Robert Steven Williams

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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

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.


Well folks, that’s the rant for this week…

February 10, 2008

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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…

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Until next week…

November 5, 2007

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…

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)...

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.

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.

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….

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. Th