12, 2005
We've suffered through Katrina and Rita, as well as the inconvenience of last week's possible terrorist attack on the New York Subways, now I'm reading about the oncoming pandemic flu. It's a wonder we all don't just pack it in and move to Alaska. A best case mass evacuation of New York City indicates that only one-in-nine will get out safely.
On those rare days I visit Manhattan, I tend not to linger at Grand Central. I often wonder how those that must stay there all day feel -- the waiters at Michael Jordan's, the cash register girl at the Sushi joint, the janitor who cleans up the rest rooms. Do they wonder as they head off to work whether this is the day a terrorist strikes?
Soldiers have patrolled Grand Central since 9/11. Dressed in army fatigues and carrying machine guns, they chew gum, chat, they walk the various levels of this crowded station like it's a video game. Many of these army guys are pimple faced and don't look old enough to drive. On low-alert days some appear more interested in when their shift gets done.
Cops stand guard at all bridges and tunnels into Manhattan too. When I pass through holding my EZ Pass controller up to the windshield for the computer to zap it for the toll, I feel the gaze of a policeman looking in to see if I look like a terrorist.
Chris Rock said 9/11 was a milestone for black people because the police stopped profiling African-Americans, now its olive-skinned guys wearing turbans that get pulled over.
On Friday friends who went to the U2 show at Madison Square Garden called before they left. "We're taking the train," they said. "We've got to go through Grand Central and Penn Station. If there's an attack and we don't make it, can you take care of our cats?"
Of course I would, but if Homeland Security is talking about on impending threat, odds are, nothing will happen. It's when no one is saying anything that it's time to worry.
The reality is that nobody can stop a suicide bomber, and yet I feel better seeing sniffer dogs and bag inspections.
According to a government report that The New York Times got a hold of this week: the impending avian flu might kill two million people.
Fifty million died in 1918 from flu.
Apparently there isn't enough vaccination to deal with the 2005 strain. President Bush spoke to the drug-makers about increasing production, but it might already be too late.
In the 70's there was a vaccine that killed more people than the actual disease. People that evacuated Houston a few weeks ago might think twice about lining up for the vaccination. Certainly the next time a hurricane heads their way they will consider staying put.
It's times like this that I'm glad that I work mostly from home. In the event of an outbreak, I'll hunker down and use the computer to communicate to the outside world. It's what I do now anyway.
After the disaster in New Orleans I did consider getting a gun to protect myself from marauders. I still might because I've got food, water, and enough booze stashed in the basement for me and the cats to stay comfortable for a month.
I'd sit on the porch with an Uzi in one hand, a bottle of Irish whiskey in the other. My cats could roll about all day in cat nip.
It reminds me of that epidsode on the Twilight Zone where only one family on the block built a bomb shelter. When everyone thinks the Russians are attacking, the whole neighborhood shows up in the basement of this family with the shelter, and they fight over who deserves to be in it. When it turns out to be a false alarm, they have to figure out how to live together again.
I opted not to buy the gun, there's no bomb shelter in the basement, but I do have some supplies, more for the cats than myself as I was telling someone last night.
And if that flu hits, I'll pass on the vaccine, at least in the first round -- I'll take my chances and hope for the best...
I appeared at a writer's night in Nashville last week perfoming three songs off of my new CD.
October 3, 2005
Just returned from another Nashville trip -- my third this year. The town never ceases to amaze me -- each night there's an incredible song writer strumming somewhere.
Of course almost everyone here writes songs, it's like LA where even the garbage man is an aspiring actor or screenplay writer.
Many of Nashville's top writers are such polished performers it's surprising that they aren't household names. Guys like James Dean Hicks, who was playing covers at the Tin Roof the night I was there. James has penned songs for Conrad Twitty, Randy Travis, the Oak Ridge Boys and lots of others too, and yet there he was having a blast singing Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller, and Maroon 5.
On Tuesday I performed three songs at a writer's night in a club near Vanderbilt University, sharing the stage with two aspiring locals. The evening was headlined by a veteran Nashville pro.
One downside to the club scene is that smoking is still allowed -- restaurants also have smoking sections. It was like going back in time, and yet it wasn't that long ago that cigarettes were banned in the Northeast. Fortunately none of the performers in my round smoked while we were on stage.
I spent a few days co-writing with a friend who lives in town. It was an interesting and challenging experience. It's something I want to do more of because writing fiction is a solitary act. I enjoy the interaction, but collaborating does take me out of my comfort zone.
Almost everyone in Nashville co-writes, it's as much about productivity as it is networking. Professional songwriters write every day. They make writing appointments, sometimes two a day, often completing a song at each session. It's a numbers game and only a small percentage of these get cut.
Some pros rarely co-write, often finishing only a dozen or so a year. I'm lucky to get one done every couple of months. I do generate lots of ideas, but specific lyric lines are hard to produce on demand.
If I did it everyday I might become more prolific because I write fiction easily; although polishing does take a lot of time.
I did a little business down here too. I've been working on developing a relationship with one of Nashville's largest film and television companies and last week we moved to contract on several songs which will be placed in a film/tv library. My company, Against the Grain, also represented material by twenty other artists. Many of these songs also moved to the next level.
Until contracts are signed, a deal is not a deal, but I was asked to present even more songs. I'll say more on this later in the month as the deals progress.
I also met with NSAI's director Bart Herbison and President, Bob Regan. We discussed fund raising and the challenge of getting songwriters to realize that there are legislative issues being debated on the hill that could fundamentally change how they get paid.
Technology companies are lobbying Washington to change the copyright laws in their favor, spending millions to accomplish this. NSAI is the sole voice for songwriters and although they are effective with a paltry budget, it's like sporting slingshots in the nuclear age.
Ironically, the songwriters with the most to lose have paid little attention to the issues. It's time they got involved, or at least gave NSAI money so that they could advocate on their behalf.
I love Nashville. It's a blend of art and business, creativity and deal making, commerce and politics. Networking is essential, but without great songs, one won't get anywhere. On the flip side, pure talent isn't enough either. Nashville is littered with great writers that never got a break.
It doesn't hurt to have luck on your side either.
I've got loads still to accomplish down here, but I've gotten off to a decent start considering that my first trip was back in April. Of course I'd been writing full-time for seven years before I made that initial visit. Having twenty years of music-industry business experience under my belt doesn't hurt either.
What happens next is anyone's guess, but I must admit, it's starting to get interesting…
Folks are lining up for $2.87 -- a bargain compared to just a few weeks back
September 26, 2005
Watching the evacuation of Houston and folks stuck on highways without gas reminded me of the 70's. I was in high school during the first shortage. For awhile I believed there'd be no gasoline by the time I got my driver's license; cars would be obsolete, I'd be stuck on a ten-speed bike for the rest of my life.
The late 70's crisis was worse because I was driving - waiting in lines for gas, thinking twice before using the car, planning trips carefully -- it wouldn't take much for those days to return.
I know things are bad when I spot $2.87 a gallon and think it's a bargain. I've even considered buying one of those ugly hybrids.
I'm using a bicycle a lot more, but it's no big deal at the moment, summer is hanging around. The days are still hot, the cicadas sing through the night, in fact, it was rather swampy Monday and Tuesday. But the leaves on the Chestnut tree have turned a crispy brown, the mornings are cool, it won't be long before the grass is covered in the golden hue of autumn.
I locked in heating oil earlier this summer at $2.16 a gallon. That's a fifty percent increase from the $1.45 I paid last year. Those folks who haven't locked in are in for a nasty surprise -- it's going to be a lot higher.
I just tuned-up the furnace, it's operating at peak efficiency again; if only the fire place could produce more heat, then I'd save even more. I called the wood man the other day to double the seasoned-oak order. I also explored the pellet stove option, but that's close to three grand with installation.
If it's a brutal winter, I'll wear two sweaters and long underwear around the house. I might pick up some warm clothing for my cats, but it's too early to worry about that now.
These dying days of summer make ideal bike riding conditions. If gas hadn't risen as much, I wouldn't be biking to the bank, to yoga or the supermarket. Cruising the neighborhood reminds me of when I was a kid, cutting lawns in the humid summer, hanging out at the lake, buying Slurpees at the 7/11.
When that air hits my face and the creak of the bike chain spins round and round, it's as if I've gone back in time -- Nixon was president, the Vietnam War was still going. Now that I think about it, Slurpees used to give me a wicked freeze headache -- at least gasoline was twenty-seven cents a gallon…
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A lot of people ordered my CD last week and I want to thank all that did. Many emails came in saying they liked what they heard. I am truly grateful for the response.
By the time this is posted I'll be in Nashville. I'm putting together a film and television catalogue for one of the big production houses in town. I'm also co-writing with friends, as well as doing pro bono consulting for the Nashville Songwriters Association.
Next month my CD will be available on iTunes and Amazon, until then, its available here via PayPal. Thanks again for the support.
Robert
I've been dreaming about this day for over thirty years -- the arrival of my CD...
September 17, 2005
For the past two weeks I dreaded the arrival of my CD from the manufacturer. I was convinced that the art work would reproduce poorly, the CD would skip, the sound would be distorted; maybe a track would go missing -- I had concocted countless other doomsday scenarios too, but when it arrived I must admit that it exceeded all expectations. It looks great, it sounds great.
It's very cool to see a stack in the studio.
This project has been my baby and now it's time for it to leave and make its way into the world. This will be the most gratifying part of the whole experience.
I've already received interest on a few songs from an Emmy winning production house for a Film and TV catalogue. A New Zealand DJ on their equivalent National Public Radio station wants to play the CD - he stumbled onto my site while trying to find a photo of Jimmie Dale Gilmore.
At the end of the month I'll be back in Nashville, handing it out as a calling card.
Writing, producing, engineering, performing and coordinating art work was a labor of love, but now there's a host of other tasks to tackle.
Over 40,000 CDs are produced annually and that doesn't include the independent projects. Trying to call attention to a single CD is not easy even with a boat load of cash. I have no money for marketing, but I do have twenty years of record biz experience under my belt - I'll figure something out.
When I return from Nashville I'll begin that process, but for now I just want to soak in the moment and reflect on my good fortune. Not only did I have incredible musicians assisting on this project, they were friends too, and that's what made the making of this CD so enjoyable.
In the next few months I'll be getting distribution at Amazon, iTunes and CD Baby, but my music will always be available on this site through the newly opened Shop . You can listen before you buy and see pictures of us making the CD, as well as download a PDF of the sixteen-page booklet.
I am co-producing another project at the moment, Jeep Rosenberg's Silver Bluff Estates. When he saw my CD this week he said half-joking, "May your milestones not become millstones."
That won't be an issue for me. I've already exceeded my expectations, it's all gravy from here…
The grass disappeared long ago, the bathrooms haven't worked in over a decade -- this is Mogadischu Stadium, it's what the Superdome might have looked like in 2015 if this disaster hadn't happened in the US.
September 12, 2005
Imagine New Orleans fourteen years out without government. Imagine the condition of the city if no repairs were done to the Superdome, the roads, or other infrastructure.
What if the population had remained because there was no place to go? Imagine what conditions would be like without schools, hospitals, police and fire. Imagine being born into such a situation and know of nothing else.
After witnessing one week of lawlessness on our TVs, this is all too horrible to ponder, but this is Mogadishu in Somalia today.
And yet while politicians and warlords jockey for power, the human spirit does persevere. Last year I wrote a piece about the Elman Football Club. They are a group of young men who banded together to show it's possible for competing clans to get along, that peace and cooperation is doable. They proved the point by traveling across their war-torn country to play soccer.
As challenging as it might be for Elman to traverse Somalia, it proved more difficult to place this story. I got it to senior editors at The New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, The New York Times Magazine ,The Los Angeles Times Magazine , Sports Illustrated, Harpers, as well as several smaller publications and web sites. Although everyone thought it was well written and the story compelling, nobody took it.
In an era where journalistic integrity has been questioned even at The New York Times , taking such a story from an unknown is a risk. I hadn't gone to Somalia either. It's too dangerous at the moment. Last year several BBC correspondents were killed, and since a transitional government was established in August of '04, Somalia's security has gotten worse.
But I did a lot of research. I conducted many phone interviews with people in Somalia. I met the head of Elman Football in Ireland last year. I also spent hours with the NGO Concern Worldwide, who has sponsored Elman for the past ten years.
It's heart warming to see how America has mobilized to support those in need in the Gulf, but in other parts of the world, this sort of catastrophe only garners temporary attention. Mogadishu fifteen years after civil war broke out, is what New Orleans would become if nobody came to its rescue.
Here is story of how the human spirit refuses to die, it's the tale of a young men who travel across two-thousand miles of war ravaged terrain, through borders patrolled by teenaged militia and roads riddled with landmines. It's the remarkable saga of the Elman Football Club:
The Somali soccer champions, Elman FC, are only thirty kilometers from Mogadishu, their home base, when they come upon the first checkpoint. Their bus and the team Land Rover pull up behind sixty or so dusty vehicles stretched across the bridge leading into Balcad, a town of twenty thousand in southern Somalia. On the other side of the river are two Toyota pick-up trucks with machine guns mounted in the beds. The line inches forward.
In the back of the bus, Aweys Winkey, a twenty-three year old striker, is heading a ball with the player next to him. As they approach the checkpoint, Aweys looks out at the brown expanse of countryside and says, "Why is there fighting when the land is so much more than us?"
Kids with AK-47s stand in front of a large utility pole blocking the road. The bus quiets as one of them approaches. Qaasim Hammaro, the driver, slides open the window. A teenager barely tall enough to see into the bus demands four-hundred-thousand Somali Shillings (roughly twenty US dollars).
Qaasim explains that he is carrying the famous Elman squad on the country's first soccer tour since the outbreak of civil war in '91. "It has all been arranged with the town elders," he says. "This is our first stop. Surely you have been told."
The barrel of the AK-47 now rests on the base of the open window. "Four-hundred thousand," the kid says again.
Haji Abdulle, one of the team chaperones, is sitting behind Qaasim, watching. At sixty-three, he has already outlived the average Somali by fifteen years. Before the war he was a member of the regional Olympic committee. Now Haji rises from his seat, exiting the bus slowly, his weathered hands held high so the guards can clearly see them. He steps toward the child soldier. "Look at this," he says, handing over a photo he has brought for just such an occasion. "It is of your leader."
In the pre-war photo, Muse Sudi, the powerful warlord of the Abgaal clan, is presenting a trophy to the Olympic team.
"That's me," Haji says, pointing to a much younger version of himself next to the warlord, who controls much of the area around Balcad.
The boy grabs the faded photo and returns to the contingent of guards. They argue, light fresh cigarettes. The kid who appears to be in charge shouts. He is chewing qat, a popular leafy narcotic, and a trail of greenish splotches marks the hard clay around him.
The boy hands the photo back to Haji. Dust rises from the road as the other guards watch from a distance. Suddenly the boy says, "Away."
Haji hustles back to the bus, and Qaasim fires up the ignition.
After the collapse of Siad Barre’s regime in 1991, Somalia fractured into clan-based fiefdoms run by warlords. The so-called 1993 humanitarian mission of the US and UN culminated in the Black Hawk Down incident that left eighteen Americans dead, seventy-three wounded, and estimates of over a thousand Somali casualties. The subsequent US and UN troop withdrawal allowed conditions to deteriorate further despite local efforts to reestablish a government. By 2003, clan antagonisms and territorial borders like the one in Balcad made travel within Somalia difficult and treacherous, and yet in the summer of that year Elman FC set out to play soccer across the country as a way to promote peace.
* * *
The Balcad town authorities are waiting at the hotel for the team's arrival. Haji knows better than to mention the checkpoint incident. The squad is given buckets of water to wash the dust from their bodies. They are served a hot meal of goat meat, rice, and camel milk.
After lunch several players take the team's beat-up Land Rover around town to promote the afternoon game. The vehicle is taxi-yellow, matching the color of the Elman uniform. Several English phrases are scrawled across its bright body: Work Yes/Begging No, Respect Human Rights. Loudspeakers are attached to the hood, like horns, to attract attention with Somali music. From a rear window the white flag of peace flaps in the wind.
As they cruise Balcad, Aweys sings Somali karaoke over the loudspeakers, and in between songs he talks up the game. They pass the old textile factory that once produced Somalia's school and military uniforms; donkeys and cattle graze beside the abandoned building. The Land Rover stops near a collection of thatched huts where fruits and vegetables are sold. A crowd soon gathers. The kids are curious and playful, but many of the adults keep their distance.
"We are a team made up of many clans," Aweys says, "and we have learned to play together. We are the champions of Somalia. If we can do this, anything is possible."
Other players hand out T-shirts featuring the Elman logo and the words Fair Play in English, and in Somali Noloshu Waa Nabad (Life Is About Peace). On the back is printed Child Soldiers -- Say No. When the adults realize the T-shirts are free, they too gather around.
By mid-afternoon a quarter of the town has converged on the football pitch. There are no concession stalls, no grandstands, no scoreboard, but by game time close to five thousand people surround the dirt field. Although Muse Sudi is in Nairobi for a Somali reconciliation conference, many of his advisors are here, sitting in a special midfield section with town elders and other clan officials. Anxious guards stand behind them with AK-47s. Children climb fan-shaped acacia trees to get above the crowds, and trucks parked around the field are crammed with people hoping for a better view.
The yellow Land Rover is behind the Elman bench, and the loudspeakers are used to announce the players. The 2003 Elman tour of Somalia is now officially underway. The crowd is raucous; it's the biggest gathering in town since the start of the war. Once the players are introduced, people settle down to listen to Aweys talk about the team's mission of peace, harmony, and integration. When he is finished, the referee blows the whistle and play begins.
Both sides are tentative. Balcad's sloppy play is understandable -- they are up against the Somali champs -- but the Elman players are even more nervous. Although the team has journeyed to Tanzania and Kenya for international competition, civil war has kept them from traveling in their own country; this is their first domestic trip.
The crowd claps and cheers whenever either side moves the ball, but even in the second half Elman is out of synch. Both sides have chances, but nobody can capitalize. In the eighty-fifth minute, a mistake by an Elman defender allows Balcad to score, and the game ends 1-0.
The Elman players mill around after the game speaking to whoever will listen. Music blares from the Land Rover's speakers. Guards with guns mingle in the crowd, some carrying Elman T-shirts.
Mahad Mahamud, the Balcad forward who kicked the game's only goal, became a local hero. "The match drew a lot of interest in town and everyone was happy that I scored," he said during a series of phone and email interviews I conducted in 2004. "It was amazing to beat the Somali champions. Before the match, people wondered how many goals Elman would beat us by, five, nine, maybe ten. No one expected it."
"Sure we wanted to win," Aweys said, "but I was just so happy to be somewhere else. It was amazing because I'd never been anywhere in my country except Mogadishu. I didn't think I could ever see the rest of Somalia. The people of Mogadishu believe it is not open, not safe. But I believe if you want to spread the word of peace, you can go anywhere."
Like Europeans, Africans are soccer-mad. Their style of play is high-octane and flamboyant, the players are quick dribblers who love forward attacks. Africa's top national teams are government-sponsored and amply funded, and the best African players, when not representing their own countries, play in European leagues.
Despite the lack of government in Somalia, soccer thrives. There are lots of local teams, but they must compete close to home because of the war. Mogadishu, the country's largest city with a population of about 1,200,000, hosts several tournaments, and Elman has been the reigning champ since 1997, earning the right to represent Somalia at the annual Confederation of East and Central Africa Football Association tournament (CECAFA).
The Elman Football Club was founded by Mohamud Ali Ahmed -- Elman, as friends called him -- a Somali business man turned peace activist and human rights campaigner. In 1992, using profits from his vehicle repair business and his electrical generator network, Elman created the Organization for Training and Technical Institute (OTTI), a vocational school for displaced children. Once the kids finished classes, most had nowhere to go, so they kicked a ball around in the courtyard, and that's how the first Elman squad was formed.
The OTTI replaced guns with pens, books, and training, but it could only handle a couple of hundred displaced children a year, and the war had created thousands. Many ended up in militias as front-line fodder. These kids couldn't read or write, they had no shoes, most were malnourished. The militias enticed them with money, guns, protection, and food.
The children at Elman's school were expected to study hard and obey strict rules: no guns, no violence, no smoking, no tardiness, no qat. Fifty percent dropped out. Today the retention rate is much higher because the Elman players act as mentors. One such mentor is a young man I will call Ali (he didn't want me to use his real name because he still fears for the safety of himself and his family). In 1995 Ali was one of the many kids who hung out at K4, the once fashionable crossroads at the heart of the city that devolved into a collection of shacks selling drugs and guns. Back then he was illiterate, his father had died due to lack of medical attention and his brothers went missing during the initial fighting (they would later resurface in Yemen).
Before the war, it didn't matter that most of Ali's friends were Abgaal clan and he Hawiye. But once the fighting broke out, it was all that mattered. Many of his friends joined Muse Sudi's Abgaal militia, and Ali became an outcast. He and what was left of his family were forced to abandon their home to take up residence in a two room concrete shell in a dilapidated part of Mogadishu.
Most of Ali's friends died in meaningless skirmishes, and if not for the vocational school, Ali would most likely be dead too. At OTTI, he worked hard, and now he reads and writes both Somali and English. He was invited to try out for the junior squad, quickly became a standout, and was on the senior team a year later, at the age of fifteen, the youngest on the squad. "The clan militia tried to recruit me," Ali said, "but I couldn't do it, to fire upon friends, they were like brothers."
Nobody predicted this much destruction from Katrina...
September 3, 2005
Last week I finally got around to watching that disaster film about the sudden ice age caused by global warming -- New York got wiped out as did much of the northern part of the US. Watching the footage of New Orleans, it's easy to think that this is just another movie.
I do a fair amount of work for the Irish NGO Concern Worldwide. I wrote a piece about Somalia and recently updated their web site with overviews about their work in twenty-nine of the world's poorest countries. I've read many source documents about natural disaster relief and edited Tsunami field reports for the web site -- what is going on in the Gulf feels very much like what goes on in a third-world country.
One of the greatest challenges immediately following the Tsunami was getting access to those most in need. Apparently it's the same in the gulf. The difference of course, is that it's the United States. If Brian Williams and his camera crew can get into downtown New Orleans, why can't the National Guard?
And why does it appear as if everyone in need is African-American?
To some extent, these are unfair questions. It was unrealistic to expect immediate relief and support, but part of the Bush administration's problem was not managing that expectation. First word out of Washington was that they were on the case, that it was being dealt with.
As news began to seep out of the city of the suffering, the dying, the lawlessness, it was clear that things were not under control, and it all sounded eerily familiar to those early days of the Iraq war.
People need hope, something to hold on to, but people aren't stupid, and in an era where news coverage is 24/7, an honest assessment of the situation would have been the better option.
Even during President Bush's Friday news conference, he spoke about great progress, and yet The New York Times was reporting that ten people were dying per hour in New Orleans.
No one expects the government to be a miracle worker, but a frank and realistic assessment of the situation would have made skeptics of the Bush administration cut him a break. This disaster was of such epic proportions, no matter what the government response, people were going to suffer and die. I don't need Texas bravado -- that same rhetoric comes out of Iraq and that makes me uneasy too.
But I'm in the comfort of my home, how I feel is irrelevant -- it's the folks in New Orleans and the kids in Iraq that deserve better. But it's us the people who elected these officials and we have the power to make the change.
Intially I believed that the government response was as good as it could have been under the circumstances, but now word is coming out about the turning away of a truck full of water donated by Wal Mart by FEMA. Of communication lines being cut by FEMA.
After 9/11 how could our emergency preparedness still be in such shambles?
Now witness the blame game -- local versus state verus federal.
No government operation of this magnitude can avoid mistakes, it is how mistakes are dealt with that history will remember.
A few weeks back I wrote that the country was divided by those affected by the war and those that aren't. Today, the Gulf coast of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama have become war zones. Across America gas prices are on the rise. The ripple effect has begun.
Each time I drive by the gas station, the price goes up. It's $3.25 as I write this.
Thank God I locked in my heating oil at $2.16/gallon. Last year I paid $1.45. If I hadn't locked in, I doubt I would be able to heat my house this winter, as it is, I'm buying extra wood and exploring options to increase my fireplace efficiency.
Things are shit at the moment and I'm unclear when they are going to get better. I don't need my leaders telling me that everything is okay when it isn't.
I am also surprised to hear that we have plenty of National Guard to deal with the Gulf, as well as enough military.
A draft is political suicide, but so is lying about the real state of our emergency preparedness and defense capability, the latter is simply a slower death.
There's only one thing that upsets me more at the moment about this era of Republicanism, it's the lack of vision from the Democrats. If only Bill could run again…
Still the American spirit is strong, and watching the acts of heroism, the commitment and sacrifice, it's heartwarming to see. My thoughts and prayers go to all who are suffering...
---------------------
I saw this piece on 'Meet the Press' Sunday and it made me sick to my stomach --
I built ATG Studios to record I Am Not My Job -- Picard and Riker keep watch...
August 29, 2005
A few weeks ago a friend I used to work with swung by with a bundle of back issues of Billboard, the music industry trade publication. I read that magazine religiously from 1976 until I got laid off in 1998.
For awhile I popped into Barnes and Noble to read a copy over a coffee, but as I got deeper into the writing, I let the habit slip.
I picked it up for a few issues several years back when its editor, Timothy White, dropped dead in the elevator on the way up to the office after lunch. I'd only met him a few times, he had no idea who I was, but I usually read his column -- he was knowledgeable, a true music lover, he loved language and words. His writing was sometimes over the top for my tastes, but he had honest passion for music. And when he died, it felt like the end of an era.
About the same time, the guy who had run HMV, the retail division of EMI Music that I used to work for, died of cancer. Stuart McAllister was in his early fifties, and I knew him well. Although we didn't always see eye-to-eye, he gave me a lot of opportunity during the ten years I worked for him.
Soon I will be back in the business of selling music, my music, and I thought it best to start reading Billboard again, and that's why my friend bought those issues over.
Leafing through the magazine brought back lots of memories besides those deaths. But it also brought home how much has changed since I left.
Billboard has modernized. It reads much more like a magazine than a trade pub. There are lots of punchy, in your face, sound bite articles designed for today's give it to me quick generation. But there are also some nice feature-length pieces too, as well as interesting interviews with executives and stars.
For me, it's like catching up with family and friends I haven't heard from in years. Some of yesterday's bigwigs are now in obscurity, some of the underlings are now industry powerbrokers.
Today Billboard is as much about technology and branding as it is about music; in fact, now you'll find a weekly column called 'Making the Brand' -- featuring the views of advertisers and marketing executives. Twenty years ago that would have been absurd.
I remember when the music industry was struggling with the concept of putting a song into a video game, let alone a movie. A friend at Electronic Arts told me that it wasn't that long ago that they had to beg for music, now the industry lines up at their door.
Billboard's new columns on Digital Entertainment and Washington Roundup often feature technology executives. I recall how out of step these tech guys were with the industry; they spoke a different language, a blend of gigabytes and venture capital jargon. They talked about the value chain and new business models and the eyes of the music biz glazed.
Not anymore.
There are now forty-eight official Billboard Charts. Many are new: Hot Digital Songs for instance, or Top Ringtones; Top Classical Crossover.
I remember the fear SoundScan, the computerized system that captures sales at retail, caused when it was introduced in the early nineties. At the time the charts were compiled by a mystery formula that few understood. Nobody wanted to know what was actually selling; that would have meant accountability.
But you can't stop technology and now no executive could imagine a world without it.
The industry also fought to stop digital downloading and that's why Apple grabbed the leadership position with iTunes.
I was on a downloading task force with EMI, PolyGram and Phillips in 1989 -- it was no surprise that our findings were ignored by the top brass at each of those companies.
In a couple of weeks I will be hawking my own CD with no promotional money and few favors left to call in. All I've got is the music and my guile. I don't need to sell millions, in fact this first CD isn't about sales at all, it's about getting my music out to as many people as possible. I am only limited by my creativity and initiative. I must be fearless, humble, persistently polite, I must give it my best shot and never lose sight that I have the most critical component for success: honest and real music that emotionally touches the heart. That's why it took eight years to complete, that's why I know good things are going to happen.
I Am Not My Job is honest, it's real, it's got my blood in the grooves, and it will be available in less than two weeks…
August 22, 2005
I'm so busy finishing the CD and working on the new novel that I often forget that there's a war going on. Sixty-four American service men and women have died so far this month.
The nation used to be divided between those for and against the US going into Iraq, then it was divided over Bush and Kerry. Now it's divided by those affected directly by the war and those that aren't.
I live In Fairfield County, Connecticut -- John Cheever country. In the wealthy communities of Greenwich, Darien, New Canaan, and Westport, this war might as well be Vietnam for how distant it feels. Unless of course you're a director of a military related corporation, or have oil interests. Profits are up and these execs will get fat bonus checks this year.
I don't have a problem with Halliburton getting rich on Iraqi contracts. If they are the best qualified to deliver the goods, they deserve the business. My issue is the influence the Halliburton's of the world had in getting this country into war in the first place.
In the county's more economically diverse towns of Norwalk and Bridgeport, the war plays differently because sons and daughters are over there fighting and dying. Families are more attuned to the daily casualty report than movement in the Dow Jones.
Gas guzzling SUVs in Westport (where I live) clog the Post Road. Many have 'Support the Troops' ribbons on their bumpers, some folks in town give generously to veteran groups and other charities, but talk revolves around what the kids are doing this summer and the Yankees' struggles. Last week's storm and subsequent power outages kicked up more of a fuss than the protest by Cindy Sheehan outside the Crawford Ranch.
Until there's blood on Main Street USA or a draft, the attitude amongst the wealthy communities in this country won't change. My guess is that in red states where folks have friends and family in Iraq, attitudes are already shifting. The Cindy Sheehans of the world will only accelerate that movement.
Since my divorce, I've been hanging on by a financial thread, literally writing for my life. I have no time to worry about death and destruction half-way around the globe. But even if I was raking in the bucks, I do wonder if I'd find other excuses. That's why Iraq is this week's topic.
It's too late to debate if we should have gone there in the first place, but it isn't too late to discuss what should be done now.
To believe that this war won't affect me is naïve. Sooner or later it is going to invade my personal space and by then it will be too late to debate issues.
I supported going into Iraq because I assumed that our leaders would never have risked so much on such flaky intelligence. But now that we are there, we have to ensure that a pull-out won't result in a massacre like we saw in a dissolved Yugoslavia or in Rwanda.
Here's what I think we should do:
- Provide the arms and troops necessary to finish what was started in Iraq
You can't send our kids over there without the proper gear and enough men and women to do the job
- Share some of the spoils to garner the financial and troop support from the rest of the world to resolve this situation as fast as possible
Pride is the deadliest of all the sins: both the coalition of the willing and those that weren't, need to reconcile now. Jettison the ego and get it done.
- Train the Iraqis and fix the infrastructure as fast as possible and get out.
- Reinstitute the draft
If everyone's kids were at risk in this war, folks might have voted differently and politicians may have considered more options before entering Iraq. Instituting a draft will provide an added check and balance for the next time -- Iran and North Korea for instance.
- Reduce our dependence on oil
What happened to all those energy saving programs from the 1970's? If we'd stayed the course we wouldn't be in this mess thirty years later. Oil and car lobbyists have too much clout in Washington. We the people are also to blame: we're energy hogs (that includes me).
One positive from this rise in gas prices -- folks might just demand better mileage out of vehicles.
The Iraq war's reach expands to our shores one family at a time. It's too bad that only more deaths will create the critical mass required to get our political leaders to take heed. We the people could change that if we really wanted to, but the kids have camp today, there are school supplies to buy, and it really would be nice to squeeze in one more trip to the Cape before Labor Day.
No turning back now, my CD was finally sent to the replicator.
August 15, 2005
I claimed back in March that I was done with my CD. I even pledged just a few months ago that by the end of July I would be finished, but it took until Friday, August 12, 2005 to finish it off for good.
Thursday night I drove into the city with the 24-bit version of the song and bounced it to analog and back to digital for mastering.
I drove home around midnight. Construction on the Cross Bronx Expressway brought everything to a standstill. Normally I would have gone ballistic, at the very least I would have jumped off the highway to follow the Limo drivers navigating side streets to weave around the jam up; but I gladly sat in traffic, listening to the mastered CD for what will be one of the last times I listen to this music.
I wasn't stuck in the car, I was in Studio B, doing the final check. I needed to verify that each song was the correct version, that the mastering process made the tracks sparkle as well as sound more cohesive. I needed to make sure there were no glitches, scratches or skips.
I got home around two that night and when I woke up in the morning, I listened one more time before popping it in the mail to the manufacturer down in Virginia. I'll listen to this when it comes back, but that will be it. I can't face it anymore.
John Lennon could never listen to a Beatle record, Chet Atkins hated all of his recordings - many artists feel this way because making a record is hard work requiring repeated careful listening. Because I also engineered this CD (something I don't recommend), I've heard this a gazillion times -- I hear all the mistakes and missed opportunities.
But this summer the delay was due to the art work, which turned out to be a lucky break because it gave me time to fix all of the little things that bugged me. I redid most of the vocals. I remixed every song. I redid the bass on three tracks. I replaced the harmonies on one. I rearranged the track listing and even added a song, a reprise of what became the opening song, Fallen Far. I had my bass player, Paul Winsor, in the studio last Tuesday working on a new line for Zen Cowboy.
On Friday I signed off both the art work and the master CD.
I Am Not My Job was a bear to complete. I had to learn how to write songs, sing, and play guitar. I had to organize a band, provide instruction and navigate arrangements. I built a recording studio and learned Pro Tools, I engineered the entire record. It would be impossible to calculate the number of hours I've spent.
I stubbed my toes all along the way, at times I was hobbled, on occasion the project came to a complete standstill, but I never gave up and now it's complete.
Of course from a business perspective, it has only just begun, but I won't start thinking about that until next week.
Nashville power duo: Mike Reid and Steve Seskin
August 8, 2005
Hundreds of songwriters come to Nashville every month, thousands strumming around town at any given time, but only a hundred or so earn a living. But that doesn't deter folks from coming.
The glitter of Opry Land doesn't blind me. Even if I had a pocketful of songs that were good enough, I'm not delusional, this is a tough town and 99.99% will pack it up, the smart ones do it quickly.
I came to attend Song Camp 102 sponsored by the Nashville Songwriters Association. In the mornings the two best teachers in the business, Steve Seskin and Jason Blume, provided insight into how to write songs. They make it sound simple and in many ways it is, but no one can explain the intangible element of a song, the magic that makes a person's spine tingle when they hear it.
In the afternoon some of Nashville's top writers including Rivers Rutherford, Chuck Cannon, and Mike Reid spoke about how they wrote. Some do it from a title, some from a first line, many write in the heat of the day, others in the cool of the night. That's what makes songwriting so interesting, there's no hard-fast method.
I've taken lots of songwriting workshops, in fact, I'm on the board of advisors for one such camp, but I still found this of value because it was focused on the commercial country market.
To be honest, I had the impression that successful country songwriters were sell-outs, corporate hacks, guys that were more interested in making a buck than writing good songs.
I was wrong. These guys can play, write and sing their asses off. And some songs touched my heart in ways that most music I listen to doesn't.
But these cats are also very aware of who is doing what in town, they know who's hot, who's cold. Successful songwriters are not lazy, they have good people skills, they work hard and put in long hours.
In a way, what happens here combines what I used to do in the music biz with what I do now, write.
Co-writing is as much about pushing your comfort zone as it is networking. I haven't had much luck with it, but in many ways it's like a marriage, you've got to keep dating until you find the right partner; but in co-writing, promiscuity is a good thing, in fact it's encouraged.
Most successful songwriters say it takes at least five years to get anywhere.
When you come to town you hook up with whomever you can. You'll struggle but the good news is that after a year or so, over half that arrived when you did will give up. Each year more and more drop out. By the fifth year the ones left are literally writing for their lives, and this is when the great work starts to materialize.
I know that feeling: with one eye on the calendar, my ass is on the line everyday.
Each person I met when I started writing fiction full-time seven years ago has given up. Life just gets in the way. I've had my struggles too, the break-up of an eighteen year marriage perhaps being the low point, but through it all, I kept writing. With two short stories published, and a second novel on the way, I'm that that up-and-coming songwriter.
In Nashville the story and characters are king -- perhaps a fiction writer who knows something about songs might find a place there.
And yet last week I heard so many great songs that I found myself vacillating between wanting to scrap my CD project and wishing it was finished so that I could pass it around.
It's what happens when I'm in the presence of brilliance -- the shine can be inspiring but it can also burn because I can convince myself that I'll never write anything nearly as good as a Chuck Cannon or Rivers Rutherford song.
If I keep thinking that, then I shouldn't bother coming to Nashville, because that's the competition. But I'm just cocky and confident enough to think that I can do this if I keep at it. The responses to my work last week indicate that I might not be banging my head against the wall.
Back home my editor was on the phone with good news about my second novel. She believes that I've got a solid book and she knows what she's talking about -- she's edited several blockbuster novels. I'm fortunate to have her assistance. Over the next two months I'll be writing everyday to whip this it into shape.
I've still got a long way to go on all writing fronts and there are still no guarantees, but last week's trip was encouraging.
Chuck Cannon said at the workshop that it didn't start happening for him until he canned his back-up plan.
In 1998 I jumped out of the corporate plane without a parachute. On my down days it feels as if I'm still falling, but on those good ones, and I've had a lot lately, I feel as if I hit the ground long ago. I didn't go splat, I bounced…
I sent Claudia Young, Song Camp Director with NSAI, the Nashville Songwriters Association International, an advance copy of this week's essay for her reaction. Here's her response. Thanks CY for sharing:
i believe what sets country apart is the lyrical quality the pure craft....listen to hugh prestwood's 'ghost in this house'
it is flawless. as is 'the song remembers when'
in 3 minutes and however many seconds - lives can be changed
ok - that's asking a lot but this is what you go for unless of course it's just a fun song
pop and rock usually don't go there - it's all about a groove, even alternative gets lyrically vague
perhaps folk songs can 'do it' too - but to me great folk is james taylor, joni mitchell, dan fogelberg
even currently mindy smith
and country lyrics for the most part are more direct
but greatness is rare in any genre
writers in this town are sometimes put into a difficult position
they don't want to starve so they try and conform
but the great ones don't
because they don't have to
they either write something brilliant that fits into the so-called boundaries
or
they defy all rules - 'the song remember' when is a classic example of that
frankly i get tired of jaded writers criticizing country's 'formula'
i hear it a lot and in some ways i don't even necessarily disagree with the premise
but i think in real world nashville - it is overly stressed by those not succeeding
the greats just do their thing and it works
and i also get tired of a lot of country radio - most of it
and i have steered clear of the biz purposely
and i am grateful the financial need for me to get thrown into the mix is not burning
but the good news is that i live here and i get blown away consistently
...which is why i live here
yesterday i met with a 22 yr old guy
he got my name from someone and wanted to play for me
i heard he was the real deal. an artist. could sing/write and play
just graduated berkley school of music
father is keyboard player in the band Chicago
i was not looking forward to it but saw him as a favor to someone
he blew me away
after he played me a cd i told him to grab a guitar
i wanted to see if he could do it live
and he could
he wasn't country - he was kinda like dave matthews meets stevie wonder meets prince meets bruce hornsby
gifted guy
i set him up to meet rivers on saturday after song camp
we can bitch, moan and criticize about so many things
movies, music, our general culture, our politics (especially)
frankly - i don't want to be emperor, nor do i want to be cynical
the nsai 'study' holds as much water to me as ralph murphy's 'Murphy's Laws' (ASCAP)
and the critiques from people who aren't truly great to me mean very little
you wanna be great? hang around greatness
if you have any gift or knack or whatever - you'll catch on
Heading south at the hottest time of the year...
August 1, 2005
We're in the swelter of deep summer and I'm in Nashville for my second trip, a follow-up to the April visit.
I'm taking a workshop featuring a collection of the very best country writers. You probably won't recognize their names: Steve Seskin, Rivers Rutherford, Chuck Cannon, Rory Lee Feek, Jason Blume to name just a few -- but you've heard their songs sung by such artists as: Tim McGraw, Bonnie Raitt, Keith Urban, Brooks & Dunn, Trisha Yearwood.
I'm looking forward to learning from these folks and getting some feedback on my songs.
I listen to some country but it's not my favorite genre. To date I haven't even written a country song. But I see the value in learning the methods and melodies of today's country hits. One day I might just write something appropriate, but I won't sit down to consciously write a country song because it's not how I compose.
Instead I'll absorb what I learn and add it to what I do in hopes that one day something magical will happen.
A few years ago NSAI, the songwriter trade association, analyzed hundreds of number-one country hits. They determined that a hit song was 3 minutes and twelve seconds, the ideal intro was 9.2 seconds, the lift in melody at the chorus happened at 55 seconds.
Lots of wannabe writers started creating songs to this formula. I would go to NSAI meetings in New York City and felt compelled to pull out a stop watch, it was that obvious.
Knowing the rules is essential, craft is critical, but great songs aren't written to a formula. If it was that easy, someone would have programmed a computer to generate hits.
I've focused on finding my own voice and writing the best possible songs I can. I'm not thinking about a market or whether I can sell a song to a particular artist. I know that many professional song writers are market driven and some are very successful. I'm not knocking their approach; I just feel that for me, at this point in my development, I am better off working more organically.
This is what makes songwriting and fiction so appealing. There are many ways to go about it, nobody really knows how it's done, the more you think you know, the more allusive it all becomes.
Next week I'll report back on the trip, until then stay cool…
To my surprise I scored tenth row without going through a scalper.
July 25, 2005
There were a host rules at the Bruce Springsteen concert in Bridgeport, CT, last week, a list of do's and don'ts -- eat fast: concession stands will close at the start of the show; arrive early or wait until the fourth song; turn off cell phones or risk being shot.
I had caught one of the trial-run acoustic shows for the 'Tom Joad' tour in Red Bank, New Jersey ten-years ago, so I was familiar with Bruce's dictates.
Nobody digs rules, but Bruce has to do this because the 'yahoos' can't restrain themselves. He's a superstar trying to replicate the atmosphere of a fifty-seat folkie house concert where attendees keep quiet and listen -- imagine that.
I wish Springsteen was as vehement at his stadium shows. Two years ago at Shea half the audience didn't pay attention during the slow tunes. I almost punched-out the guy in front of me because he kept making phone calls during the pre-and-post 'Born in the USA' songs.
Now Bruce is taking on the scalpers.
The will-call only on the day of the show is a drag because it requires all ticket holders to be present for the attachment of a bracelet that if removed invalidates the ticket. But the program is effective and Springsteen should be applauded for this effort because it puts real fans back in the best seats.
In the 70's fans knew how to get good tickets -- they camped out for them. I spent many a night on the steps of the Spectrum in Philadelphia. Once I did six days for the 1975 Who Tour, scoring second-row center. I was number sixteen in line. On the day of sale over four-thousand people were behind me.
Scalpers have come a long way from that shady guy on the corner hawking a fistful of tickets. Today shows sell out in minutes through the Internet. Scalpers have become sophisticated venture-backed corporations with software programs designed to gobble up the best seats.
Many of the tickets held back by the promoter also end up on ticket web sites, although no one seems to know how that happens.
Scalpers call what they do servicing the second-hand market, it's not illegal. Jeff Fluhr, co-founder of stubhub.com said in Billboard last week -- "You can get any seat you want for any concert on our site for a fair market price."
Things sure have changed -- can you imagine that guy on the corner selling tickets getting interviewed in Billboard?
Flurh went on to say, "If the consumer would rather pay $500 to go to an event rather than sit at home, then that consumer should have that choice."
Professional scalpers could care less about the fans. At least U2 tried to get it right through their fan club, but the scalpers figured out how to crack the system and ended up with all the good seats. The band looked silly, but made good on their promise with another show, but not all bands are as conscientious. The Rolling Stones and Paul McCartney opted to jack-up the best seats for themselves figuring that the scalpers were going to do it anyway.
This is what makes Springsteen's action's so remarkable. This ticket policy says to his fans:
I make a fair amount already on the show.
I don't need to cash-in on the front section seats.
I don't want the scalpers doing it either.
I want my real fans in those sections.
Now that I'm a fiction writer I rarely go to shows because it is impossible to get a good seat without a scalper. But when I heard about these rules for the Springsteen show, I figured I'd give it a shot.
I was on the Ticketmaster site at 9:55 equipped only with my determination and fast typing skills. I kept refreshing the web site until it allowed me to buy. I knew immediately I had great seats, but until I entered my credit card and address, the seats were in limbo.
There's a time limit and data must be entered accurately and fast. Working through the menus is like trying to diffuse a ticking bomb -- one false move and the seats will go up in smoke.
Even after the web site indicated that I had successfully completed the transaction, I didn't relax until the confirmation email arrived. When it did I jumped for joy.
The night of the show I asked people in my section if they'd done the same and they had. We were all surprised, we were all fans, we were all grateful.
It's just another reason why Bruce Springsteen continues to have a viable career; he treats his fans with honor and humility.
A ticket to this show still costs almost a hundred bucks, but the experience is priceless. If he comes to your town, don't miss it, but don't arrive late, the Boss means what he says...
July 18, 2005
Last week The New York Times ran an article on the tenth anniversary of Amazon.com. Jeff Bezos, the founder, may go down in history, but did he know back in 1995 that it would cost almost three billion to create this remarkable company?
Investors certainly would not have gone along for the ride, perhaps Mr. Bezos would not have been so bold.
At the time he started Amazon, I was working for the retailing side of EMI Music. The division, HMV, was the world's largest record retailer and I was involved with researching the selling of music on-line in the US.
EMI was one of the major record companies. It had deep pockets, but it was also British and a public company. The Internet was slow to take off in Britain and EMI was expected to produce steady quarterly profits. An on-line business was a tough sell.
Anybody that was in the book or music industry knew that profit from on-line sales was a long way off. I was part of a team that recommended that we move forward because if we didn't, somebody else would, but it was impossible to sell EMI on investing millions (let alone billions) into a venture that wouldn't produce profit for over a decade.
Mr. Bezos, on the other hand, knew nothing about books or music, he was a hedge fund analyst. But that didn't matter. He was connected into the investment community, he was an excellent salesman, he was charismatic, he had a vision, his timing was impeccable.
By the fall of 2001, Amazon had accumulated 2.9 billion in losses. But the company was poised to dominate and Mr. Bezos had earned a place in history.
He had what the Zen Masters call the beginner's mindset -- no experience, no preconceived viewpoint, no baggage. He came from a place where anything is possible, where there is no fear.
Mr. Bezos is obviously very talented, a fast learner, a visionary, but without that beginners mindset, it is unlikely he would have started Amazon.
After EMI turned down the business plan several other Internet music companies open to great fan-fare. I opted to pass on starting my own company even though I could have gotten the money through my Harvard Business School connections. I was bogged down by baggage, I knew that no one could make money, and I was right, each of those Internet music companies soon folded. A lot of good being right did me, the founders of those failed companies all made millions.
The Internet juggernaut was still churning when I left the business world in 1998. I had opportunities to join other companies on the cusp, but decided to do what I'd always wanted to do, write. When I made that decision, I had no idea what I was doing. I had the beginner's mindset. If I had known how difficult or unprofitable it was going to be, I wouldn't have taken the chance. But I had no baggage or prior knowledge, just a belief in my abilities and a desire. I had no fear.
It only took a few years for Mr. Bezos investment to sky-rocket. He could have easily cashed out, but he was willing to bet the company to push it beyond just a book and music vendor. This move has been costly and only time will tell whether it was the right strategic call. But you have to give Mr. Bezos credit. He has remained consistent. He's kept that beginner's mindset, he has no fear, he believes that anything is possible. He acts bold and decisively.
It would have been easier for me to soldier on if my first novel had sold millions. Encouraged by success I could have taken even bolder steps, but that didn't happen. But just as easily, I could have succumbed to the depression that most artists go through as they struggle to earn a living, or worse, I could have given up.
Today I am finishing up a second novel, my first CD is about to be released.
Every day is a battle to maintain that beginner's mindset, to have no fear, to believe that anything is still possible.
It is likely that Amazon is here to stay, that in ten years they will be celebrating their twentieth anniversary. I've still got three more years until my tenth but I have no doubt that I will still be at it.
Happy Anniversary Amazon.
Down goes the house, trees, and yard -- up goes a McMansion, property values and tax revenues -- everyone wins except the wildlife and trees.
July 11, 2005
I'm putting the finishing touches on a completed draft of my second novel.
I interviewed the Fairfield chief of police on Tuesday to nail down a few plot lines. Although I never let the facts get in the way of a good story, I like to have accurate details and the chief helped clarify several issues.
And last month I made Westport a character.
Setting often plays a role in a good story, but I wanted to do it in a way that didn't hit the reader over the head. I started by doing research.
John Cheevers wrote a lot about this area, most of it unflattering.
Max Schulman, a long-time resident, wrote a story about Westport in 1954 called "Rally Around the Flag." Even back then there was tension between the old money, the commuters, and the Italian community, Westport's blue collar backbone. In some ways things haven't changed.
In 2005, it's the real estate explosion that has caused Westporters to lose their minds. And that was where I went fishing for my opportunity.
People tear down perfectly good homes, destroying entire landscapes to build monstrosities that would make Tony Soprano proud. Westport has tried to legislate a slow down but no one can agree on how to do it and so the free market and the rights of individuals trod upon the better sense of the community.
To me it's a lot like porn, I know when something is too big when I see it, and so do most rational people, but a McMansion raises everyone's property value, it increases the town's tax base, consequently, it has few detractors. Developers and politicians have always kept close ties, but they are especially difficult to defeat on this issue because everyone is making money, everyone except the wildlife, trees and the people who will come after us.
Working from the house while your neighbor turns his home into a construction zone is a nightmare. I long for the days when all that aggravated me was the weekly arrival of the leaf blower armada.
But this annoyance gave me the idea to create a character who represents the issue of greed and decimation.
And my protagonist will long for the old days, for the summer of 1920 when F. Scott Fitzgerald liver here, a time when the town was mostly bootleggers and farmers.
A lot of great things still go on here in Westport: the playhouse has just been remodeled under Joanne Woodward's direction. State of the art schools are under construction. A new senior center was built. But Main Street lost its charm when the local merchants couldn't afford the rents and now it looks just like Any Mall USA. And if everyone does the tear down, Westport will lose all its charm.
As an emerging artist, it isn't easy to maintain a house here, and with property taxes on the rise, if I don't get a break soon, I'll be tempted by what many of the old-timers have already done -- cash out and move on.
But if I did that, I am certain that my house will be torn down and my property cleared out like the lead photo to this piece. Nobody will care that generations of raccoons have lived in the old willow in my back yard. Or that a decade worth of swallows have been born in the bird house off the porch. The squirrels will have to scramble for other accommodation as well as the resident skunk and woodchucks.
On the days I'm down, I realize that there's more at stake than just my pride, it's enough to get me off my ass and back at the computer with an even greater determination to succeed. And as I write this I realize that I might have stumbled upon another angle for my novel…have to go…the animals are counting on me.
Thanks for stopping by.
Most people hate the deer because they eat flowers like they are candy -- I took this shot from my writing desk -- I see this deer a lot and often leave fruit or lettuce for her.
Twenty years after Live Aide more people than ever live in extreme poverty
July 4, 2005
This week as we celebrate Independence Day, Sir Bob Geldolf throws another world-wide concert to raise awareness for the plight of Africa. Live 8, scheduled to collide with the G8 summit going on this week in Scotland, is designed to mobilize voters in the eight countries represented at the summit:
USA, Britain, Germany, France, Italy, Canada, Japan, Russia (I had no idea Italy and Canada were in this group!).
The event reminded me of what I tried to do in April of 2000 -- launch Rock for Refugees, a concert to help those on the run in what was the aftermath of Yugoslavia.
It had been 15 years since Live Aide, the world was still a mess, but the Internet was booming, and everyone in the US was preoccupied with making money.
Back then I was still enjoying the fruits of a severance package from the music biz. I was learning to write and play guitar. I had just purchased a Pro Tools recording system and was trying to figure out how it worked. In my spare time I was doing pro bono consulting for a variety of non-profits.
For months I watched the plight of these displaced Eastern Europeans on TV and nobody was doing anything. I decided to make something happen.
I got several major rock bands interested. An established promoter was set-up to handle logistics; a date was reserved at Madison Square Garden. I wrote a piece in 'Billboard,' the industry trade magazine. A blurb ran in 'Rolling Stone.'
And then I got a phone call from a powerful music industry executive who had been hired by Cisco Systems to put together what he termed: an effort that the planet has never seen before. Cisco would lead the world in eradicating poverty and at the heart of this project was a web site, designed by Cisco. Two massive concerts, one in Giants Stadium, the other at Wembley, would announce this site to the world.
All that stood in their way was me.
This legendary music biz exec called my home to find out what I was up to because the press conference to launch NetAid was scheduled in two weeks and I was confusing the situation.
But I knew nothing of their effort. Everyone that I'd talk to prior to writing this 'call to action article' in 'Billboard' was unaware of the effort. I wasn't funded by a corporation; I wasn't doing this on the behalf of a record company or an artist. I was doing it because everyone else appeared too busy. In fact, I'd publicly stated that I'd be happy to step aside if someone else more qualified wanted to run with it.
I had no idea that behind the scenes, Cisco was plotting to launch this major campaign.
Since Rock for Refugees had no money or clout, just my sweat equity, the Cisco effort swallowed up whatever interest I had generated.
NetAid came and went with little fan fare. The problem was simple, Cisco's primary objective was promoting Cisco, not eradicating poverty; decisions were made accordingly, even the concerts were non-events.
You can't manufacturer goodwill; it's got to come from the heart, not a corporate pr department.
Last year I wrote a creative non-fiction piece about a group of kids in Somalia that use soccer as a platform to communicate peace in a country torn apart by clan rivalry. The story got excellent reviews from numerous editors, but no one would run it. Today those kids are somewhere on a dusty field in Somalia kicking a ball, trying to show adults that it is still possible to get along, but the story sits unread in my computer.
Last week I got in a fight with Siobhan Walsh, the director of the NGO that sponsors the Somali kids, ConcernUSA. We were arguing over ways to try and get this story out there. We are both frustrated that no one has picked it up. I felt bad for giving Siobhan a hard time because I don't know anyone as selfless or committed. I've known her for seven years and she goes 24/7, trying to raise funds and awareness for the plight of those that live in extreme poverty.
When all the rock stars clear the stage from Live 8, she'll be back at her desk trying to do the impossible: improve conditions in the world's poorest places.
I don't know where the world would be without people like her.
Geldoff's efforts should be praised, but the real praise should go to the folks who have dedicated their lives to fight for the poor, the ones that do it every day. They get little recognition, they earn low wages, they work ungodly hours.
To be honest, I'm not sure why they do it. Their task is virtually impossible, but thank God they do; I can't imagine what the world would be like without them.
Two days after I posted this essay I received a mass mailing from NetAid -- the first in over three years -- interesting...
NetAid's website is still operational and they have a small budget and a staff of 18. They claimed to be part of Live 8, but during the all day MTV coverage, NetAid was never mentioned.
Mastering: Step One -- bounce to analog tape for some good old-fashioned warmth. Step Two: convert back to digital for final tweaks as pictured here at Mark Dann Studios in Manhattan.
June 27, 2005
My CD arrived in the mail on Tuesday from the mastering company. I ripped apart the brown envelope, yanked it out and popped it into my car stereo. I flipped through the twelve tracks and along the way broke out into a cold sweat. All I could hear were mistakes.
I felt nauseous and staggered out of the car and into the house. I sat on the deck feeling awful. I had a yoga class in ten minutes and I was thinking about blowing it off, but I dragged myself to the studio.
The instructor tells us to leave everything outside the room, there's nothing to be done about whatever is beyond the doors anyway, so clear your mind and focus on your practice. I did my best and by the end of class I felt a lot better.
On the way home I listened to the CD again and it sounded fine. That didn't mean I wasn't hearing opportunities and the rest of this week I tried to address those issues.
I brought in my co-producer and bass player, Paul Winsor, and we listened to all of the songs. Some might recall a few weeks ago his reaction to redoing some bass lines -- he wasn't a happy camper but still came up with some great new ideas.
He laughed when I told him about the panic attack. "I'm not surprised," he said.
He heard a few things we could improve too, but he was also hearing all of the good stuff which is basically 99% of it. But even the great Chet Atkins couldn't listen to any of his records because all he heard were the mistakes.
We remixed the title track -- 'I Am Not My Job,' making a couple of significant changes in the process. We're both happy with the result -- who knows how we'll feel next week.
Perhaps more important was a reshuffle of the song sequence. We are now starting with 'Fallen Far,' which features just me on guitar and a percussionist. Originally we were going to end with it, but after Mark Dann at the mastering company did his magic, it sounded so good, we felt confident having it in the lead-off spot. It sets the stage lyrically for the rest of the CD and it also acts as the opening act to what comes next -- the band.
Many singer/songwriter CDs suffer from 'sameness syndrome.' Often the first couple of songs are great but the next ones sound just like them and by the end you're left unsatisfied. This is often due to a lack of variety in the writing and arranging.
Artists get stuck in patterns but don't realize it until the twelve songs are heard in a row and by then it's too late.
We spent a lot of time with arrangements, varying instruments, textures and colors to provide pace and dynamics. Because these songs were written over a five-year period, the stylistic growth also provides variety. I employed different methods for writing, sometimes doing the music first, sometimes the words. I also write melodies without my guitar which frees me from the limits of my chord knowledge.
We also opted to bookend the CD with a reprise of 'Fallen Far'-- the second time around it will be an instrumental featuring dobro. I spent Friday afternoon with John Widgren working up a part. John's a full-time musician and can often be heard playing pedal steel on Broadway. On short notice he was in the studio laying down what was the last recorded track for this album.
I've been saying for ages that I am at the end, and I am pretty damn close. I believe most of these last minute changes are improvements but I'm sure that six months from now I will regret something, but that's the nature of this process. A CD is a snapshot of a song, not something that remains fixed forever.
And I hereby solemnly swear that by the end of next month my CD will be available for sale.
-----------------------------------------
A couple of people have already emailed asking how they can buy the CD -- you'll have several options -- it will be available through this site using PayPal (an Ebay Company) -- Amazon, CD Baby and itunes will also be carrying it!
When I was a kid I thought having two fathers was double-trouble, but that view changed as an adult. Here I am with my step dad at the Super Bowl a few years ago.
June 20, 2005
My childhood memories of Father's Day are a blur, but I do remember being annoyed having to get two cards once my mom remarried -- teen angst I guess.
My folks got divorced in 1969, before it was fashionable. I was eleven and it was an embarrassment. But even when my parents were together my father was a disciplinarian, the man with the heavy stick, literally. He grew up in England and moved here in his late twenties, he knew nothing of baseball, cub scouts, or Huck Finn. He worked nights and weekends too. It didn't matter to me that his mother died before he could walk, or that as a teenager he dodged Hitler's bombs on a bicycle.
Mom got remarried and my step father was just another adult to avoid whenever possible. He at least knew how to throw a baseball, but his wife had died of cancer in her forties and left him with five kids, one a baby; he had more on his mind than tossing a ball with me.
My father died four years ago, but as we grew older we came to appreciate each other. He was never the father I really wanted, nor was I the son he expected. In the end I realized that I wouldn't be who I am, if not for him, and even if I had a chance to go back in time and trade him in for someone else, I wouldn't. When you mess with one component of your past, anything can happen, and there's too much good in my life to risk that.
The concept of an ideal childhood is a myth anyway.
There were things I could have done to improve my relationship with my dad, but now that he's gone that chapter in my life is closed. As a kid, I hated having two fathers, but as an adult, I came to understand the advantages.
My step father grew up with Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams. He loved baseball and he and I can talk all night about the plight of the Phillies -- although now that he's moved to Florida, he prefers the dreaded Atlanta Braves.
In the way that I had difficulties with my father, my step-dad had issues with his children. Although I've known him since high school, we didn't have the direct conflicts that keep parents and children estranged. And without that baggage we got on with it, and this provided a unique opportunity. Over the years Lou became the father I always wanted, and in some respects I became the son he never had. Of course there were still bumps along the way, but it did allow us a second chance, something that rarely comes along in life.
And today on Father's Day, while I spend some time thinking about my real father, I also have the chance to let my step father know that I'm really glad he's in my life. Happy Father's Day Lou…
Corporate sponsorship runs rampant in the music biz, even with bands that don't need the money.
June 13, 2005
Several people have asked: Now that your CD is done, what are you going to do with it?
It's an excellent question and one that I've been avoiding because early on I spent too much time thinking up clever marketing ideas, leveraging contacts, and plotting strategy.
I had to burn the business plan to turn the artistic corner, but now that the CD is finished, I must reconnect the business side of my brain.
It took awhile to find the plug and clear out the cobwebs. The first thing I did was read 'Billboard,' the music industry trade magazine. I started reading it in 1976 when I was at Syracuse University. I stopped reading in 1998 when I left my position as a board member of HMV Record Stores, the US retail division of EMI Music.
I picked up a copy last week and felt like Rip Van Winkle. It might as well have been 2105, the landscape has changed that much. Corporate consolidation, technological change, new categories of music, illegal file swapping, law suits. I don't even know the names of the record companies anymore.
These Darwinian trends were already in play before I left, but the Internet bubble and the loosening of regulations by the current administration accelerated everything. Clear Channel gobbled up radio stations and then bought SFX, the company that devoured all the independent concert promoters. TV companies bought film companies and vice versa and now entertainment is controlled by a handful of mega-corps.
I don't view this as bad or good thing because it's part of an economic cycle that rest assured, will reverse. Giant conglomerates rarely innovate and in this current cycle, the opportunity for small companies to discover new bands and new sounds is better than ever.
American Idol is a great example of how the music industry lowers artistic risk. Regardless of what you might think about it musically, it is an excellent vehicle for generating consistent quarterly earnings, a must for any public corporation.
Today record company marketing departments fawn over companies, desperate to place a band in a commercial or video game. There was a time when a musician would have given up their career rather than sell-out, now it seems to be the only way to have a career.
Even the upcoming Rolling Stones concert tour is being underwritten by an mortgage company -- you would have thought such endorsements would at least contain ticket prices, but even the cheap seats on this tour are expensive. What the hell does Mick Jagger do with all his cash?
Yes, the Internet has exploded, but it's not the great equalizer independent bands thought it would be. Sure, the occasional group busts through on Garageband.com, but so what? The cost of making a CD and having a web site is nothing and bands with no business making music crank out product. Contrary to popular belief, it is more difficult than ever to cut through the clutter. But that doesn't mean there aren't opportunities.
What am I going to do with my CD?
I'm not sure.
The money I had set aside to promote it was lost in my divorce settlement, so I must be even more creative.
But to be honest, I have already exceeded my objective. I had set out to make the best possible album by surrounding myself with musicians much better than myself. I learned so much from these people, many who are now good friends. I discovered my voice, my unique artistic view and this is something I will continue to develop. Whether it is commercially viable is not the point. I wanted to become a songwriter, a musician, an engineer and producer, and in the process of making this CD, all of those things happened.
If I can recoup my expenses, I'll be thrilled.
That's not to say I won't come up with a few ideas before my CD comes back from the manufacturer. I put together lots of successful marketing campaigns over the years, and even if it that was ages ago, this old dog still has a few tricks up his sleeve.
Stay tuned…
The face of a man pushed beyond the limit in the studio....
June 6, 2005
The last of the recording was completed this week on my CD -- I Am Not My Job. I sent it to the mastering company in New York City on Tuesday and that's the end of it, honest.
What's left? Tweaks on the mastering, song order and art work.
Mastering is a process that converts the songs into a format for CD. It makes the sound consistent across the twelve songs, it addresses sonic anomalies, it tightens and polishes the sound, it increases the volume, it makes the music jump off of the CD. A good mastering engineer can take a great recording and make it sound even better.
Since I engineered and mixed these songs, I also used the mastering engineer as a second set of ears. The CD sounds significantly different than it did just three months ago.
Mark Dann has worked with folks like Susanne Vega, Shawn Colvin, Dar Williams, Garth Hudson of the Band. He felt that I was burying my vocals, and he was right, I was hiding behind the band.
Given how important the lyrics are to my songs, this was a mistake. But when the voice was brought out front, I heard all the flaws.
And so over the last three months I redid virtually every vocal on this record and it made a significant improvement. It was hard work and for awhile I thought I was never going to make it, but I did. Now I can actually listen to these songs without cringing (musicians are notorious for being hyper-critical and unable to listen to their music once the album is complete).
While in Nashville my voice got rave reviews, which is something I still can't believe given my seven-year struggle in this department.
We also cleared the sonic spectrum at the low end to allow the kick drum and bass to come through with more punch. This thrilled my bass player and co-producer, Paul Winsor, and it too has made a difference. Of course once I was hearing the bass more clearly I realized that in a few places, I heard a different bass line.
Last week I called Paul about this and he almost had a heart attack. "I'm not sure I can face it," he told me.
I called Gerry, the other core band member to this project for his opinion. He started laughing. "Don't even think about redoing a guitar part."
"We've only been working on this record for seven years," I said. "What's a few more weeks?"
On Monday Paul came over to the studio with his arsenal of basses, but he was not a happy camper. In fact he fought my inclination to tinker, didn't even want to entertain the idea, but he was here and he had brought his basses, so we gave it a shot.
Once Paul plugged in, he started feeling the groove and hearing the opportunity. By the end of the night we had improved two songs.
Of course I could disassemble each track now and still find ways to improve them but at some point you do have to say, that's it folks. And that's what I finally did this week and it feels great.
The next CD will take significantly less time. I'm already working on new songs and I know I can crank out a new CD in six months if I want to. I know this because I have just completed a solid first draft of my new novel in six months. There's plenty of work still to do, but it took three years to get my last novel in the shape this one is in now.
That's how these things work. You live and you learn, the trouble was, for too long, I was just living…
Happier times in the studio...
A day to remember those who died in battle...
May 31, 2005
This week marks the second anniversary of writing this column. I hesitate to call it a blog because it's not set up for reader response, it doesn't have syndication capability, and there's no podcasting component. None of that was even available two years ago. Going forward, these are all possibilities.
I started this site as a way to put pressure on myself. I had been writing and recording for years and nothing got finished because it was never good enough. The weekly column forced me to produce something quickly; it helped me develop discipline and focus.
It never dawned on me that people would stop in to check out what was happening. Hundreds now come weekly and on this two-year anniversary, I want to say thanks.
Here's the first paragraph of the opening entry written June 1, 2003:
Five years ago I left the work world and started writing full-time. To date, I’ve published nothing. As I enter my sixth year, all I’ve got to show for this effort is hundreds of rejection letters. And yet the resolve does not waver. I’ve just set up this web-site and will post a weekly journal to chronicle the ups and downs of my writing life. The intent is not to exhibit polished prose, but to simply capture the weekly ebb and flow of the life of someone trying to establish themselves as a writer.
And here's last year's anniversary opening:
It's the one-year anniversary of this weekly column and fifty-two essays later, I'm still writing. I can't imagine what life will be like in June 2005. I can't predict what's going to happen next week, let alone in twelve months. For instance, last year at this time I was married and now I'm not. The war in Iraq was also over and now it's not. The stock market had a great run and now, well, you get the point. Little goes the way you think it will, and yet my life as an emerging writer often feels as if nothing is happening.
---
In 2002 Chris Offutt, a well-respected author who teaches at Iowa, read one of my short stories as part of a conference feedback session. He liked the story a lot. I told him that I knew I was close, but I was unsure how to get over the hump. He laughed and said, "You're at that point where if you can look back over a year's worth of work and see improvement, just keep doing what you do."
That's great advice that can be applied to lots of things besides writing...
And when I look back over the last year on my writing, I see lots of progress. I've had two short stories published and completed a first draft of a second novel, tentatively titled, My Year as a Clown. As I write this, my first novel is being read by a New York agent that handles several major blockbuster authors. A CD will also come out soon.
Going into my eighth year of writing I am optimistic.
But now that my divorce is final, I face a money decision at the end of the year. I've already burned the life boats to keep afloat financially. I work the studio harder these days and take corporate writing projects to offset the financial damage. But if I don't find a home for one of these novels by the end of the year, I'll have to sell my house or get a job.
I'm not panicking. Lot's of people face more daunting challenges, but it does put an edge on an unproductive day.
I've been fortunate, but I busted my butt to get in a position to write full-time. Whether I can keep doing it without the pressure of a regular job doesn't matter because I have already accomplished my major objective -- to become a fiction writer.
Whatever comes next is gravy…
The Munce Man made a better recovery than I did this week because he knows how to chill...
May 22, 2005
All winter people fell like trees in the Amazon as the cold and flu season wreaked havoc. But I stood tall, never touched, and I attributed this immunity to yoga.
For the last eighteen months I've done it everyday, but since a bruised disc forced me to stop three weeks ago, word got out, and the last of winter's colds swept down to nail me big time.
I feel like a blunt knife, everything is fuzzy. I can't concentrate or sit up straight for long. Trying to maintain balance on this Body Ball isn't easy either (see last week's entry for the Body Ball story).
This cold did get me to forget my back and it's forcing me to do the one thing I must do to get this disc healed -- rest.
Last week I was speed writing, zooming through traffic to out run the pain. This week I had a head-on collision and ended up doing little writing.
The down time gives me plenty of opportunity to think and I take myself to lots of unproductive places, the sort of unsavory spots that I haven't visited since those first days my ex-wife told me she was leaving. The kind of places that encourage you to feel useless, a waste of space and suicidal.
I guess it's because this is the first time I've been sick since and I got the double-whammy -- a bum back and the cold.
It ain't easy being sick on your own. You take for granted that cup of tea brought to you in the morning while you're still in bed; just the run to the drug store was a saving grace. No doubt I'm feeling sorry for myself and lonely. It's all rather pathetic.
As one friend said to me -- guys make a big deal out of nothing; give birth then talk to me about pain. And she's right, but it's not the pain that's got me down, it's the fact I was making great progress on the novel and now I've lost that momentum. For a writer, that's not so easy to recapture.
But with one friend just getting over cancer and another just starting chemo, I have no reason to be depressed.
When I was kid and didn't want to finish supper, mom would tell me how lucky I was, that there were children in Africa starving.
"Wrap it up and send it to them," I told her. "I'm not eating it."
And that just about sums up the week.
The fog will lift and I will regain the strength to get through this depression. So what if I'm having a bad week or two, all I have to do is hold on long enough to let this last blast of winter play itself out...until then I retain the right to be grumpy…
Last Blast of Winter is actually a song written by Rachel Bissex. Sadly, she died earlier this year of breast cancer. I worked with Sloan Wainwright and Stephen Murphy on a version of that tune that will appear on the upcoming Bissex benefit CD featuring Sloan, Dar Williams, Jennifer Kimball and others…
Swapped out the chair for this Body Ball to make it through the week...
May 16, 2005
Pain.
Athletes push through it to play, musicians endure it during a performance, soldiers suffer silently because a peep could be catastrophic. The stakes aren't so high for me, but I have been ignoring an injury, writing through the nagging throb in my lower back. I got so good at overlooking the pain that I got carried away in a game of touch football with a group of ten-year olds (don't ask), and this week I paid the price.
I've done nothing physical since, zippo. No squash, no yoga, not even rudimentary stretching. How bad is it? Going to the end of the driveway for the mail is an adventure.
To sit was to have pain, so I printed out my novel (two-hundred and fifty pages now!) and edited standing up. I go to the computer and write in five-to-ten minute increments. I type as fast as I can, I type until I can endure it no longer.
The pain is like a hot poker, jabbing at my lower back, building in intensity until I have to say, "Enough," and stand up.
I finally went to a doctor. She made adjustments to my pelvis, ribs and neck. I had my first acupuncture session. She told me to rest.
"Anything but that doc," I pleaded. "Can't I write through the pain? Do therapy and exercises to heal this."
"No," she said. "And under no circumstances, do not bend forward."
I bend forward a gazillion times a day: to empty the dishwasher, feed the cats, pick-up the newspaper, turn on the computer, put on socks, tie my shoelaces.
I'm a lousy patient, but this week I had no choice but to heed the advice. It's been two weeks since the collision on the squash court and this back has gotten worse.
So now I ignore the trash piling up, the dust and dander, the dishes. I did sweet talk the neighbor into mowing my lawn.
But the pain has made me focus. It's write and run which means I must think before I sit. I must concentrate, be concise. I'm not writing as long as I typically would, but my weekly output is close. What does that say about my normal efficiency?
But I've worked hard at incorporating digression into my first draft because the long and winding road takes you to the unexpected, to where the best insight is found. When I'm editing, I bring in the efficiency experts. It's their job to weed out the unnecessary.
This week I could afford no such luxury. I must finish the scene before the pain returns. Even as I write this, the intermittent throb is ever present.
When I first sat down, the light was green and I cruised. When the throb changed to a searing jab, it was like a flashing yellow light and I must speed up now to get through the intersection. My foot presses the pedal to the floor, the tires skid. All I have to do is hold on long enough to complete this paragraph...
The light turns red. I'm almost there
Even the Munce Man was injured this week. "Rest," I told him, but I couldn't keep him out of this window sill.
"Rest, schmest," he said. "At least you don't have to wear this stupid party hat."
That's me surrounded by the moms -- Grandma Frieda, Mom, Nana Claire -- 1959
May 8, 2005
Where would any of us be without moms?
Most writers know the true value of their mothers, they dominate dedications in books, and 'childhood' is a writer's treasure trove.
For better or worse, mothers are the ones most responsible for shepherding us through those years, but many writers wait until their mothers pass away to avoid confrontation and embarrassment.
Annie Lamont says it takes courage to write because sooner or later everyone in your family will stop speaking to you.
Whenever a mother appears in one of my stories, I'm sure my mom wonders if that's her. I rarely write about specific people I know, everyone is a composite, but try telling that to her. I never let the facts get in the way of the emotional truth and so it is rare that anything I write happens as depicted.
Since my divorce I've gotten to know a few single moms and it's amazing to witness the love that they have for their children, it is like no other love I have known. It is fierce, it is compassionate, it is tender and tough, selfless and pure. It's not as if a father loves a child less, but the bind that ties a mother is stronger. Perhaps in the womb a psychic bond is created.
And this gives me a greater appreciation for what my mother did for me growing up; I wasn't the best of kids anyway, especially in my teen years.
Most parents and kids would probably say they'd do a better job given a second chance, but despite the system's flaws, it works.
My mom is in England this week, visiting her mom, who at ninety-four, is still going strong. I want to wish both of them a happy mother's day and tell them both that I love them dearly and couldn't imagine what my life would be like without them.
Here's a song inspired by moms that Paul Winsor and I wrote. It's on my soon to be released CD. I also want to wish his wife, Barb, who is in the hospital, a speedy recovery. She's been fighting off cancer for what seems like forever, and this week she fought the battle that appears to have turned the war in her favor -- bravo!
My mom with her mom and dad in the late forties.
----------------------------------------------
Your Favorite Lullaby
Ozzie met Harriet, they got married, a perfect fit
Lots of women including you Mom, believed in that
But life is not TV and you became a worker bee
Caught between the kitchen and the Laundromat
You untied your apron string
As I hung tight to your dress
You smiled at me and began to sing
Your favorite lullaby
Words to heal my soul through the night
Rest your head, close your eyes, rock-a-bye
Your favorite lullaby
I was a terror as a teenager, doing my best to be a heartbreaker
When I crashed the car, you were there to pick me up
I told you I didn't need a thing
I’m not just a kid anymore
You closed your eyes and began to sing
Your favorite lullaby
Words to heal my soul through the night
Rest your head, close your eyes, rock-a-bye
Your favorite lullaby
Time marches on, now you're in my home
But there are days you forget that I am grown
And there are times we talk in the evening as if things have never changed
You smile at me and sing
Your favorite lullaby
Words to heal our souls through the night
Rest your head, close your eyes, rock-a-bye
Your favorite lullaby
Written by Paul Winsor & Robert Steven Williams
Lead Vocal & Acoustic Guitar: Robert Steven Williams
Acoustic Guitar: Gerry McKeveny
Mandolin: Liam Bailey
Bass: Paul Winsor
Background Vocals: Sloan Wainwright & Penny Nichols
I've never underestimated the role luck plays in my success.
May 2, 2005
Luck and I have never been on the best of terms, and yet Luck is that intangible ingredient that often makes the difference between success and failure. Luck plays a role in everybody's life from Average Joe to presidents.
The Chinese call it Joss, New Age types call it Serendipity, card players refer to it as Lady Luck -- and when she's not on your side, you've got no chance.
Even in the corporate world Luck plays a role. Most CEOs get paid too much money to admit that, but it's true.
Luck is essential in entertainment, sometimes it's the only factor that can explain success. And like lightning, it typically strikes only once, explaining the often used industry term -- one hit wonders.
Timing, closely linked to Luck, is another key success factor. Some believe that timing and luck are one and the same. I'm not so sure about that, but at the very least they are cousins.
Timing and I have had our ups and downs too. After toiling away on my first novel for three years, I built up the courage to send it off to an agent. It went out on September 10, 2001.
When Luck and Timing aren't willing to cooperate, a Muse might be the answer. The Muses were the Greek goddesses presiding over the arts and sciences, inspiring those who excelled at such pursuits. They were the daughters of Zeus, king of the gods, and Mnemosyne, goddess of memory.
Occasionally someone comes into my life that inspires me to create, but to date, I have had no long runs with a Muse. Maybe my cats -- the Munce Man and Cleo, are my Muses. They often hang out in my studio while I write and record; having them in the room has a calming affect.
They say the harder you work the luckier you get. Nobody has ever explained to me who 'They' are, but 'They' are pretty insightful because hard work is something I have seen pay off for me. Sweat equity is clearly what I have invested most into my writing, it's my greatest asset.
And after six years of writing full-time my second short-story got published this week. It's in the May issue of Carve Magazine. "The Jersey Cowboy" placed in the top ten of hundreds of stories submitted to the Raymond Carver Short Story Contest. Carver is one of my favorite short story writers, so it was an honor to place so high in the competition.
A judge chose three winners from the ten and it was a thrill to know that one of mine vied for the top slot, but when the winners were announced, I was disappointed to not see my name amongst them.
I felt there was something wrong with the story, that there was something I could have done to make a difference in the outcome.
But that's not necessarily true.
And I know that if I had been one of the winners, it didn't mean my story was any better than the others either.
What does better mean anyway?
Intangibles make a difference. The judge's taste, his or her's mood when the story is read -- things that have nothing to do with the actual writing, in other words, Luck and Timing…
To be a finalist means I'm headed in the right direction. And the editor of the magazine sent a nice note saying how fortunate he felt to be able to publish my story.
When someone in the business says that about your work, it feels damn good.
I am sure that one day Luck and I will get better acquainted, until then, all I can do is keep writing…
To read my story at Carve Magazine click on the link below:
When I return from a trip it's difficult to fall back into my writing routine. My mind wanders, I'm easily distracted, I end up doing odd-jobs about the house. I vacuumed, mopped and dusted a lot this week. I waterproofed the deck, cleaned the mirrors, I even repotted a few plants.
The cats were thrilled to have me back and they spent loads of time sitting in my lap -- of course not at the same time. Each one is well aware of how much attention the other gets and it's important that both receive equal lap time.
At some point I ran out of things to clean but when I sat down to write I just didn't feel it. I did yoga everyday but for whatever reasons, that didn't help -- my mind wasn't quiet on the mat either.
I knew things weren't going well when I took a call from someone trying to sell me a credit card.
I couldn't even justify taking time away from writing to do taxes now that April 15th has passed.
So I forced myself to write.
I start by working in my journal. It's a great place to ramble, to say nothing if that's what it takes. It's an opportunity to find a groove with no pressure, to write with no judgment, to rediscover the rhythm of words falling into place on a page.
And for a moment I thought I had broken through, but even the journal writing screeched to a halt.
I decided to send out some short stories to magazines and contests. It's a time consuming and dull task, but if I don't keep on myself to do it, a half-a-year can pass by with nothing going out.
It felt good to hit the post office with an armful of envelopes, but when I got back to the house, there sat my new novel, only two-thirds written, characters in the midst of conflict with no conclusions, scenes requiring complete rewrites, not to mention tons of sentence editing still to do. But I couldn't face any of it.
I strummed guitar the rest of that afternoon. A few ideas for new songs popped into my head. I grabbed a piece of paper and started writing. The first few lines were great, but I quickly hit a wall and even that enthusiasm faded.
I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared inside in search of something to eat. There wasn't much, so I drove over to Stop 'n Shop.
I took a seven PM yoga class and when I got back I forced myself to start reading the new novel. Half-way through the first chapter I got a pencil and started making edits. I jotted down a few notes too, and before I knew it I was back at the computer rewriting entire scenes. I saw obvious places to cut and soon I began slicing and dicing. It was three AM before I realized that I'd been going at it for almost six hours.
And each day since things have gotten better. I'm still not at full-speed, but I'm close.
There's nothing like being tight on cash to provide pressure to finish this novel. Perhaps the best thing that ever happened to me was not selling my stocks at the height of the Internet explosion -- I saw my retirement money vanish as quickly as it had appeared back in those heady days at the end of the last century. My divorce emptied the rest of the coffers and so if I don't finish this novel soon, I'm going to be forced to dramatically cut my writing time. But even with that looming over my head, some days, even weeks, just don't come together -- and as a writer, I've got to be cool about that, because if I tighten up, it's never gonna happen.
Distractions are part and parcel of the writing game. I can't get hung up on them because they have a purpose too, they are diversions that last just long enough to unclog the tangle of thoughts that keep me from writing; without them, I would never get any work done.
Jimmie Dale Gilmore in concert last week at Nashville's Mercy Lounge with special guests...
April 16, 2004
Last week I attended the NSAI Symposium in Nashville. NSAI is the trade association that represents songwriters.
Although I had a few business meetings, my intent was to watch and listen because I have nothing appropriate for the market. I did play a few cuts from my upcoming CD and the reaction was quite favorable. But I've been warned about this town's friendliness, nobody will say your song sucks.
NSAI is a great organization because it caters to both the professional and aspiring songwriter. NSAI runs song camps and seminars, they publish books and provide a critique service as well as career guidance.
But the possibility of fame and fortune draws all types to the two-day Symposium. It reminded me of the gold-rush days -- rumors spread early of past strikes and attendees bought whatever the pick-and-shovel merchants hawked in hopes they too could hit it big.
On rare occasions someone does land a deal and that just fuels the frenzy.
I exceeded my goals last week because I was realistic as to what could be accomplished from a first trip to Nashville. Most at Symposium, on the other hand, were confident that they had what Nashville needed, and consequently left disappointed. Most don't realize that incredible songwriters living locally struggle to get songs sold. An outsider has to be that much better, and even then the odds are against them.
I learned this the hard way. Seven years ago I attended my first songwriting workshop and was positive that as soon as my songs were heard I'd get a break. I was more confident than most because I'd spent twenty years in the music industry. Nothing came my way. I took subsequent seminars from Rosanne Cash, Steve Seskin, and Jason Blume as well as from other Nashville hot shots -- my songwriting improved, but nobody bought my songs.
Structure and function came easy, but the ability to capture an emotion in melody and lyric was a challenge. That same ingredient was also missing in my fiction. It took seven years of writing every day to finally find my voice. To date I have had minor success, but it is still unclear if I will earn a living from writing. There is one thing however, that is certain: my best work is ahead of me.
At one point at Symposium we broke into groups of twenty to play a song for a publisher. There was great anticipation amongst attendees, this is what everyone had come for -- to dazzle Nashville with their song.
Industry execs must sift through tons of dirt and pebbles to find a speck of gold, and that's when standing in an established Nashville writers' stream, you can imagine what wading through the crippled creek of Symposium songs was like. Most I heard had no business being presented. Even a fancy five-hundred dollar Nashville demo can't hide a song's flaws. They sound impressive to a novice and provide work to folks here in town, but that's about all they do.
I did hear a handful of good songs during the two-days, but publishers don't need good tunes; often excellent isn't enough.
And yet people hear a bad song on the radio and think their tune deserves a shot. Sometimes those songs are written by the artist or friends, sometimes by a pro, but most 'hits' are penned by professionals; outsiders have little opportunity with established artists.
A woman approached me after our publisher session and told me she enjoyed my song. It was one of the few that had received positive feedback, despite its lack of country credential.
This woman's song hadn't fared as well. With pleading eyes she asked if I would listen to another one of her songs and tell me if she had talent. I told her I'd be happy to listen but that she was asking the wrong question.
At the turn of the last century a poetry student sent the famous German poet Rilke a sample of his writing and had asked that very same question.
The poet had responded:
"You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you -- There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: Must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity."
I listened to her song, then told her that it didn't matter what I thought, that it all depended on how badly she needed to write. I told her that I had given up a successful career as a music-business executive to write full-time. I admitted that if someone had told me back in 1998 how hard this would be, I might not have had the courage, but I was glad that I had done it because no matter what, I realized that I had to write. If she had such desire, I told her, she had nothing to worry about.
She shut her eyes for a moment and sighed, then looked at me. "But what did you really think of the song?"
JD Souther, Shawn Colvin and Rodney Crowell in Nashville last week for Tin Pan South. One of many incredible shows I saw.
Backstage with Jimmie Dale Gilmore at the Mercy Lounge in Nashville Thursday night.
April 11, 2005
Greetings from Nashville
I spoke to a friend back home today and she asked if I had sold any songs yet.
I had to laugh because if I'm really lucky, I might in five years, certainly not in a weekend.
There are a gazillion songwriters down here, many are very good, some are extraordinary; a few have lots of hits, but even they struggle to get cuts (that's Nashville speak for getting a song on an artist's CD).
It's absurd to think you can just come down and get a cut, and yet lots of people do. Some even quit their jobs and move here thinking it will happen, but for 99.99% it won't.
So why am I here?
To listen, to learn, to be inspired.
I heard some incredible music this week from the world's very best: Beth Nielsen Chapman, Craig Wiseman, Steve Seskin, Jeffrey Steele, Rodney Crowell, Shawn Colvin -- to mention just a few.
It was Tin Pan South week and every night there were amazing songwriter shows going on in legendary Nashville venues like the Bluebird Cafe.
And an added bonus -- Jimmie Dale Gilmore was in town!
I'll be back home Thursday to post more photos and by Saturday a more complete view of the week will appear.
Thanks for checking in...
rsw
My Dad on the set of 'Beloved' with Danny Glover.
April 4, 2005
I scrambled to finish the CD for this week's Nashville trip and fell short. I've made too many changes in recent weeks to forge ahead with manufacturing, so I'm on to plan B. I'll have five songs in presentable form for the trip, but I need time to reset my ears, to regain a fresh perspective before giving the green light to duplicate a thousand. When I get back home I'll make adjustments if necessary, then it's done, honest.
My struggles pale in comparison to what several good friends went through this week. One is half-way through treatment for lung cancer, another was diagnosed with breast cancer; another's father died without warning.
You just never know what's around the bend.
My friend's father was in his eighties and was feeling fine the day he died. I saw a picture taken of him that afternoon; his eyes were full of life.
I'd prefer the fast exit to a long drawn out ordeal, but for those left behind, it can't be easy. When my father died, it wasn't pretty. He'd been diagnosed with cancer and five months later he was dead. We didn't have a great relationship, but during those last months we grew closer and for that I am grateful.
The week of my father's funeral was a blur. We threw a helluva party and I was amazed at all the people that came to pay their respects. Many I had never known.
One couple told me that my father had introduced them thirty-years ago. Initially both were reluctant, but dad pestered them until they acquiesced. They fell in love and got married within the year. They'll never forget my father, they told me, because their lives would have been so different if not for him. And there were other such stories too, and this week I heard similar tales about my friend's father.
But the permanence of death is daunting. After all the relatives had departed and I had returned to my routine, I recall feeling as if my father was still around, that when the phone rang, it might actually be him -- "That burial thing," he'd say, "I was only kidding."
That's the hardest part, coming to grips with knowing that's never going to happen.
My father had wanted to be an actor but life got in the way - money, kids, a bad marriage, but even when he had opportunities, he lacked the courage. But after he retired, he started taking odd-jobs as an extra; eventually small speaking parts came his way, but by then he was undergoing treatment for cancer and he was too ill to take the parts.
Just before he started chemo I took him to the set of an A&E biography. He was playing Alfred, to Adam West's Batman and Frank Gorshin's Riddler. It was to be my father's only television speaking role. Four months later he died.
Strange as this might sound, my relationship with dad has never been better. It is too bad that he had to die for me to appreciate him for who he was.
I have friends fighting for their lives, so whatever inconveniences I experience pale in comparison. The CD will get done. It doesn't matter what happens in Nashville. My stories will get published soon enough.
The sand in the hour glass doesn't stop falling for any of us, to squander even a day is a tragedy. I've probably blown decades, but there's nothing I can do about that now. I do, however, have some control over what happens next. I just hope that I can find a way to matter in the way that my father mattered to that couple, or in the way I heard people speak about my friend's father this week -- they were lots of smiles amongst the tears, this was a man who had clearly touched many hearts, and even though I had never had the good fortune to meet him, this week from the beyond, he touched mine.
Part of the art work for my upcoming CD -- I Am Not My Job
March 28, 2005
I had arranged dinner with a friend and we met in the restaurant parking lot. On the way I was listening to a new mix of a song on my upcoming CD. It was a warm March night, a rarity this year, and the windows were open, the volume was loud. When I got out of the car my friend said, "That's tacky, listening to your own music, isn't that like staring at yourself in the mirror?"
She was half-joking, but the other half didn't put me in the most flattering light.
"Believe me," I said to her, "when this is done, it'll be a long time before I even listen to a single note, but at the moment I have to keep playing it."
Her manicured eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
"It's work," I tried to explain. "I have to listen for every nuance, the blend of instruments, the volume, the tones, even the silence."
"Oh," she said.
"I drive around listening to new mixes all the time, the car sounds different from the studio."
I think she believed me, but if you aren't a musician or familiar with the recording process, how would you know?
I've heard these twelve songs thousands of times; I truly am sick of them, but I can't give up now. There are thirty-two tracks for each song and I've got to make sure each one is right and that they work together. Think of it as thirty-two different recordings, all synchronized to play at the same time.
One track is a guitar, another might be a mandolin. The drum kit is ten tracks -- one microphone recorded for each part of the kit. This gives me control of tone and volume without affecting other instruments. I can also replace a part without repercussions to the other tracks.
If I had recorded the band live with a pair of stereo microphones, then I'd be stuck with the relative volumes and sounds. If the kick drum was too loud, there would be little I could do to change it.
But flexibility has its price. Now I must blend these tracks and there are infinite possibilities. Big rock and rap albums often have over a hundred tracks and that's why remixes are popular -- a remix can have a completely different vibe.
This week I'm trying out different mixes to find the one I like best.
Once I do that, it's off to the mastering house. That's the final step before manufacturing and it is generally done by someone with specialized equipment. Mastering smoothes and sharpens, it also provides a tonal consistency to make the CD a cohesive piece of work.
In theory, if you've produced a good recording, mastering will make it even better. I can't wait to hear the improvements, but I've got a bit more work to do before I send these songs off, and then…well, it will be quite some time before I hear these songs again.
One thing's for sure, the next time I meet my friend for dinner "I Am Not My Job" won't be in the CD player.
Performing at the Nashville Songwriters Association event in New York City on Sunday.
March 21, 2005
I'm heading to Nashville to attend a songwriter symposium sponsored by the NSAI -- the Nashville Songwriters Association -- this week I'm arranging meetings and coordinating travel.
I've participated in several association workshops held in New York, but never done the Nashville thing. An interesting mix of people and music attend these events. Most of the songs showcased are recordings made in Nashville using what they call demo houses -- studios that feature up-and-coming singers and musicians. Sometimes today's demo singer is tomorrow's country superstar -- Trisha Yearwood and Garth Brooks were both demo singers.
The recording quality is top notch and the musicianship is excellent, but it's all got that twangy Nashville feel that doesn't quite fit my taste. The songs tend to be well crafted and clever, but there's a sameness to the sound and predictability to the music, sometimes the wit is almost too clever. And yet this simplicity and sameness is deceiving because it's almost impossible to replicate, and even harder to get an artist to cut one of your songs. There is no room for ambiguity in a commercial country tune. The song must be familiar, yet fresh; plain spoken, yet poetic, memorable, but not too far out -- it must clock in at three minutes and change.
The New York NSAI brings hit songwriters up from Nashville to conduct workshops and often there's time set aside for song critiques. It's a fascinating experience to have your song examined in a public forum, but it's not for the faint of heart. Rarely is the entire song listened to -- typically it's just one verse and a chorus. The workshop leader has the lyric sheet, so they know where the story is headed -- but if the bridge is what makes your song special, too bad, no one will hear it.
I don't mind getting raked over the coals. Actually I tend to get decent responses because my songs are different, yet posses many of the elements of commercial writing. I've studied with Jason Blume, who has written for Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys, as well as country stars like Colin Raye. I've also studied with Steve Seskin, who has written hits for Tim McGraw.
My songs are like organic apples, they have blemishes, but lots of flavor.
Most country hits are like supermarket apples -- from the outside they are perfection -- the right shape and color, they are nice and shiny, but take a bite and, well, let's just say they aren't the tastiest apples around.
Unfortunately organic produce doesn't sell in the quantities record companies require.
Sunday night I played at a NSAI event in New York. It was good fun because I've met lots of these people over the years and heard their songs as played by those hot-shot Nashville demo folks, but I've never heard them perform their own songs. Sunday night I got to hear them step out from behind those demos and it was a treat. Many are excellent singers and musicians in their own right, and the songs took on a completely different feel when they sung them.
Tim Buppert is the New York Chapter mentor, assigned to us from Nashville. He's written several country hits; he's also a great drummer and plays in a Beatles tribute band, as well as singing demos. This week he's running a workshop at ASCAP. Sunday he headlined our NSAI event. He's down to earth, accessible, and good fun. And it was great to hear him play his songs because I'd only heard them on the radio as done by other artists.
I've got no expectations for my trip next month. I'm looking forward to just hanging out and learning. They say it takes five years to get anything really going down there. It's a town of who you know as much as what you know. I'm bringing copies of my soon to be released CD, I've already got a few meetings set up, and Yoga Journal featured Nashville yoga studios in last month's issue, and so I'm bringing the mat too.
Look out Nashville, here I come….
A gremlin ate any email sent throught this web site for the last two weeks. Sorry about that. Now only the email on my business card doesn't work. The email on this site is honky dory. Thanks!
Neither fish nor fowl...
March 13, 2005
Napoleon fought a two-front war and lost. The great Bo Jackson blew a chance to be a Hall of Fame baseball player by also playing professional football -- for a moment he was tops in both sports, then an injury ended his career.
Any business guru will tell you that focus is the key to success, do what you do best and you can't fail.
I write fiction, non-fiction and songs. Am I spread too thin?
Suzi-Lori Parks, the Pulitzer prize winning dramatist, writes plays and screenplays; last year she wrote a novel, and she teaches. She uses the lazy-Susan approach, working on one thing until she loses momentum -- moving on to the next, and so on, keeping projects in rotation until completed. She shared that insight at a songwriting workshop we both took several years back -- yes, she even writes songs!
I work the same, often switching throughout the day amongst projects. Of course my quality doesn't approach Suzi's, but modeling yourself on excellence is the only way to improve.
But being a jack of all trades presents other challenges. I sent a promotional package to the Westport Library in hopes they would hire me to do one of their cultural programs -- they offer concerts, readings, and children's events. I had pitched them on reading my short-story published last year in Canada as well as performing the companion song.
The proposal ended up with their music director. She called and said, "This is interesting but our patrons expect a full hour of music."
"I can do that, but I'm also an author," I told her. "I was thinking of reading the story first, then playing the song. If you want more music, I can certainly do more, how about a 50/50 split?"
"Hmm," she said. "I don't know, we really prefer a complete hour of music, maybe I should send this over to the director who handles the authors."
"You would know best," I said. "I can go either way; I thought reading and playing would be fun and different."
"I'm not sure how they'll react," she said, clearly perplexed by the situation. "They like to have a good forty-five minute reading and time for questions."
The package was forwarded to the other department but I never heard back. I will call at some point, but it made me realize people prefer to slot artists into neatly defined boxes. If you've got a blurred edge, a bulky shape, something out of the ordinary, you stand a good chance of being discarded because it's a hassle trying to figure out what to do with you.
But I can not change what I do, the music is an essential part of my art -- the process of writing music, lyric and prose feeds off one another. What price I pay to pursue such an endeavor is still unclear, but no matter how high it becomes, it's the cost of doing business. To settle for anything less would mean as Shakespeare said, being untrue to thine own self…
Polonius told Hamlet -- Give thy tongue no thoughts...
March 6, 2005
Last week in The New York Times Magazine, Jonathan Safran Foer, the twenty-eight-year-old literary sensation, was asked why he wrote…
His response:
It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness.
I used to think I wrote to avoid having a real job. If I'm honest -- fame and fortune was right up there. I also wanted to change the world and make people think. On good days it was because I loved to write.
Maybe all these things are true, but after reading Foer's quote I realized he was on to something.
I am often lonely in a crowd.
A friend wrote a song called -- Darling, I Miss You (When You're with Me)
I often miss people when I'm with them too…
Is it because reality rarely exceeds expectations?
When I write, I have control. In the real world things rarely go as expected -- the war in Iraq, the election, the Super Bowl, my friend's biopsy report…
Some believe that with intent, one can control reality -- the power of positive thinking. In yoga the aim is to clear the mind of thoughts -- through quiet comes enlightenment. I am open to this concept but I drown daily in an ocean of thought.
I was told to treat them like uninvited guests -- ignore them. But they don't get the message. They continue to show up at my mind's door along with siblings, in-laws, cousins, neighbors too -- it's as if they know there's a free lunch inside…
Now that's food for thought.
Polonius told Hamlet: Give thy tongue no thoughts. Most people rarely say what they think. It's a lesson I still struggle with, but Polonius never said: Give thy quill no thoughts. So I channel the unspeakable into my character's mouths.
There's two new reasons why I write.
Foer's remarks also made me realize that I often feel out of step with the world and that's my loneliness. Writing eases a hunger for connection to something greater than self, grounding me in an increasingly unstable world. It's a way to get at the emotional truths that fuel existence.
For me reaching out begins with a blank page. Perhaps for a high school teacher it starts in the class room. For a nurse maybe it's in the healing.
Foer says he writes in hopes of ending his loneliness. I'm not sure it's possible to eliminate isolation, but the closer we get to truth, whether through writing, teaching or the countless other ways one can approach it, the closer to the essence of life we become, and in that divine presence, we will not be alone.
Brett Martin, former number two in the world. He taught me how to play squash and those lessons helped my writing.
February 28, 2005
On Saturday night my squash club threw a good-bye party for its pros -- a married couple -- Brett and Melissa Martin. The names will mean little to most of you, but Brett was the number two player in the world for ten years, and Melissa (currently ranked number 27 in the world), played on this year's World Championship Australian team. They are going back home, down under.
Squash has an elitist air to it, but that's not the sports fault, the blame lies with the blue bloods that run the squash federation. Frazier, the TV show, used to poke fun at it's pansy image, which in reality couldn't be further from the truth. Squash is a game of skill and endurance, a survival of the fittest. Even average players get a great work-out.
The Martin's are world class athletes. In Australia they are celebrities; here they are just regular folks, that is, until they step out on to the court. I took several lessons from them and had many conversations about the sport. My abilities are not at a high enough standard to take advantage of their insights, but conceptually, I got it.
It was fascinating to get to know athletes of their caliber, to witness the commitment, the training, the practice, the intensity required to win.
To become tops in any field requires such focus, and many of the lessons I learned from them can be applied to my writing. Brett used to say there's no secret to this game, it's simple what one must do: practice. It's the age old adage -- how do you get to Carnegie Hall?
I once heard Wayne Gretzy say in an interview that it wasn't talent that God had given him, but the love of the game, the desire to put on skates and play ice hockey twelve-hours a day.
Most great athletes are born with above average talent, but it's the practice that makes them superstars. Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player of all time, but he was also the hardest working. Even in his final season, he was the first to arrive at the gym and the last to leave.
It's late Sunday night and the Oscars are over. They say more snow is coming. Most of the neighborhood is asleep, even my cats are snoozing. But I'm still here, typing. I'll miss Brett and Melissa, but knowing they are happier back home makes their absence easier to swallow.
The results of their hard work will encourage me to keep the faith on those days I don't feel inspired -- practice makes a champion, writing makes a writer...
Three weeks for thirty million dollars and then it's gone -- The Gates in Central Park.
I'm not sure what to think about the Gates. What's most interesting is the short run -- all that money, and the time to create, install, and disassemble -- on the surface it appears absurd, but perhaps that's the point -- here today, gone tomorrow -- and yet, for those who are fortunate enough to catch it, will the park ever be the same? What lasting impressions will this have upon subsequent visits?
WinterSongs 2005, a heaven for guitars this weekend up at the Catskills, near Woodstock, New York.
February 21, 2005
If I were a guitar, what would be my aspiration? Perhaps to reach Madison Square Garden, to be played by a young hipster at the top of the charts; or maybe to become one of the hundreds of instruments in Eric Clapton's collection. To be on display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame would be a fine accomplishment too.
Prestige, fame, fortune, tempting as they are, if I were a guitar, there could be no better place on earth than WinterSongs. To be strummed by those who love songs for the joy I bring, for the personal connection my sound creates, for the genuine appreciation I'd receive, not because it's fashionable or prestigious, but for simply being a channel of honesty and emotional truth. What more could a guitar want?
And yet at this year's WinterSongs, there were almost as many piano players as guitarists; there was even a piano song circle. But whether the music came from a keyboard, guitar or a single stand-alone voice, this weekend was all about the love for songs.
I felt at home immediately despite being away three years, and yet there were signs that time had passed. For one, the community that Penny created back in 1999 had blossomed. I attended the second retreat and there were only 30 attendees back then. I played a minor role in the marketing of the camp and even had the privilege to play on a three-city SummerSong promotional concert tour with Penny and Sloan back in 2000.
It's marvelous to see the addition of the California camps and WinterSongs. But most impressive is the affect her program has had on attendees. It's so hard to see your own progress, but by hearing folks that I hadn't heard in years, it quickly became evident just how effective Penny's program is.
The confidence in the writing and performances was remarkable. Some had never written or played in front of people before attending SummerSongs. Today they create compelling music and can make me laugh and cry.
It was also great to see old-timers play a larger role: Vito taught performance, Bill hosted a motivation class, David coached guitar. And the MC's for the final show -- Phil, Wes, Meg, David, and Vito -- they outdid themselves once again with songs, props and banter.
Fortunately, I do see Penny and Sloan a few times a year -- we've worked together on various recording projects, and Sloan hosts a workshop in Larchmont that I've attended. But I hadn't seen David Roth in years, and had only spoken a few words to Ina May. It was great to spend time with both.
Scott Ainsley was a treat. Hearing him on a resonator guitar it's like being taken back to the delta and the 1930's. I didn't know Bar Scott, but I fell in love with her voice when she performed at the staff concert. A weekend highlight was the improv a cappella she led Sloan, Penny and Ina May in. And that old rascal Barrett Wolf did a great job with his poetry, and I must admit, he looks good now that I can see his face.
There were lots of other great moments. Truth be told, every performance had its merit, but it's not possible to note everyone's here, but I have posted lots of photos in the 'What's New" section.
Here are a few notables:
Fran Stone's song of desperation spawning inspiration: a clogged toilet, no power, the trots and kitty litter…
A newbie sang about French Telephones; there was a heart-wrenching tale about a son in Iraq; Mark Rothe's debut performance backed by Sloan, Penny and David was out of this world. And there was Toby's rework of a Cole Porter tune and Melissa's Gilligan's Island spoof and Kliener's five governors in eight days, or was it eight govs in five days?
Roth's speed writing class performed a song that was written for the "Songs of Love' program -- a non-profit organization that creates custom songs for terminally ill children. Rusty Wolf is going to love his song written over the weekend (check out link below for more info).
I've attended three SummerSongs and had managed to avoid the vocal classes because of fear. This year I faced those demons. I started each day with Sloan's vocal warm-up. I owe a lot a gratitude to her because she told me years back that until I fell in love with my voice, including the flaws, nobody else would.
It still took years to embrace and my CD has taken so long because my songs sounded better as instrumentals. Last year that changed.
Now I know I can sing, my voice is strong, people respond to it, but I still doubt and fear, and taking group vocal classes is not my idea of a good time. But Sloan's class gives you the freedom to make socially unacceptable sounds, to spit, to make funny faces, to stick your tongue out and howl at the top of your lungs. That I can do.
I also took Penny's harmony class because I was convinced I couldn't sing harmony, but I quickly learned that wasn't the case.
Penny has been in my studio many times and I've watched her remarkable ability to crank out the most amazing harmonies effortlessly. I've witnessed her coach a few of the artists I produced and she's done wonders with me too, but singing harmony -- I still had doubts. But under Penny's expert tutelage, I discovered that it was possible. I sang back up harmony on three songs at the final concert.
I also worked the sound board. It was a challenge to keep focused through a six-hour show with fifty acts, but it was fun to set levels quickly, organize set-changes, put new folks at ease, and best of all, I had a front-row seat for all that great music.
But I was disappointed in the song I played that night. It was almost one-thirty in the morning when I took the stage. I'd just done sound for 48 acts. I had no time to practice or warm-up. If I was performing all the time, perhaps I could have nailed it, but I play in front of people only a few times a year, the odds of pulling off a flawless performance were small at best, but I expected it anyway. I recognize the need to be easier on myself and I am getting better.
I also led my first yoga class. It was unexpected but everyone that came seemed to enjoy it and perhaps I'll do it again at another camp.
After the final show, Vito and I packed up the sound system. Several hardy souls were still in the food area, talking and sipping tea. It was four AM when I walked out of there with Bill and Colleen. Six-inches of fresh powder was on the ground and we stood outside the bunks talking as if we'd only just arrived.
Two attendees from Florida appeared. "I've never seen snow," one of them said and they headed for the frozen pond.
David Kliener trudged out from the main building, the crunch of snow underneath his feet could be heard from fifty yards away. He joined us in front of the bunk cabin. Soon we would be gathered for one last meal, and with each minute together now so precious, we kept talking as a light snow fell from a quiet, black-velvet sky.
Playing with my two favorite singers -- Penny Nichols and Sloan Wainwright
Some in Fairfield County redesign their kitchen with each change of the season...
February 14, 2005
Success and wealth -- we all want it and spend a lifetime chasing it, and yet most of us fall short because we miss the point on what's important. Last night I was at a surprise party for someone who gets it and I'd like to share his story. I'll call him Shawn to protect his privacy…
We both live in Cheever Country -- the gold coast of Connecticut. There are probably more Lexus SUVs and Viking appliances per capita in Fairfield County than anywhere else in the world, but Shawn can't afford a Lexus or a Viking range.
He came to this area from Ireland back in the sixties. He'd been a bus driver, never went to college. His wife had a brother working construction in Stamford and they stayed in his living room until Shawn could earn enough driving a taxi to get his own place.
Shawn was soon driving limos and then landed a job at Connecticut Limousine, working long hours, but earning a respectable blue-collar wage and a modest pension. He and his wife raised two kids; they are grandparents now and own a house in Bridgeport.
Shawn drove almost twenty years worth of miles for that company but they went bankrupt and the new owners fired all the employees, rehiring only a handful. Shawn was one of the lucky ones, but his wage was cut in half and his pension dissolved.
Now Shawn works in a liquor store as a sales clerk. He puts in even longer hours, he's on his feet all day, but he never complains. He takes pleasure in his such things as his grandkids and in the off-season acquisitions the Mets made.
Saturday night his wife and two kids threw Shawn a sixtieth surprise birthday party. The look on Shawn's face was priceless. Over a hundred people joined in the celebration. A ten-piece band played late into the night, there was lots of food and drink. Even a contingent of Irish relatives flew in, some had never been off the Emerald Isle. Nobody in that room was there for social or political reasons, they were there because of the genuine love and affection for Shawn. It was an honor and privilege to be part of the celebration.
Happy Birthday Shawn.
February 6, 2005
I can't watch the final ten seconds -- and so here I am on-line writing this. There are no moral victories for losing -- I take no pleasure in it being a lot closer than expected because that interception at the 7 minute mark was awful -- and where was the hurry up offense? They looked punch-drunk at the end -- and yet they still managed that great TD in the last two minutes --
Will Philadelphia ever win a championship?
Probably not in my lifetime.
But it is good news for my new novel -- see entry below for explanation...
Eagles by ten -- you can count on it!
February 5, 2005
There's a lot riding on the Super Bowl for me and it's not just the thirty-five years of waiting for a championship. It's true I have a five-dollar bet with John at the racquet club and I have publicly declared that the Eagles will win by ten, but that's not it either. It's nothing less than the outcome of my new novel that rests in the hands of those players on Sunday.
Chuck Morgan, the novel's protagonist, is a die-hard Eagle fan. When his wife announces that she is leaving at the start of the 2003 season, Chuck still manages to keep an eye on the game. Tampa Bay annihilates the Eagles on the opening Monday night and the Birds go on to have one of the worst September's in their history. It's one of Chuck's worst too. But as the Eagles season turns, so does Chuck's.
Sound like anyone we know? It's true I'm nuts about the Eagles, and my ex-wife did tell me she was leaving on that same day, but this is fiction and I never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
I've developed a narrative that ties Chuck's life to the fortunes of his beloved Eagles. As the Eagles 2003 season turns around, so does Chuck, that is until the Birds blow their third consecutive NFC Championship game. Chuck's life unravels once again at that point too, but things will pick up, as do the Eagles' hopes, with the off-season acquisitions of Jevon Kearse and TO.
Loyalty is a theme I'm developing in this book. Chuck has stuck with a perennial loser his entire life. His wife has no interest in football but knows that the Eagles will lose. When she asks why he doesn't switch his alliance, he says it isn't that easy.
"Sure it is," she tells him.
Years later, after she's gone, he understands why he was willing to stick it out and she wasn't.
And now one game will determine how I end this book. At the moment I'm thinking that an Eagle loss will provide the better story line, but I'm a fan, I can't root against my team. I'm sure I'll come up with something if the Eagles win. But either way, I couldn't have found a better two seasons to parallel. They've contained highs and lows, controversy and drama; it's the perfect narrative backdrop to Chuck's story.
Since most of the prognosticators are predicting a New England blow-out, odds are, I'll be crushed Monday morning, but rest assured, win or lose, I'll be at my desk tweaking story lines, blending real life with the fictional world of Chuck Morgan.
It doesn't get much colder than this...
January 31, 2005
Brrrr….It's been in the single digits each morning this week. And yet during the day the sun streams through the windows creating the illusion that it's warm outside. My cats, ever vigilant, find those sunny spots to soak in the rays. At night, it's just too cold to go out. It's a great time to snuggle up to the fire place with a book, or keep at the writing and recording. And this week I did all three.
I'm reading Bob Dylan's 'Chronicles, Volume I.' The prose is distinctly Dylan, the details unusual, sparse, to the point; and the sentences, they are punchy, rhythmic and poetic. He said this about the artists on Sun Records:
...they were singing for their lives and sounded like they were coming from the most mysterious place on the planet.
And this about the quality of his early work:
…to do it you've got to have the power and dominion over the spirits. I had done it once and once was enough. Someone would come along eventually who would have it again. Someone who could see into things, the truth of things -- not metaphorically, either -- but really see, like seeing into metal and making it melt, see it for what it was and reveal it for what it was with hard words and vicious insight.
Such words can inspire me to write through the night, but sometimes they can keep me away from the computer for days….
This week as temperatures stayed below freezing I wrote. I'm feeling great about the first draft -- no panic attacks all month, but what happens in February is anyone's guess.
And I put more finishing touches on my CD. Am I singing for my life? I'm not sure, so I'm going back to revisit the urgency, making sure there is emotion behind the lyrics.
I had a couple of other sessions in the studio. I recorded a resophonic guitar, a mandolin, and a pedal steel. A spike-haired teenager recorded a demo tape as part of an application to music school, marking my first power-punk recording.
There are lots of writing contests to enter in January. Many I have entered before. I have no idea if I'm throwing away money, but each time I submit, it forces me to write new stories or revise old ones, and that can only be a good thing.
There's one more week until the Super Bowl. It's great to finally have my team in the game but I'm already tired of the hype. Let's just play the damn thing.
I also want to send out get well wishes to a dear friend who was diagnosed with cancer this week. She's a fighter and surrounded by lots of people that love her. The road ahead will not be easy, but I know that she is up to the task. There is no rhyme or reason to why bad things happen to good people, it's just the way it is. My thoughts and prayers go out to her and her family.
And to all, stay warm and be well.
rsw
Over the hump at last! The Eagles are in the Super Bowl, but this Philly fan won't be satisfied until we win the damn thing....
Will my heart be broken yet again?
January 22, 2004
It's the night before the NFC Championship game, the fourth in four years for Eagle fans. I'm optimistic despite the loss of TO, but I have to admit that all season I've tried to quell my enthusiasm, and yet here I am again biting my finger nails. I'm not sure I can take another loss. I've suffered for as long as I can remember with this team, but I like our chances against the Falcons, but I thought we'd beat Tampa Bay and Carolina too.
Perhaps Philadelphia is cursed. It's gone the longest of all the major cities without a sports championship -- the last one was back in '83 -- the 76ers with Dr. J.
Even when the Red Sox were losers, Boston still had the Patriots and the Celtics. The Cubs may take another century to win a World Series, but they had six championships with the Bulls.
Philly is heartbreak city. Last year the Phillies were supposed to win their division -- they were out of it by the all-star game. The Flyers have put a lot of talent on the ice over the past three decades but haven't managed a Stanley Cup since '74. The Sixers came close against LA a few years ago, but since the departure of Larry Brown, they have sunk to new lows.
And if TO hadn't gone down against Dallas, a meaningless game back in early December, the Eagles would have annihilated Atlanta, but it's anyone's ballgame now.
A lot of people think watching sports is a waste of time. They are probably right, but to me it's a season-long narrative. It's a soap opera, it's entertainment, it's a story with annual installments. Besides, what else are men going to talk about?
When I lived in London I often felt disconnected when the conversation fell to football or rugby, or God forbid, cricket. I did my best to understand the games, learn the hot clubs and players, but if it's not in your blood, it's impossible to have the passion, to know the history, to replicate the enthusiasm.
If the Eagles lose, my heart will be broken. I'll claim that I won't watch the super bowl, as I have done the last three seasons, but I will. And I'll swear off watching next year too, but I know come next August, I'll even tune-in the pre-season games, as I have for the past thirty years, and probably for the next thirty too, if I live that long.
E-A-G-L-E-S
Go Eagles.
America didn't notice Nicollete in the Eagles' locker room until Rush Limbaugh made it an issue.
January 17, 2005
The architectural newspaper critic in Ann Rynd's "Fountainhead" manipulated readers into believing the mundane was extraordinary and the remarkable utter crap. That book was written over sixty years ago and yet today our ability to discern fact from hyperbole is just as impaired.
The brouhaha over the Terrell Owens/Nicollette Sheridan locker scene is one such example. This was a non-issue the morning after. Not a single complaint was registered at ABC, the network airing the show. But once Rush Limbaugh made it an issue twenty-four hours later, it became a national story. Fathers came forward admitting that they were shocked and embarrassed in front of their sons.
And yet parents across the country apparently have no problem with kids asking about those erectile dysfunction commercials that run during football games.
How about CNN's misfire on Crossfire last week over the powder-puff interview with Armstrong Williams, the conservative commentator and talk-show host. He was paid $250,000 by the administration to hawk its education programs. CNN's anchors went out of their way to avoid asking anything to make Armstrong sweat.
Back in 2003 when few TV news anchors could get Dick Cheney on the air, the VP granted Williams an interview. In it Cheney lambasted the press for 'cheap shot journalism' in which 'the press portray themselves as objective observers…when they obviously are not…"
Cheney's statement indicates the confidence he has in the public's ability to be duped.
It is heartening to see the outpour of money for Tsunami Relief, but more kids die every week in Africa of AIDS than died in that disaster. Why are we now reaching into our pockets with such generosity? The media is one reason. We are also caught up in the hype of proving to the world that Americans don't just export war. And that's what the Bush administration hopes this outpour of money can do -- warm the hearts of our overseas critics.
America gives more total dollars than any other country, but as a percentage of our wealth, we fall well below other countries. This brief spurt of compassion is nice but we must also find a way to give when those most in need fade from our television screens. As a nation, we can afford it, but the sad fact is, we won't.
It is incumbent on all of us to be aware of the propaganda, the sales pitch, the PR campaign behind much of what we read and see in the news. But we are a reactionary nation and until things get really bad, we will continue to ignore rather than be proactive. Until there's a draft, we won't care about the Iraq war. Until there's another terrorist attack on our soil, we will continue to pretend everything is okay. Until a majority of people fail to have access to health care we won't demand changes in the system. And we won't speak up until the press or a politician oversteps the boundaries of journalism in more dramatic fashion than the Williams affair.
I only hope by then it's not too late.
Trying to untangle the wires in my life...
January 10, 2005
I took the train into New York the other day and saw folks gabbing on cell phones, punching tiny Blackberry keypads, eyeing beepers, swaying to iPods, playing games on a laptop, watching portable DVD players. What happened to reading the paper or catching a few winks?
Ask someone what time it is and they'll reach for their phone first. If I need to get a hold of someone fast, I now require three phone numbers: home, work, and the cell. I leave messages on all three, and I'm never sure how much of the message to leave, and by the time I get to the third, I'm sounding desperate or indifferent. It's a pain in the ass.
I refuse to give out my cell number. I don't want to be tracked down, but the number got out anyway, migrating to other friends, and I'm now have to change it again.
I was with someone the other day who uses a cell all of the time. When it rings, no matter where we are, she reaches for it, checks the caller ID, and maybe thirty percent of the time, answers it. I know that phone is rarely far from her reach and so when I call and she doesn't pick up, I know I'm getting screened. That's an unwanted benefit of technology.
I'm co-producing a CD of Americana music. We've got a song that's a la Jimmie Rodgers, a 50's sort of retro sound. I wanted to add the crackle of old-time vinyl for flavoring, to make it sound as if the track were playing out of an old car AM radio. There's a website where you can download special effects, but I couldn't find a vinyl sound, so I shot an email to the site. The company wrote back: could you specify what you mean? I knew I was dealing with a kid who had never heard the sound of vinyl. I wrote back asking how old he was. The guy responded: I'm twenty-three, but I think I know what it sounds like. He offered a useless suggestion. He had no idea what the crackle of a well-listened LP sounded like.
I'm probably past my expiry date, I'm obsolete, antiquated, but I'm okay with that. I don't have an iPod or a plasma screen or HDTV. But I'm not a Luddite. I once prided myself on being an early adopter. I had a car phone in 1988, a Laserdisc player in 1992, a surround-sound home theater system in 1993, but since I dropped out of the corporate world, the gadgetry around the house has become dated.
I'm out of step with the world, but I love the freedom that it brings. It comes with a price, but it's a cost I'm willing to pay for a little peace of mind, some quiet and solitude.
This is the Munce-man, and he wishes you a Happy New Year, as do I.
January 3, 2005
The New Year is a time to pause and reflect, a time to evaluate what happened through the last twelve months and plan for the time ahead. 2004 was a rough year for many and it got no easier this week with the Tsunami. To see such suffering and then the subsequent heroics of folks providing rescue and aid, it's makes much of what I've been going through seem insignificant.
I did some work with Concern Worldwide this year, an NGO that fights poverty around the world. They have the most remarkable people -- selfless, dedicated, hardworking. They are already on the ground in South East Asia coordinating aid efforts. And as I sit here in the comfort of my home in Westport, Connecticut, I feel awful because I'm not doing anything.
Looking ahead to 2005 I must find a ways to do more for others. But to help them, I must also help myself, and now that my divorce is final, I know where I stand and how much time I have left to keep writing full-time.
I must finish my second novel by the summer and find homes for the short stories I've already written. I haven't given up on the first book either - 'The Sound of Money.' And my CD will be finished in February.
I hit the skids several times in '04, mostly having to do with the divorce. There was one week last year that was as bad as I can remember -- it was a feeling of helplessness, as if my life was speeding down a mountain without any brakes. But I never had to worry because my friends and family were there when I needed them most.
2004 was also the year I made new friends and learned that I was not alone in the struggle to find peace in this wacky universe.
In fact, most of the year was much better than average, and in many respects, it was the best year of my life. Yoga and meditation kept me focused. It provided strength, balance and a calmness I had never experienced. I also lost twenty pounds and I'm in the best shape of my life.
I also had my first short story published in an anthology. It was a small press out of Calgary, but still, it was a start. I was also awarded a scholarship based on another short story, from the prestigious Squaw Valley Community of Writers.
The music has also come a long way. I've received lots of solid reviews from the folks who have heard the demos of the CD "I Am Not My Job". When Rachel Z was at the studio a few weeks ago, she couldn't believe how far the tracks have progressed since she'd been on tour with Peter Gabriel.
2005 is only limited by my imagination and the faith I have in myself. As long as I have the courage to ignore the social pressures of keeping up with the neighbor's conspicuous consumption, or the fabulous promotions of people I once went to school with; as long as I stay focused on what's truly in my heart and not what society expects or tells me I should be doing, then I cannot fail. Everything else will take care of itself.
Rachel Z made a pre-Xmas appearance at ATG Studios this week to put the finishing touches on my CD.
December 20, 2004
Have a happy holiday season. The Weekly Journal will be back first week of the new year.
RSW
At some point you have to pull your story out of the feedback loop...
December 13, 2004
Feedback is an essential part of any writer's process. In the case of emerging writers, it might be the most critical. But it can also be the most detrimental if you get trapped in a feedback loop, a place where you rewrite until the story is ruined. Killing your darlings, those parts that you love even though they add nothing to the story, is one thing, using a machete on the guts of the story is another.
It takes time to learn how to incorporate feedback and yet it's a topic not often discussed at workshops. I'm grateful to anyone that takes the time to read my stories, but I now choose readers more carefully. For example, I don't give short stories to those that only read novels. A literary lover is not a good person for a genre piece.
I use the Olympic figure skating approach to feedback -- I toss out the high and low scores. Anyone that says the story is perfect is no longer a reader. Those that can't articulate why they don't like a character or a specific scene are also out. And the most important lesson I've learned: great writers are not necessarily great at critiquing.
No matter who gives me feedback, I never take on board everything they say. If twenty-five percent of a critique is spot-on, that's a great batting percentage. The art, or course, is in figuring out which twenty-five to keep.
Comments from professional writers and editors have more merit, but not always. Once again, knowing the tastes of those providing the feedback is helpful. I've been working with an editor for several years and I trust her judgment. She's worked on a number of highly acclaimed books, but I still don't take on all of her comments. And yet it's my ability to incorporate the essential ones that makes our partnership work. I must stay open to other possibilities, to be willing to try a different approach, even when I've spent a lot of time in what my editor thinks is the wrong direction.
Recently I received detailed comments on a short story from an editor at a major magazine. I was thrilled at the attention and honored that this person would take the time to provide such feedback to an emerging writer. If I made these changes, I had a great shot at publication. But I didn't agree with most of the comments. I ran them by my editor and she supported my decision. Tempting as it was, I didn't make the changes. But that doesn't mean I won't in the future. I will continue to send that story out and if I hear similar comments from others, I'll reconsider.
When I was at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers conference last summer, one of the faculty reviewed that story. He also disagreed with the magazine's comments,
however, there were other aspects of the story, things that hadn't bothered that magazine or my editor, that he thought needed changing. That story was caught in a feedback loop and I had to break the chain, otherwise I would have edited it to death.
When the gatekeepers of the industry reject a story over fifty times, it is hard not to think that there is a problem. Perhaps the greatest hurdle for me is to find the strength to persevere in the face of this rejection, to stay open to other possibilities without wavering from the emotional truths that drove me to write the piece in the first place. It is in this struggle that my best writing emerges.
It's time to come out from underneath the covers...
December 6, 2004
Endings are the toughest to get right in a short story, they aren't much easier in real life either.
Last week my divorce finally came through, but it wasn't pretty. Due to an acrimonious separation, I wasn't able to say much about it over the past year in case her legal defense was reading my entries.
What was said here could have been used against me.
Having a personal situation censor me was awkward, but writers are often confronted with such dilemmas. Many choose to wait until family members die before tackling subjects too close to home for fear of the backlash.
Anne Lamont said at a workshop that she had no problem spilling family secrets. She did admit, however, that those she wrote about got upset, but those she had left out were even more ticked off.
Last week my wife and I were scheduled to go in front of a judge to approve what was an uncontested settlement. I hadn't seen her in fifteen months and I was hoping that we could get the proceedings over fast and then have lunch. She swooped into the court room, gave me a frosty hug and said, "I want more money."
The afternoon spiraled from there.
I had the option of a trial, but that would have prolonged the festivities for several more months and I couldn't face that, and ultimately I was at a disadvantage for reasons that still confound me. You'll be able to read a fictionalized version of the past year or so in my new novel tentatively called: My Year as a Clown.
People will wonder what is true and what I made up or what was just exaggerated. My response will be - it doesn't matter. It's all true and it's all made up, it makes no difference. As long as I stay honest to the emotional truths behind what I've experienced, the facts are irrelevant.
And so last week when it was all said and done, we walked out into the hallway and shook hands: me, my ex-wife, the two lawyers. I'd left my jacket in the courtroom so I went back to get it. The court reporter was clearing off her desk. She was an older woman, with deep lines etched into her face, saggy skin around chin and eyes, shoulders hunched over as if worn from listening to decades of divorce tales. I wondered how she stands to work in a place like this. And so I asked, "Isn't it sad to bear witness to all of these break-ups?"
She placed a Danielle Steele novel into her pocket book and smiled. "Not at all. This is a new beginning for both of you, a second chance. It's a day to celebrate."
I thanked her and walked out of that courtroom with my jacket draped across my shoulder. I was already standing taller, breathing easier.
It's time to come clean...
November 29, 2004
This week I'm coming clean on my ignorance of contemporary poetry. My knowledge is so poor that when the "The New York Times" ran a Poetry Symposium in the book section I didn't recognize a single poet -- not one of the eight prominent poets interviewed or one of the many that each mentioned as noteworthy.
I did recognize the critic Harold Bloom, but if he walked down the street I wouldn't have a clue.
As a writer I know this is pathetic and I take full responsibility for my ignorance. But poets are hardly household names in blue or red states, and I doubt one in a thousand Americans could name the current Poet Laureate -- can you?
It's Ted Kooser of Iowa.
I only know that because I looked it up on the Internet, but next week I'm heading to the library to get 'Delights and Shadows,' his most recent collection.
I love use of language but I'm not big on a message buried amongst verse that only a handful will understand due to arcane references and other knowledge few possess. Even the verse that appears in the 'New Yorker' doesn't knock me out, but maybe I'm too thick or perhaps my baggage keeps me from giving it a fair shot.
I'm not big on exclusive clubs of any kind, let alone intellectual sorts. Those that are familiar with my writing know that I keep things simple and to the point. I rarely use big words, mostly because I don't know any.
Perhaps impenetrable verse has kept me from embracing poetry. I'm not a lazy reader, but I don't want to have to read something ten times, and then go spend an hour on the Internet looking up Shakespearean references to get the poet's intent.
That's not to say having references to the Bible or mythology is a bad thing, in fact, drawing from such sources often produces the best writing, but I prefer to be able to take away something without having a prerequisite reading list. The joy of discovering new meaning from repeated readings comes first from getting something out of an initial read, otherwise, why bother with a second look?
I want to enjoy poetry, not work at it because it's something I should be doing. So I'll start with Kooser and work my way through a number of suggestions that came out of the symposium. I'll let you know how I made out early next year.
The sound of country -- the pedal steel, as played by John Widgren, local virtuoso and nice guy to boot...
November 22, 2004
This week I put the finishing touches on the song "Zen Cowboy." The initial idea came during a Jimmie Dale Gilmore workshop at Esalen in Big Sur, California, back in 2000. If there is a heaven on earth, Esalen is probably it. I can't think of better place to visit and I actually lived in Big Sur back in 1978!
Jimmie Dale hails from Lubbock, Texas, and some call him the Zen Cowboy. And so the first pass at this song was about Jimmie's influence on my life and music. I tinkered with the lyrics for a year, shifting from Jimmie the mentor to a more universal search for spiritual salvation.
I've played this song for a number of years and audiences like it, but at a Folk Alliance showcase we did upset a few people. The Folk Alliance is an annual gathering of musicians and venue owners. It's an opportunity to get exposure and develop contacts. It's a lot of fun, but it can be intimidating because the ratio of bands to bookers is about five to one. The guy running the sound had a heart attack when he saw Gerry haul a Fender Stratocaster and amp on stage. You would have thought it was 1964 all over again. And so even though we were one of the best bands on the stage that afternoon, we were shunned by those running the show.
But I never lost faith in the song and I sorted out the basic recording tracks this summer. The vocals went down last month and this week I brought in John Widgren to play pedal steel and dobro. John's done a lot of session work in Manhattan and frequently performs on Broadway. He did a great job and I'm amazed at how his parts ground the song. I tried a banjo, but it was too Appalachian. I also considered organ, even a sitar at one point, but the pedal steel turned out to be the perfect instrument because it evokes both a classic country texture and an orchestral church sound, providing both the cowboy and Zen feel I was looking for.
Enough with the talk -- why not listen for yourself -- just click below for a lo- fi version of the song. The high quality version will appear on my CD in the New Year!
Have a great Thanksgiving -- I have a lot to be thankful for, and I do appreciate you stopping by...
Zen Cowboy
Texas ain’t just a piece of land
It’s a state of mind
Chaparral, the Rio Grande
Lonesome scrub top pine
I want to feel the lone star prairie wind
And find the trail that leads deep within
I wanna be a Zen Cowboy
I wanna round up my fears
I wanna be a Zen Cowboy
And roam about the spiritual frontier
A mesquite fire, the cattle run
Rope burns on my hand
I feel like a smoking gun
I'm a man who's lost his homeland
Drifting with the tumbleweeds
I’ve become a new age refugee
I wanna be a Zen Cowboy
I wanna round up my fears
I wanna be a Zen Cowboy
And roam about the spiritual frontier
Bridge
I wander into a valley
As a dust storm kicks up
Day turns to night
And in the dark I find inner-light
Now I’m a Zen Cowboy
And I’ve rounded up my fears
Now I’m a Zen Cowboy
Roaming about the spiritual frontier
Winter has returned -- the view from my writing desk Saturday morning, November 13, 2004.
November 15, 2004
As an emerging writer I have empathy for the five nominees for this year's National Book Award. In the glare of the spotlight of a national stage, a debate rages on as to the worthiness of these finalists. To get something published today seems impossible from where I sit, and yet they broke through, barely -- the five books having a combined sales of fewer than seven thousand units. And yet they managed to catch the attention of Rick Moody's committee. But it is their lack of sales and notoriety that has caused the concerns.
New writers carry enough angst and doubt on their backs as it is. To receive vindication for effort by simply getting published is an accomplishment, to be nominated for such a prestigious award, a dream come true; but to be harassed about the worthiness of their new found status, to be compared to such greats as T.C. Boyle and Philip Roth, it's enough to never want to pick up the pencil again.
Oscar Wilde once said there was only one thing in the world worse than to be talked about, and that was not being talked about. These women can spin this opportunity to their advantage, but I still feel sorry for them. How excited to be nominated, only to be horrified at the scuttlebutt that now fills the arts sections of newspapers and internet sites.
The air is thin in the lofty heights of awards and recognition, the glare blinding. I am just trying to get the publishing industry to see merit in my work, let alone attract enough attention to bag an award. The vicarious nature of such things makes the desire to attain them foolhardy. When I see what happened to this batch of nominees, I wonder if it's best to fly under the radar. But I understand the merit of such things. Awards sell books and I am certainly not against that, but I know that validation in what I do, does not come from such things.
This attitude doesn't make it any easier as I wallow in the hinterlands of obscurity. And yet as an unknown artist I have no deadline or expectations from the outside world. The impetus for my writing comes solely from within. I have no audience, editor or publisher that I must satisfy. I am safe and secure within this bubble of anonymity and it is from this place that I can discover truth unimpeded. It is a luxury and an opportunity I must not squander because once success arrives, the pressure to produce, to succumb to critics, editors and publishers grows. Regardless of how many people buy my books, or how many awards I win, I must preserve that feeling of being in a protective sphere, because it is within the safety of this place that I can always find what sets me apart from all the other writers, past and present, myself. And as long as I stay true to that, everything else will find its place.
And so I hope Sarah, Lily, Kate, Christine and Joan, this year's award nominees, do not let this current brouhaha affect their latest writing projects. Remain calm within your bubble and remember -- to thine own self stay true.
Campaign poster circa 1988 -- that was the last time I got involved in an election.
November 8, 2004
Back in June I considered volunteering for the local Democrat that was challenging the incumbent Republican for Congress. Christopher Shays had held the seat since '87 and Democrats hadn't won in the district since '64. It was an uphill battle, but Diane Farrell, the Westport Selectwoman (that's Connecticut-speak for mayor), was the challenger. She was bright, articulate and effective in the four years she'd held office.
Back in 1988 I was an associates fellow at Harvard University and a researcher for the Dukakis campaign. It was a fascinating experience and if he had won, I would have gone to Washington, but in politics the spoils goes to the victor and the losers get zilch. I haven't done much politically since.
Shays was a moderate, he supported a woman's right to choose, but that's about all I knew. And so before I made that call to Farrell campaign headquarters I looked into Shay's background and discovered that the Sierra Club considered him to have one of the best environmental voting records of all Republicans. Animal rights organizations said Shay's was solid, even the New York Times supported him.
That's not to say Farrell didn't have talent or something to offer the constituents. But a challenger to a long-standing incumbent has few options except to tear apart Shay's record and so Farrell's campaign set-out to find inconsistencies to prove that Shay's wasn't the moderate that he claimed to be. It was a sound strategy and to Farrell's credit, she found enough to make the race close. And there's the rub and the reason why I never made the call to her headquarters. Instead of talking about Iraq, transportation, or education in a way that clarified what Farrell would do if elected, she often attacked Shay's record by cherry-picking isolated facts or statistics to support her argument. She had good ideas and programs but was short on specifics or at least on how to finance these proposals.
President Bush congratulated John Kerry on running a spirited campaign. Not spirited enough. Nor was Diane Farrell's, and yet she had more success then Shay's other challengers. But for all the mud she slung, for all the distortions and exaggerations, she hadn't gone far enough, and that's why she failed. To win, Farrell needed more spirit -- more dirt, more attacks, more negativity.
What example does this set for the average citizen? When neighbors have to deal with a tree that crosses property lines or when a couple faces divorce -- is the Karl Rove method of persuasion the method to adopt?
Winston Churchill said that democracy was the worst government in the world, except for all the others. He was right.
I won't be moving to Canada anytime soon, although web immigration inquiries have doubled since the election. No, I'm fine here in the good ole US of A. As long as the Patriot Act allows me to voice my opinion unencumbered, as long as we don't invade Iran or North Korea in the near future, as long as a woman still has a choice, I'll continue to hang my hat here in Westport, Connecticut. But I don't see myself getting back into politics anytime soon. I'll find other ways to get involved in the community.
The Elman Football Club celebrating a victory in Zanzibar.
November 1, 2004
Somalia is an example of what happens when a country fails to transfer governance in a smooth, orderly fashion -- they've had thirteen years of civil war. And yet a group of remarkable young men showed the people of Somalia possibilities through sport that the politicians and warlords could not.
And so let's not take for granted one of the reasons the United States is special - the transition of power. Regardless of who wins the presidency, we must come together as a country and move forward. We can all play a role this week by voting!
Here's the opening to the Somalia article that I completed last week:
The Somali soccer champions, Elman FC, are only thirty kilometers from Mogadishu, their home base, when they come upon the first checkpoint. Their bus and the team Land Rover pull up behind sixty or so dusty vehicles stretched across the bridge leading into Balcad, a town of twenty thousand in southern Somalia. On the other side of the river are two Toyota pick-up trucks with machine guns mounted in the beds. The line inches forward.
In the back of the bus, Aweys Winkey, a twenty-three year old striker, is heading a ball with the player next to him. As they approach the checkpoint, Aweys looks out at the brown expanse of countryside and says, "Why is there fighting when the land is so much more than us?"
Kids with AK-47s stand in front of a large utility pole blocking the road. The bus quiets as one of them approaches. Qaasim Hammaro, the driver, slides open the window. A teenager barely tall enough to see into the bus demands four-hundred-thousand Somali Shillings (roughly twenty US dollars).
Qaasim explains that he is carrying the famous Elman squad on the country's first soccer tour since the outbreak of civil war in '91. "It has all been arranged with the town elders," he says. "This is our first stop. Surely you have been told."
The barrel of the AK-47 now rests on the base of the open window. "Four-hundred thousand," the kid says again.
Haji Abdulle, one of the team chaperones, is sitting behind Qaasim, watching. At sixty-three, he has already outlived the average Somali by fifteen years. Before the war he was a member of the regional Olympic committee. Now Haji rises from his seat, exiting the bus slowly, his weathered hands held high so the guards can clearly see them. He steps toward the child soldier. "Look at this," he says, handing over a photo he has brought for just such an occasion. "It is of your leader."
In the pre-war photo, Muse Sudi, the powerful warlord of the Abgaal clan, is presenting a trophy to the Olympic team.
"That's me," Haji says, pointing to a much younger version of himself next to the warlord, who controls much of the area around Balcad.
The boy grabs the faded photo and returns to the contingent of guards. They argue, light fresh cigarettes. The kid who appears to be in charge shouts. He is chewing qat, a popular leafy narcotic, and a trail of greenish splotches marks the hard clay around him.
The boy hands the photo back to Haji. Dust rises from the road as the other guards watch from a distance. Suddenly the boy says, "Away."
Haji hustles back to the bus, and Qaasim fires up the ignition.
After the collapse of Siad Barre’s regime in 1991, Somalia fractured into clan-based fiefdoms run by warlords. The so-called 1993 humanitarian mission of the US and UN culminated in the Black Hawk Down incident that left eighteen Americans dead, seventy-three wounded, and estimates of over a thousand Somali casualties. The subsequent US and UN troop withdrawal allowed conditions to deteriorate further despite local efforts to reestablish a government. By 2003, clan antagonisms and territorial borders like the one in Balcad made travel within Somalia difficult and treacherous, and yet in the summer of that year Elman FC set out to play soccer across the country as a way to promote peace.
Why would God only bless America? Because you can pray here without leaving the car.
October 25, 2004
A thin line divides our comfy lives from chaos, but until there's a breach in the barrier, it doesn't seem possible that our bubble can burst. The folks in Florida know how close we came -- four hurricanes, evacuations, gasoline shortages, no electricity or ice. If one of those storms had turned into a category-five belting out one-hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour winds, the state would still be down for the count, but fortunately that wasn't the case and most Floridians are back on their feet.
What if the election is too close to call and misdeeds, intimidation, and incompetence are rumored? Will the line that holds back chaos hold? Are we at the brink of America's second civil war?
Out of the unifying energy that brought most of us together after 9/11, came an undertow of patriotic fervor reminiscent of the Nazis circa 1930's. The burning of mosques, the limits on freedom of speech, the banning of books, the firing of Bill Maher, the blacklisting of the Dixie Chicks. Now the election divides the nation.
"The New York Times" has already written about polling problems. Both sides already accuse the other of foul play in the swing states. This isn't Afghanistan or Iraq, it's Toledo and Saratoga. How is this possible?
And yet in the age of information overload enhanced by brightly colored graphics that dance across the television, I feel less informed than ever. We will never know what really takes place at the polls because we can't get agreement on basic facts. Take the environment -- is George Bush the worst environmental president in the last hundred years as Senator Kerry has said, or is this an eco-friendly administration as the President claims? Have our rights been curtailed through the Patriot Act? Are drugs from Canada really dangerous? What went wrong with that flu vaccine?
On the surface it appears as if more people are interested in the Yankees and Red Sox than the election. But voter registration is up and a record turnout is predicted. So why aren't we talking about the election? Because we are divided.
If we have polling problems, a domestic terror attack, or reinstitute the draft, Fairfield county could quickly turn into the Hatfield's and the McCoy's. The biggest challenge to whomever ultimately wins this election will not be Iraq or the economy, it will be unifying the country. Let's hope the next president is up to the task.
In the meantime we will watch the world series this week, dress up our kids in Halloween costumes, and tune into another episode of Desperate Housewives. May that thin line hold.
-------------
Someone just sent this in as a response to my blog. He makes a good point, but many people might not be as web savvy as this person, still:
Just looked at your web update. It's really not hard to find out the facts on who's telling the truth on things like the evironment, imported drugs from Canada etc. You can find out in 15 minutes if you look on the web, taking into account the sources and bias etc. Too many people complain that they never get the 'facts' when you just have to spend a few minutes looking and analyzing.
And so I've included some of the links that he sent: two on drugs and two on the environment.
Vote for Change changed nothing at the Meadowlands last week.
October 18, 2004
When a friend called saying he had an extra ticket for the Springsteen Vote for Change concert at the Meadowlands last week, I jumped on it. But when he told me it was Wednesday night, the same evening as the final debate, I was surprised. It didn't make sense. I'm sure scheduling and logistics made it impossible to avoid conflicts during the initial run of shows, but the Meadowlands was added after the debate dates had been announced. Wouldn't a conflict make the show a no-go? Wasn't the point to engage the electorate, to get people involved in the political process, to convince the undecided that change was necessary? Wasn't watching the debate an essential part of that?
Perhaps that's why God invented TIVO. And so I rationalized my decision to go by time-shifting the debate because this was a one off event, a chance to hear great music and get energized by a stadium filled with politically active people. At least I got the music.
Bruce spoke eloquently on a number of occasions, the highlight being his sermon during "Mary's Place." And during breaks, replays of the interviews of the artists talking about Vote for Change played on the video screens, but it hardly felt like a political rally. No one was watching those screens, and I only knew what those artists were saying because I had already seen the Sundance special.
Most people were more interested in knowing the score of the Yankee game than what was going on with the debate. Throughout the night, in the bathroom, in the corridors, even between songs in the seats, people were on cell phones getting score updates.
I grew disillusioned with Bruce at the height of his fame back in 1984. I'd been a fan since the first album and many of the people that jumped on the bandwagon during that Born in the USA tour were just like Ronald Reagan, they didn't get what Bruce was singing about, and many of those people were at the concert.
Vote for Change was still a great idea. The artists got media attention and it sparked discussion, but until this war on terrorism hits closer to home, efforts like Vote for Change will fall short.
Here in Fairfield County the war is distant despite the fact that many families were directly affected by 9/11. The high price of gasoline is hardly felt. There are more Hummers and Escalades on the road than ever, and on every street there's a house getting an addition or a new kitchen or a twenty-thousand-dollar stone fence.
Bruce Springsteen did his best last week, but I'm afraid more people will be talking about the Yankees / Red Sox this week than health care or social security. That's too bad for all of us.
Gas prices at the pump are skyrocketing, so are oil company profits, and yet the Democrats have failed to mention this at the first three debates.
October 11, 2004
Leave it to the United Nations and the US to use the one ink in the world that washes away easily.
Democracy certainly has its challenges. Winston Churchill said it was the worst form of government, except for all the others. This year's campaign certainly supports Churchill's thesis. Can you believe any of the ads on TV or the post spin debate by party faithful? Apparently there are more polling problems in Florida. If we can't get it right in the Sunshine Stare in '04, is it surprising that the fifteen challengers to Karzai have cried foul in Kabul?
I don't know why anyone would want to be president -- the next four years are going to be miserable, no matter who is in power.
And it certainly seems as if there are more terrorist attacks going on around the world now than ever before. If president Bush is correct in saying we killed 75% of Al-Queda -- that must mean that the remaining 25% are super terrorists, because they sure have been busy.
Okay, so nothing has happened here since 9/11, but no policy or amount of funding can stop a suicide bomber.
We will never win the war on terror until we eliminate the conditions that make people believe dying has more value than living, but neither candidate has said this or has a plan to deal with it. Neither candidate can discuss this because it is perceived as being unpatriotic. I guess bringing up Abu Ghraib is just as toxic to a campaign, since neither one has mentioned that either.
And how about the price of gasoline? It cost me over forty dollars to fill the tank today, forty bucks! But the oil companies aren't suffering; in fact, they are raking in the profits. I looked up some stock prices in the paper today, here's what I found:
Exxon Mobile's is up 21.6% year to date. Amerada Hess up over 12%; but the Dow is down 3.8 so far this year. Oil companies are passing on the OPEC increases and making additional profit at time when the average Joe is making sacrifices.
Economists say oil companies have to make money to continue research and development, that putting additional tax burdens on them will make them uncompetitive in an international environment, that it would be a matter of national security to not have a domestic oil industry that is competitive.
But in the 1970s we said we wouldn't be held hostage by the Middle East over gas anymore. Fuel efficient cars were mandated by Congress, alternative fuel research began in earnest. In the 1990s we forgot all about that. SUVs proliferated, mass transit got side-tracked, alternative fuels continued to stay alternative, even the speed limit was raised. If we had kept the course to reduce oil dependence how different things might be today.
We can't do anything about that anymore, but there's still time to do something about this election. This week the Yankees and Red Sox will also do battle. It's going to be a great series, but more American soldiers will be killed this week. And rest assured, somewhere in the world a terrorist will strike. Mussina versus Shilling is a compelling match-up, but it has nothing on Bush - Kerry, let's not lose sight of what's most important this week.
CD liner note design challenge -- can you read it?
October 4, 2004
This week I finished the lead vocals. That's a big deal because it's taken a long time to get used to my voice. I often get compliments now, but I'm still suspicious. For so long I hated my tone. I also had pitch problems. It was odd because what I heard in my head was always different from what came out of my mouth.
When I discussed this with Sloan Wainwright, she said, "Until you love your voice, nobody else can. You must embrace it, flaws and all."
She was right.
And that's the big reason I haven't released a CD. The music has always been solid; in fact the musicianship was so strong, the songs sounded better with out the vocal -- not anymore. Hard work does pay off.
Sometimes I listen to these tracks and forget that it's me singing -- that's a great sign!
And so the tough part is behind me and now it's about mixing and adding a few missing components; and of course sorting out the art work.
I've been looking at liner notes for the past few weeks and discovered I couldn't read most of them. I don't need glasses, but my ability to read small type has diminished. Normal book type or newspaper prints is fine, but ingredients, forget it, and sadly, most CD liner notes are out. What a drag, I used to love reading that stuff.
And so I'm torn as to what to include in my CD. Part of the issue is cost -- a bigger booklet costs more, but even a page per song results in small print. The only exception is Fallen Far, my most sparse lyric. I've posted one idea for that lyric a top this essay -- what do you think?
Most of the other lyrics will have to be posted on the site in a special section.
I also wrote an essay, but even that's too long -- it will be edited to fit a type people can read.
It's so great to near the finish line. I hope that it will be as enjoyable for you to hear.
In a few weeks my short story "Coming Home" will appear in an anthology. To listen to the companion song, click below to be taken to the page where it can be downloaded for free.
When a house gets built, the foundation and walls go up quickly, but then it takes months and months to sort out the details -- the little things that don't seem much on their own, but add up to time and money. It's the same for completing a CD. It's only taken six years to finish my first one, and it seems as if the last bits are taking the longest.
I'm working on an essay that will explain why it took so long, so I won't go into that here; suffice it to say that I'm glad that I didn't rush and the end result should be worth the wait. At least that's the theory.
This week I worked on the art work.
I had ventured down several dead ends before coming up with a concept. I had a lot of help from my friend, Jayson Byrd, who took this photograph. Miggs, the graphic artist, added the graffiti and concrete work using Photoshop.
This is the black and white version -- in the actual cover the graffiti is in color. This makes the title jump out, creating a strong contrast amongst all that wonderful Wall Street grey.
In the meantime, I've been in the studio adding vocals, tweaking mixes, and identifying what still needs to be done. My goal is to have the CD completed by the end of October; but a lot of things have to come together, including getting several musicians and singers back in the studio.
At least the CD is to a point where I can listen to the twelve songs and start to play around with an order. In the old days, sequence was so important, and of course there was the A and B sides to consider. How you opened and ended each side was a big deal -- not anymore. Most people track hop, and with the ipod, who knows if a person is even in possession of all the songs.
But as an artist, you still can't ignore sequence, and besides, most of my target audience will find my music the old fashioned way. Of course many of the songs are tied to short stories, and so some people will come across the story first, and then discover a song.
In fact, next month the short story "Coming Home" will appear in an anthology, and I'm hoping those that buy the book will come to this site to listen to the companion song. With any luck, they'll like what they hear, and when the CD is ready, maybe they'll want that too.
That's the idea anyway.
But first I've got to finish it. So I'm signing off and heading back to the studio.
Thanks for reading…
The Kripalu early evening sky. The perfect place for a writer to finish Aristotle's 'Poetics.'
September 20, 2004
Last week I drove a friend up to Kripalu, a yoga institute in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. She was attending a ten-day Thai yoga course and I hung out that first afternoon. I took a yoga class, then had dinner outside, enjoying the rolling hills, the cool evening, and the turn of color in the leaves. The atmosphere was so inviting that I volunteered to pick her up when the course finished as an excuse to spend the weekend on what they call R n R -- retreat and renewal.
R n R included several programs, but I only took the yoga and used the rest of the time to read, walk, and enjoy the sauna. I had two months of New Yorkers to catch up on, and Aristotle's 'Poetics' to finish. I had started that book several times never getting past page three -- this weekend I was determined to get through it.
Perhaps it was the meditation or the organic vegetarian food that helped me finish 'Poetics.' Yes, there were tedious parts filled with archaic references to classic authors I should have recognized, but there was no denying the beauty of Aristotle's logic.
Tom Jenks, editor of 'Narrative Magazine,' had recommended the book after a conversation we'd had about my trouble finding endings for short stories.
In it, Aristotle had said:
An end is that which naturally comes after something else, either as it's necessary sequel or as its usual (and hence probable) sequel, but itself has nothing after it.
You have to admire the explanation's simplicity -- much of the book is like this, but the difficulty is recognizing when there is nothing else to come. I often rewrite endings twenty or thirty times and even then, I'm not always certain.
I also found this interesting in 'Poetics:'
…it is significant that beginning authors are able to attain proficiency in language and character portrayal sooner than in plot construction.
This was surprising because many writing workshops treat plot as a 'four-letter' word - haven't they read Aristotle? Plot driven means: commercial, genre, low-brow, not serious. Remember the groans over Stephen King's national book award last year?
And yet I wasn't surprised by Aristotle's observations because I discovered the same thing through my writing -- I wrestle with plot every day, and so I took comfort in his words, realizing that my writing journey covered the same terrain writers have traveled for thousands of years. To summit, everyone faces the same upward trudge.
Sunday I was awake at six AM. I took a sauna and did yoga in the Lake View Room. A flock of Canadian geese with wings expanded, descended from the morning sky as our small yoga group began warm-up breathing excercises.
After breakfast I wrote for several hours in the Sun Room. The view was beautiful despite a sky full of clouds. The lake was grey and sleepy, tucked in amongst waves of hills.
My friend was somewhere in the building receiving her Thai yoga certification. I saw her briefly that morning. She looked radiant, transformed by ten days on this sacred ground. I had only been at Kripalu a day and a half, and I was already feeling a renewed energy.
I was alone, writing with pencil and paper. After so much time at the computer, it was a joy to hear the scratch of a sharpened number two in a notebook; but soon my hand cramped. Maybe there was a yoga remedy for fingers.
I shut my eyes and held my hands in prayer position, placing them over my heart. I bent the wrists back and forth; the stretch felt good.
A cool autumn wind blew through the open window and the distant squawk of geese echoed across the Berkshire Hills. The cramp in my hand eased. I reached for the pencil.
Now that I've finished 'Poetics,' I can say with confidence that this is the point where there is nothing after it….
Not much came out of the tap this week.
September 13, 2004
As a writer, when things aren't working, I have to be patient. And so as my creative drought continues, I don't panic. Instead, I write in my journal. I relax.
I saw a movie, hung out with some friends; I read the paper. It's tough to fret about a creative dry spell when the world is falling apart. At least the misery provided perspective.
Last week even my mom got in on the act when she tried to outrun a hurricane. In the end, she said screw it, and drove through two hours of fifty plus mph wind and torrential rain; then on route 95, she ran into the million other Floridians trying the same end around the storm. The two hour drive from Jacksonville took six.
Home sweet home had soured, but it could have been worse, at least their apartment was standing, and even more remarkable, dry. But they had no electricity and the food had turned in the frig.
Two days later, life as they had once known, returned.
That line between normalcy and chaos is much thinner than we think.
The authorities had told residents to evacuate, but they couldn't advise which direction to head. Those that waited for more information discovered that the knowledge was useless because there was no gasoline left to get out of town. Thank God Frances didn't hit with 150 mph winds.
The post hurricane job by the government was much better. Considering the damage, electricity got up fast because crews worked around the clock cleaning debris.
Jupiter, Florida, was particularly hit hard. According to 'The New York Times,' "Banyan, oaks, and pines littered driveways; coco plum hedges were shredded." The article also stated that only essential personnel were allowed on the island, tree and garden crews had high priority.
"Look at those flower beds," one woman probably said, weeping. "Do you know how much I paid for those azaleas? It'll take weeks to get those replaced."
Some economists will tell you that the country is fortunate that Jupiter's residents have the money to replant. How else will the Mexicans afford new clothes at Wal Mart?
The line holding back chaos gets thinner every day.
Also in 'The Times' this week: Dick Cheney tells America what will happen if Kerry is elected.
Truth and lies, fact and fiction -- in this age of instant access, 24/7 news and information, I know less -- can somebody explain?
We will never uncover the truth about Bush and Kerry's activities during the Vietnam War because no matter what evidence is produced, the other side will counter with something that will cast doubt.
Today facts are irrelevant, it's all about impression -- hit hard and often and you will leave an imprint -- now that Clinton's dream team has joined Kerry, the democrats should catch up with what to date, has been an effective republican campaign.
Virtually everyday there's a terrorist attack somewhere. For these people, death is preferable to life, and as long as conditions exist to create such attitudes, no politician can assure our safety. No policy, or amount of money spent on defense is fool proof and for anyone to believe otherwise, is just dumb.
"But as long as it not here," many Americans think, "who really cares?"
It's easy for me to point the finger, but I've done nothing to change things. This week while women were blowing themselves up in Russia for the Chechen cause, I was fretting over my creative drought.
And yet that bubble around this country could burst at anytime.
Last night I saw the lights climb out of ground zero, twin shafts shooting upward into the heavens. It happened once, it will happen again.
We can't stop it, but that doesn't mean things are hopeless. We could start by showing the rest of the world how democracy is supposed to work.
We could demand that both parties stop the bull and start talking about what they will do to sort out Iraq, the Palestinian issue, the debt, global warming.
We could make sure absentee ballots are handled properly -- what example do we set to others when we can't get that right?
Instead of talking about the football games this weekend, or the status of the kitchen remodel, we could discuss the election. Couldn't we do more about global warming? Shouldn't the United Nations do something about the Sudan?
If all of us just had one conversation this week about real issues, maybe Bush and Kerry would take notice.
Regardless of what progress I make this week on my new novel, I'm going to start talking about this election, especially with those that disagree with my views. Only through dialogue will we find common ground. No matter who wins come November, neither side is going to have an overwhelming mandate. It's going to take both parties working together to sort out the challenges.
Can we really afford to wait?
For inspiration I look no further than my two cats -- Cleo and the Munce Man
Sept 6, 2004
It's a holiday week for lots of people, but for me it's business as usual. That's the downside of standing while everyone else sits. I'm not complaining -- it's great having a flexible schedule. I certainly don't miss rush hour traffic and who wouldn't love the option of catching a movie during the week.
But I do miss the longing for the upcoming three day-weekend, or savoring the luxury of doing nothing over a holiday; even the communal misery of having to get up early on a Monday has a certain luster when you're alone at the computer at the beginning of the week. It's hard to believe that I miss swapping drinking stories at the coffee station, but I do.
That's the downside of turning a hobby into a profession.
And yet most weekend golfers envy the pros -- to hit a golf ball everyday -- what a life! But when you have to hit them every day, including holidays, suddenly golf isn't as fun.
And so it goes with writing.
And yet people often ask what it's like not to work. At first I was insulted by the remark. But a golfer can't explain that it takes discipline, focus, and long hours of practice to be a professional, it sounds like he is whining. Besides, playing golf for a living beats the hell out of most jobs.
So I realize that I am fortunate, even blessed.
But this week was a struggle. Sometimes there's nothing and that's how it was this week.
I had high hopes on Monday. This summer I had developed the idea for a new novel and now it was time to start writing scenes. I set a goal of ten pages a day -- rough draft sort of stuff, but ten pages nonetheless -- and so I sat each day, and the net result was a half page of garbage -- the kind that really stinks.
In the old days I would have panicked. Instead I paid some bills and remixed a couple of songs for a client. I watered the plants, vacuumed, even trimmed the hedges. And tonight I might go to the movies.
Sometimes you just have to refuel and so I'm disconnecting now to plug into that magic creative recharger. See you next week.
The Elman Football Club in Zanzibar.
August 30, 2004
After all the excitement last week at Squaw, it was difficult getting back to a routine. I missed the camaraderie, the give and take, the banter. Now I'm back at my desk, it's quiet, the screen is blank.
But there's nothing like a deadline to snap you out of the doldrums. I made several good contacts at Squaw and I needed to get stories out before I was forgotten -- and so I worked around the clock to fix the two pieces I had work-shopped at the conference.
They are done and gone!
I also had to make significant progress on the Somalia project and I did. There was, however, one area of concern that came out of the Squaw feedback: several people thought that I needed to go to Somalia.
It's an interesting point. The assignment certainly would have been easier if I had been on that soccer tour with those kids -- but that didn't happen, and even if I went to Somalia now, I'd have no ability to travel freely, it's just too dangerous.
I will admit that once I'd come back from interviewing in Europe I did have an awful time getting started. In fact, it took two weeks to get a single paragraph. I couldn't visualize the situation; I couldn't taste it, smell it, or hear it either.
But they don't call the genre creative non-fiction for nothing -- my job as a writer is to include enough realism to make the reader feel as if they are there -- yes, the facts must be accurate, but I can recreate when necessary. Other media certainly take liberties. When a TV camera scans a crowd in Baghdad, fists foist into the air, but once the camera shuts down, the crowd often fades away - What is fact? What is fiction?
Simple editing of footage can result in dramatically different points of view. The same event on the FOX Network will play much differently on PBS -- is that fiction or non-fiction?
Mark Bowden wrote 'Black Hawk Down' as if he'd actually been with those soldiers, but he obviously wasn't. And so I spent the summer trying to recreate the Elman Soccer tour of Somalia of 2003. I interviewed people, watched video tape and reviewed several CDs worth of photos. I read documents, press clippings, and spoke to others who know the team well. I read Somali novels and surfed the net for other angles and I also had two seasoned reporters take a look at a draft.
I believe this hard work will pay off. The article is almost complete and I've got some great leads on where it might get published; but I don't want to jinx them by saying anything just yet.
So stayed tuned!
That's me performing at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference Friday Night.
August 19, 2004
It was almost one AM and I was at Voll House, the ski chalet housing the hip and happening at the Community of Writers in Squaw Valley. The party had dwindled to its inhabitants and a handful too drunk to drive. I still had a story to read for the workshop, so I said my good-byes and set out on the two-mile walk home -- with any luck I'd be sober on arrival.
Away from the glare of the outside house light, the 'milk' in the Milky Way was visible. Meteors tumbled through the atmosphere, Venus sparkled; but the road was pitch-black, indistinguishable from driveways, stone walls and wooden fences. I inched forward into the dark with no idea which direction to head.
Soon faint outlines of neighboring houses emerged, but each time a car passed, I was swallowed into bright light and all I could do was wait until my eyes readjusted. A half-hour later I was heading downhill, a good sign; then a clumsy rustle near some trees stopped me cold. I couldn't tell if it was a bear, raccoon, or dog. In my haste, I stumbled into a trashcan, but I didn't dare stop until all I heard was the pounding in my chest; by then I was lost.
A car soon drove-up behind me and the window rolled down. "Do you need a ride?"
It was Clark from the party. I sighed. "Thank God."
I hopped in not caring how drunk he might be. He drove slow apparently aware of his alcohol content. Five minutes later I was home sipping Sleepy Time tea and reading my assignment. If Clark hadn't rescued me, I'd probably still be wandering around that hillside.
That's the Squaw Valley experience in a nutshell. As writers, we are often alone stumbling in the dark. Squaw provides light, the chance to make friends, to be part of a community, to lend a hand or grab one when needed.
And yet on the first day of the conference, I thought about leaving. It had been a rough trip out. On the plane, I had revised the piece I'd brought to workshop because it was crap. I stopped by a Kinkos on the way to Squaw to make new copies, but now that I had handed in the manuscript, I had even more doubts. I also hated my housemates and was dizzy from
