Robert Steven Williams

Springsteen at the weekend voter registration rally in Philadelphia

September 17, 2008

For those of us with no money, this stock market meltdown means little to our bank book – as one friend told me yesterday – from the looks of those on the train, not having money never felt so good.

Those at the top of these financial institutions believe they are better than us, that’s how they rationalize their ridiculous salaries, and their even more gluttonous bonuses. The AIG CEO, the one that’s getting replaced, he’s taking a nine-million dollar exit package – how is this possible? What about paying back his salary and bonus for the past five years, as well as his other perks?

Privatize profits, socialize the losses.

Everyone who understood credit default swaps knew exactly what was going on, but this so-called sophisticated financial package was so clever, no one wanted to admit that it was a house of cards. Anyone in the know was making a boatload of money over the past five years…

It wouldn’t be difficult to identify the top 100 executives that made ridiculous money since 2003 at Bear Stearns, AIG, and Lehman. Shouldn’t they be forced to liquidate their homes and other possessions to cover some of this bail-out?

Some will say, but their stock has gone to nothing, that going from 200 million net worth to 10 is very significant. And wrecking the global economy isn’t? We send two-bit criminals to jail for petty crimes and these guys are going to walk away…

But no crime was committed some will say, huh?

Those responsible for not regulating this need accountability too – we can start by firing those responsible in November.

I’ve been getting notes from my insurance brokers the past two days telling me not to worry – I never hear from these jokers until my payment is due, so reaching out to me now, saying everything is going to be okay, makes me think the opposite – they want me to keep paying my monthly premium, because if Joe Schmo stops those payments, the system will really crash – meanwhile, I’m scraping by, and those responsible will sip margaritas poolside at their private country clubs.

What me worry? This truly is a mad, mad, world...

September 15, 2008

It’s that time of year when I oversee the annual changing of the books ceremony. It takes place each September here in Westport, at my house, and begins with the arrival of the ugly yellow plastic bags. Usually they are tossed out of an 80’s style station wagon and land at the mouth of my driveway. The neighborhood is littered with these eyesores, and when it rains, as it did this year, the books turn into a soggy mess, as they did in ’92, the year of the hundred year flood, and in ’98, during a classic ‘Nor easter.

I rescued the bags this year, lugging them into the house, shaking the water off before entering. The first batch to arrive was The Yellow Book, which includes Fairfield County, and the Westport Yellow and White pages.

A week later, the second collection is tossed out of another slow moving station wagon, these are the classic Real Yellow Pages, 2008,, a four volume set.

I rescue these before more rain falls. I bring them into the house as if they are neighborhood strays, and leave them with the others until I can find time to properly execute the exchange ceremony.

This weekend, I finally get a few minutes. I light a candle and put on some John Phillip Sousa. I open the lower kitchen cabinet drawer next to the refrigerator. The seven books that I put in there roughly one year ago are perfectly preserved. I carefully extract them from the drawer, and put them in the yellow bags that contain this year’s volumes. The 2008s are then placed into the draw where they will reside comfortably and undisturbed until next year, when their successors, the 2009, arrive.

The ‘07’s will make their way to my car and the next time I go to the dump, I’ll toss them in the recycle bin, thus completing another needless cycle, featuring not one, but two competing dinosaur directories, providing an out-of-date service that wastes precious resources.

I’m sure there’s a Yellow Page Industry Council that can cite statistics proving the relevance and usefulness of this service, but how about making it an option, in the way that we now have the option of getting bills on-line? Maybe that’s a task for the now-environment friendly Westport civil servants who last week banned plastic bags at retail, the first east coast town to do so.

Of course when my friend’s kids come over for dinner, these books do act as an excellent seat booster. In ’05, when I was recording my CD, I used the Westport White Pages as a baffle against a kick drum. But for the sake of the environment, I’m sure I can do my bit, tough it out, Google when needed.

September 8, 2008

In a year where it should be no contest, this race will go down to the wire.

I didn’t think Sarah Palin would hold up in the spotlight, but she nailed it.

You’ve got to hand it to the Republicans – their theme of change sounds more convincing than the Democrats…

But some of the Republican rhetoric has me confused. Can someone explain what small town values are? As a Democrat, I thought I had faith and family values.

I don’t mean to be nosy, but how old is Cindy? I must admit, I hadn’t followed her to this point, so had never taken a real good look. I know nothing of her background either. At first, knowing McCain’s age, and not having a HiDef TV, I was thinking, damn, that woman uses a shitload of Botox…

What’s age anyway? But then I heard she picked him up in a bar when he was still married – okay, I get it -- small town values…

There’s a lot to admire in Sarah Palin, a governor with five kids. She’s probably the first national politician with a special needs child, but should I vote for her because she seems like a regular person? I don’t want to drill more in Alaska; polar bears need saving too. I don’t think she could name many of the key leaders in Africa or Asia – as a first time governor of Alaska, she doesn’t need to, but two months from being VP – what do you think?

I heard McCain wanted Lieberman – I didn’t have a problem with Lieberman becoming an independent – it was the timing – he ran as a democrat and lost, then ran as an independent. If he’d simply left the Democratic Party and ran as an independent, I’d feel different. That shows a lack of character – I lost the primary, but I’m not going to stand by the vote.

What’s he done for Connecticut the past year? Every time I see him, he appears attached to McCain’s backside -- small town values?

Obama chose someone smarter than him, someone that complemented his ability to govern, someone that hadn’t always agreed with him – McCain’s choice is contrived – driven by an opportunity to get votes – but let’s give McCain’s people credit – it’s not about governing at this point, it’s about winning the election, and that’s something Democrats often forget. Being right at this point has no relevance. Is that a small town value?

To be fair, one could ask whether a community organizer was qualified. I was leaning toward Hilary because of experience. But I’ve always liked Biden – these guys make a good team – you want real change in Washington – just having the president and vice president working together as a team, not as competitors, or as an electoral college accessory, or as the brains behind the scene, could make a world of difference.

At least Obama ran a national campaign. We saw him up close for the past two years – we’ve only just met Sarah, if she’s elected it will be a shotgun wedding – maybe that’s what’s meant by small town values…

Her daughter’s fiancée shouldn’t be a story, but the Republicans often make it their business to make decisions for the family, so it’s fair game to see how their leaders live – if we’re going to cite her love for her child with down syndrome as a key qualification to be the vp, then her other kids are fair game too…

Did you see that poor schmuck’s MySpace page? Come on folks – do you think this kid really wants to get married? I’m not saying she should have an abortion – they could do a Juno – no pun intended. But why get married? Why ruin three lives for the sake of party unity? Small Town Value…

Here in Westport, a major piece of legislation was passed – the town banned plastic bags at retail – we are the first on the East Coast to do so – I don’t know if this is a good thing or not, but I thought it was interesting that the American Chemistry Council appeared at the town meeting to speak out against the ban. Town representatives were nervous, expecting a corporate deluge, but their arguments failed to convince the board, and the ban was passed.

The local supermarket reported that after the vote people started stealing boxes of plastic bags – one citizen said as they were getting booked by the police, “I use them for trash bags, saves me having to buy them, isn’t that recycling?”

PS...I wanted to love the new Gates / Seinfeld commercial but I'm sorry folks, it's a stinker...call in to Larry David please...

September 1, 2008

I’m not sure what was more surprising when this card arrived in the mail, that AARP knew I was turning 50 on Saturday, or that I’m eligible to be part of the old folks’ club.

When I was a kid, anyone over 30 was old, 50 was ancient. In biblical times, teenagers were kings; they led men into battle. If they made it to thirty, they were grandparents. Today I talk to college kids and think – was I that young when I was in school?

The word is, kids grow up fast today, and in some respects they do, but in the ways that count, I wonder. Most kids come out of college today unable to support themselves, many end up back at home.

Violins please:

My parents got divorced when I was eleven. In the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I ran my mom’s clothing boutique while she was away on her honeymoon. The one employee we had, stole sixty bucks out of the cash register. I guess this person figured I didn’t know how to add, or I wouldn’t have the guts to confront her. She was wrong on both counts. Maybe that’s why in some ways, I feel much older – and then again, in so many ways, I still feel like a college kid. I guess that has to do with my life long obsession with music and writing. I’ve never lost that passion.

Age is relative – it’s not just about how you feel, but how you think…

But one can’t fight city hall no matter how optimistic one might be. I glance at the obits in the New York Times, it’s hard not to notice when someone younger dies, that frequency continues to increase at an alarming rate.

With good friends dealing with breast and prostate cancer, I’m fortunate to have even made it to fifty, it truly is a miracle that anyone reaches the half century mark. But as I take stock, reflect upon this date in my life, I see plenty to be proud of, but lots of regrets and lost opportunity too.

As I look forward to what’s ahead, success is growing in ways that make me a better human being, one that contributes to the positive force within my community of friends and family. I’m also grateful for my community of artists, supporters, advisors and fellow scribes.

Thank you.

Next week – countdown to November 4…

August 23, 2008

Installing democracy into a country with no history of such freedom is no ‘plug and play’ situation. But our leaders tend to get carried away, they oversell. Who hasn’t added new software that touted to be a piece of cake install, only to discover two days later, it’s still not working.

As we’ve seen with the recent democracy installations in Russia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, things rarely go as planned. Winston Churchill once said, democracy is the worst government in the world, except all the others. Perhaps a bit of humbleness when extolling the virtues of democracy would make it an easier sell. It certainly would make for an easier ‘install,’ because everyone would be prepared for the bumpy road ahead.

The Chinese understood they needed to infuse capitalism into their system, but they had no interest in introducing a whole new operating system. Of course adding features to an old, antiquated system has its challenges too. But the Chinese move slow, doing extensive beta testing prior to introducing a widespread release. This avoids unexpected bugs in the existing infrastructure, but also makes access to freedoms a painfully slow process. It can still backfire, especially when the rest of the world is watching.

A good example is how the Chinese introduced the concept of protest. Prior to the Olympics, they announced that protests would be permitted during the event in designated areas, as long as permits were applied for and procedures followed.

Thousands submitted applications, and then each applicant was paid a visit by the authorities. In the end, no permits were issued. According to Chinese civil servants, the concerns of the protesters were all resolved. “This is the Chinese way,” one government spokesman commented.

Western journalists did some digging and discovered that two women in their 70’s had been sentenced to a year of reeducation labor for submitting this so-called protest application – the two wanted to voice displeasure over the government seizure of their homes for redevelopment. Both were forced to sell substantially under market value. A government official said, “The women won’t have to complete the sentence if they put a halt to their complaint.”

There are lots of things about the United States that concern me, and Churchill’s assessment of our system is correct, but I do admire our robustness. Despite the many differences amongst us, we keep the debate within the context of our political process. This is due to the system’s ability to prevent one group from controlling government or the media, most important, the United States still delivers a reasonable standard of living to the majority of its citizens.

But this economic downturn feels different compared to others I've experienced. Come winter, when many of us will be in search of enough shekels to heat our homes, fill our gas tanks, or put food on our tables, this economy will be put to the test in a way that it hasn't since the great depression. It is up to all of us to elect leaders who can execute a plan that ensures future growth as well as security for all Americans. But be wary, like software, there are no quick fix, ‘plug and play’ solutions, listen carefully to what’s being sold, be prepared for a long, cold winter.

August 17, 2008

The renewed tension between the US and Russia reminded me of the time I was in East Berlin. It was November 12, 1989, the very day the wall came down. It was evening and I was eating dinner at the Grand Hotel with a group of EMI record execs, listening to an awful East German rock band. We were attending the first East/West Music Conference.

For months tension was building across the Eastern bloc with weekly protests in various cities. I’d attended one right here in Berlin just a few days earlier. The park was packed, the area was surrounded by green Polizei vans and soldiers patrolled the perimeter yielding AK-47s, looking dour. The scene was eerily similar to the hours leading up to the Tiananmen Square massacre just a few months earlier.

It wasn’t just the political tension that had me jumpy, I’d just joined HMV Records, a division of EMI. My boss was supposed to speak at this event and at the last second he cancelled. They sent me to give a half-hour speech on what the west could do to help eastern European music retailers. I’d been at HMV three weeks, what did I know? But to be fair, what could any western company do to help their eastern counterparts?

By the very definition of capitalism, no company helps another unless there’s a direct economic benefit. None of these western record companies came to liberate some unknown Russian songwriter, we were there to open up the eastern market to sell them more Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, and Bon Jovi.

To be honest I have no recollection of what I said, but I do recall standing up in front of five hundred or so, feeling sorry for this crowd of eastern European hipsters with bad teeth and polyester sport jackets. Each word I uttered was translated into eight languages. As I spoke, I prayed I was making more sense in German, Russian, Polish, Hungarian, French or Czech than I was in English. Lots of people came up after the speech, so I guess it wasn’t a debacle.

Around 10:30 pm that Thursday, we noticed an unusual amount of activity out on the streets. It wasn’t just the number of folks outside, it was their mannerism, faces animated, an extra kick in their step, the typical East Berlin gait was designed to blend in, it was slow, steady, head down.

I wandered to Checkpoint Charlie and saw a mass of people standing on the wall, guards with guns at their side, smoking cigarettes, cars going through unchecked.

The next morning I had a plane to catch at Tegel in West Berlin. Four of us took the Grand Hotel limo. There was a line over a mile long at the border comprised mostly of Russian Trabants, a tin can of a car with a five-year waiting list. “Unglaublich,” our driver uttered. Unbelievable. Normally he drove through with no wait. He honked his horn, rammed several cars, screamed obscenities, pushing our armored Mercedes to the front of the line.

“It’s a great day,” I said to the driver.

But he wasn’t smiling. This man was one of the few who traveled to the west unencumbered. He received tips in dollars, he smuggled goods. The fall of communism was the worst thing that could have happened as far as he was concerned.

Watching what transpired in Georgia this week was not surprising. The seeds were sown the very day the wall came down. Our rush to democratize Russia paved the way for ruthless mobsters to control the flow of goods and corrupt government officials and the average person suffered in the way Americans suffered back in the 19th century when the industrial revolution began. I don't condone Russia's moves this week, but Putin restored Russian pride, he established law and order.

Perhaps divergent interests were inevitable, but our world class economists, bankers, and consultants, rushed into the Soviet Union like it was the '49 Gold Rush, idealoques, unleashing capitialism as if it was the Holy Grail; clearly it wasn't.

August 11, 2008

The Olympics are the original reality show, all that’s missing from the broadcast is the contestant back stabbing. And yet, long before reality shows were in, Tonya Harding set a standard that no 21st century reality show has come close to topping, not even Amarosa on “The Apprentice” was in the same class.

Think of the potential ratings if Mark Burnett produced the Olympics or if Simon Cowell was given free reign. One day Fox will land the broadcast rights, and don’t be surprised if reality Olympics happens, no doubt it will set all-time records for ratings and ad revenue.

If one were to think about this year’s games as a reality show, one might conclude that the most compelling character is the host country itself, China. It's complex, provocative, not afraid to speak its mind. Think about the gold one could find in the backstage clips – senior-level bureaucrats bickering over how best to squelch rebellion, censorship, pollution.

The Russians chose an interesting time to invade their fledgling neighbor and former territory, if only we’d had a camera behind the scenes when the Georgians made the decision to go after the separatists just before the games, they clearly assumed the Russians wouldn’t ramp up a full-scale invasion in response while the world gathered in Beijing. Whoever made that call in Georgia needs to be voted off the island.

Perhaps if the Olympics were covered like a reality show, the guns, money, and power plays would be set aside for these two weeks so that the world could come together in peace for purity of sport and honest competition, of course it’s probably never been that way. The Nazis in 1936, for example, used the games for their propaganda, but I’m sure even back in the ancient swelter of Athens, politics and behind the scene intrigue was rampant.

But I’ll tune in this year to gawk at bald guys setting records in a swimming pool and women gymnasts gyrating in ways that defy gravity. And yet, I must also admit that I’ll be watching to see if there are any disasters, and breathe a sigh of relief each night when I hear nothing happened.

Tragically, not everyone has such empathy. In the Roman Gladiator days, folks enjoyed a good fight to the death. And in the 21st century what would NASCAR be without a good crash or two? A hockey game without fights?

Modern day Olympics have had their tragedy -- Munich ’72, the US boycott of ’80, the bomb in Atlanta...the Beijing games are off to a shaky start...

If only for two weeks every four years we could set aside our differences and unite in the celebration of sport…think of the progress we might make as the human race...

With twelve days left in these games, there’s still time…

August 3, 2008

You don’t need economic data to know we’re in recession, just open your eyes. Drive down any commercial highway and you’ll see more for rent signs then anytime in recent history – drive down a residential street and you’ll see more for sale signs too. Everyone is waiting to see what happens next.

I’m commuting into the city via train nowadays and often you can’t get a seat at prime time – that’s a long ride without a place to place your bum, even mid-day and late night, the trains are crowded, at times the cars fill as if a New York Subway.

Back in the early nineties I lived outside of London. I often caught a commuter train into the West End – those trains were uncomfortable, crowded, unreliable. Metro North’s cancellation rate is much better than the UK performance levels, but the Connecticut cars are over thirty-five years old, the lighting is depressing, the ride sometimes bounces so much, I can’t read or write.

I bought gas at 4.09 the other day and thought, wow, what a bargain.

Wait till winter when folks have to heat their homes. Last year I capped oil at 2.79/gallon, that was up from 2.16 the year before. This year oil programs are all over the map – most require an upfront payment to secure a fixed price – one company wanted $80 to lock in at 4.69. Another wanted $300 to have a float with a not-to exceed 5.99/gallon. I needed an Excel spreadsheet to figure out what was what. I went with $80 up front for 49 cents over wholesale – today that price would be 4.09 – won’t know until next year whether it was a good call or not.

This weekend I was at SummerSongs, a songwriting camp celebrating its 10th year. I attended back in 2000, and for the last five, I’ve taught classes there. This year I didn’t have the time to teach, but I drove up to Woodstock for opening night to catch up with old friends.

Many of my full-time musician pals are having a tough time making ends meet. The economics for folk musicians was not great in the best of times, but the cost of gas has now made touring a challenge. One of the instructors, a songwriter that has made several contributions to the national folk canon was forced back to the factory job he left thirty years ago when he came on the music scene. He simply couldn’t eke out a living, though his material needs were not large; without health benefits, he lived by a tenuous thread.

It didn’t take much explaining to my friends as to why I returned to full-time work, some said they might follow if things didn’t turn. There’s been no loss to the world of music with my art on the backburner, but for these folks, the loss to our culture would be substantial if they had to redirect their efforts. It’s just another indication that this country has big problems, we’re in decline, like the British Empire circa 1950, some signs are visible, others go underneath the radar, if we’re not careful, we won’t reverse the trend.

July 28, 2008

A few months back Iggy Pop appeared in this John Varvatos ad sporting a $2,000 suit. For those not in the know, John Varvatos is a hip, high-end clothier, owned by VF, a corporation which controls such brands as Vans sneakers and Wrangler Jeans.

Varvatos occupies the former CBGB space at 315 Bowery and positions his expensive clothes as rebellious, cool, edgy; Mr. Pop certainly captures that essence, but if the Iggy of the late sixties had a glimpse of his 2008 future, he’d have puked all over that ad.

Last week I was with three old-time record people – the types who might have actually played a role in Iggy’s career back in the day. We spoke of how things had changed and about this very ad. They’d never heard of Varvatos, they couldn’t believe Iggy’s sell out; but if it was true, they felt confident the fan base would leave in droves. I love those guys for everything they were, but they’re dead wrong.

In 2008, aging rockers do what they must for a buck, and I’m okay with that – it’s the younger set that have me worried. They have the more difficult decision. With the music industry a train wreck, selling out is a viable way to breakthrough.

Landing a slot in a national commercial has become an important part of a band’s development, it’s often the only way since radio playlists are so tight and labels have slashed their ad/promotion dollars.

The person who once scoured bars for the next best thing, now works at an ad agency. Their criteria, by definition, is much different from the old time music guys like Mo Ostin or Ahmet Ertegun, who sold music, not product. That’s one reason we’re currently in a song driven business cycle (the iPod is another key driver).

Last week I was also at a small, cutting edge, ad agency. It was downtown in a loft type space and had the vibe of an indy record company – lots of young folks around, music playing, Macs everywhere.

The agency head had heard a singer/songwriter at the Living Room – a great NYC venue for singer/songwriters (yours truly has played the joint). They’d called this musician a year later to see if he was interested in working with one of their clients on a song. The kid said yes, the song ended up in a commercial, the kid’s career took off.

The agency gave me the CD and said with pride, "a major TV show anchor told America this kid was the best singer/songwriter in the country."

Whenever I hear ‘best’ in the context of art, I cringe. In the ad world, ‘best’ is part of the vernacular, it’s all about sales, market share, shelf space. Being number one is important in music, movies, and books too, but the 'best' movies are rarely the highest grossing films. Anyone in the singer/songwriter genre knows there’s no such thing as best.

The agency sponsored CD was great, there were lots of things to admire, but I can cite ten obscure singer/songwriters in my iPod equally as good, if not, dare I say, better.

But the world needs a filter. The internet has not leveled the playing field, it has only made it more crowded. Ad agencies have assumed a gatekeeper role. If this trend continues, artists unwilling to work with products will go undiscovered, and that means we are in danger of living in an era lacking raw originality at the very time we need music to spit in the establishment's face.

But all is not lost. Somewhere, someone is doing something so outrageous, so original, it can't be denied no matter how restrictive our system becomes. One day this sound will force itself upon us in the way NY punk grabbed us by the collar in that very space now occupied by John Varvatos.

July 23, 2008
This weekend I attended the advanced songwriting workshop with Jimmie Dale Gilmore, a weekend retreat at Omega Institute, in Rhinebeck, New York. 80% of the attendees were folks I knew well. It was more a family reunion than writing workshop – Jimmie’s wife, Janet, was there, and together, with a small group of dedicated song writers, we celebrated songs by sharing and critiquing our work.

I took my first Jimmie Dale workshop in 1998, a month after I left the corporate world to pursue a life of writing. Ten years later, I’m back at work, but still writing.

It wasn’t a straight shot through the decade. I took a lot of detours, hit some dead ends, had some terrific highs, awful lows too; but through it all, I kept writing. I also kept returning to Jimmie’s workshop.

As someone said this weekend, the experience gets richer each year, which is not often the case with such things. Jimmie said that leading this workshop changed his life profoundly; it certainly has affected me too, and in many expected ways.

This weekend we talked about intent and motivation – Back in ’98 Jimmie asked us what motivated us to write. He said there was no right answer, but being aware of what drove you would provide insights on how best to go at it.

Ten years later Jimmie’s talking about intent – the driver behind motivation. Intent often comes up in yoga – what is your intent for this class the instructor will say. Setting an intention provides focus – my intention this weekend was to get back in-touch with my creative side.

I just returned home and wanted to get this off – the weekend took an unexpected turn that appeared headed for disaster, but it ended up becoming not such a train wreck after all – I came out with an incredibly powerful experience – I’ll provide more details next week…

July 14, 2008

Times are tough. Two friends lost their jobs this week. Another had their assistant let go, now they’re responsible for both jobs.

A notice arrived from the oil company on Friday -- last year I was capped at 2.69 a gallon, almost double from the year before. This year they want $389 for the privilege to lock in for .49c over wholesale with a ‘not to exceed’ of 5.99 a gallon.

The market for fiction and music wasn’t great in the best of times, so I’m not feeling bad about my decision to go back to work full-time. I’ve got health benefits now and I promptly got my ears tested (I had a studio accident back in March, my hearing hasn’t been the same since.) Still, I’m doing what I can to not lose touch with my creative self.

Wednesday night was typical. I got home at nine o’clock. After cleaning the litter boxes and feeding the cats, I strummed the guitar and watched SportsCenter. I worked on a new song. I combed the cats and tossed their toys and they chased after them. I was asleep by midnight.

The sun poked through the bedroom window around 6:00 am. My cats hopped on the bed hoping I was ready to get up. I went downstairs, fed them. While they ate, I did a few morning stretches, splashed water on my face.
I let them out and threw on some clothes, grabbed my yoga mat and pulled out my bike. I zoomed downhill toward the beach. In the shade, there was dew on the grass, the air was cool; under blue sky the sun was already warm. The weatherman said today would hit 90 with a chance of thunderstorms.

I got to yoga fifteen minutes later. Technically I was still asleep, but over the next hour the class brought my mind and body into a state of awakening. Then I retraced the coastal route and rode back up the hill to the house.

While putting away my bike, both cats appeared. The three of us reentered the house. I hopped upstairs into the shower. It was 8:20 and I was in the kitchen making breakfast, putting fresh water in the cat bowls, filling my briefcase with what was needed for another day in the city.

On that morning bike ride I’d heard new melodies in my head for that song I was working on last night. I looked at my guitar on the stand in the living room. It’s a custom Martin, they only made 24. It has a flamed maple back, it produces a rich earthy tone; it’s a joy to play. I wanted to work on this song, but I had a train to catch in twelve minutes, the station was eight minutes away. I had to leave without touching that Martin, but the melody was still in my head and I jotted a few notes down on the commute -- this weekend, I promised myself.

And Saturday night, while most folks were out partying, I stayed home and worked on that song. I wrote this essay too and savored every moment.

July 7, 2008

I’m not convinced that mobile communication has made me more productive or smarter. When I call someone, I now leave messages at home, office and cell, not knowing where someone is, or what they might check. Friends and colleagues do the same, covering the bases with extraneous messages – by the time I work through the extra messages, the timesaving is gone.

There is one piece of technology, however, that definitely makes me more efficient – the DVR.

I’m not a huge TV watcher, but I’m not a TV snob either – I love the medium in moderation, and now that I have a DVR, I enjoy television even more because I’ve got control. I rarely watch ‘Live’ TV, I go straight to ‘My Recordings.’

Here’s what’s programmed:

Two and Half Men – admittedly, this show is misogynous, shallow, and predictable, but it still makes me laugh. It keeps me coming back because it’s a humorous look at divorce and dating, two things I now relate too.

The Office – you either hate this show or love it, true snobs think only the English version is worthy – I loved the original, but I’ve developed a weekly fix for the crew at Dunder Miflin too. Of course I have a soft spot for Pam.

30 Rock – Tina Fey rocks – writer, producer, star – I went for ‘Studio 60’ that first season which was a mistake -- perhaps given time, ‘Studio 60’ would have found its footing, but ‘30 Rock’ got it right on day one – the key, it didn’t take itself seriously.

Lost – I’m not into hour-long dramas – the last one I watched was ‘24’ – but the last season was a bore. During the writers’ strike, ‘Lost’ was one of the few shows that ran new episodes -- I caught the four-hour recap of the first two seasons which included the explanations utilizing VH1’s pop-up video concept. I got up to speed and was hooked. I just hope it doesn’t go the way of ‘Twin Peaks’ by pushing the storyline beyond the point of absurdity.

Saturday Night Live – I dropped out of this show for years, but the DVR brought me back because I can speed through the dud routines, currently running IMHO 50/50. The DVR is great for blitzing through the second half, which always had too many commercials.

The Daily Show – I love Jon Stewart, but I don’t tune into anything daily. Colbert is funny too, but I had to draw the line somewhere. I probably catch 10% of ‘The Daily Show’ each month.

Meet the Press – Sunday morning was the treadmill and Tim Russert. Will see if ‘Meet the Press’ stays in my programming now that Russert is gone.

The News Hour – I tape the Friday show – although Brooks and Shields can both be annoying, I still like to hear their weekly rants.

When HBO airs Bill Maher, Larry David or ‘Entourage,’ I grab them. I also had the last season of ‘The Wire.’ I’m hoping this Ed Burns/David Simon show will be good, otherwise, HBO Summer 2008 is a complete washout. Now I’m wishing I had Showtime so I could catch ‘Weeds.’

I also love to catch the Philadelphia teams when they play NY, but I rarely tape those games, I catch that ‘live’ – and mostly it’s the ninth inning, the last quarter, the third period – to watch anything for three hours is a luxury I don’t have any more.

Oh yes, I almost forgot:

Swingtown – the only new summer show to get a program nod. I will admit that it was the sex that caught my attention, but 1976 was the year I graduated high school. I didn't like the 70’s show because I never knew those characters. The teens in this show have more issues, they're more like the crowd I hung out with; the adults seem more real. Until Swingtown, I never gave consideration to how the social upheavals of the sixties affected the older generation. I’m not saying this show got it right, but it has already shed some light on why my world was so upside down back then. I even asked my mom if she knew any swingers, figuring that she’d roll her eyes and say, please – but she actually knew someone. Hopefully this show will do for the 70’s what 'Mad Man' did for the ad world in the early 60’s.

June 30, 2008

I was in eighth grade when I first heard George Carlin. I was awkwardly lodged between childhood and the teen years, more somber than most kids because my parents were newly divorced. It was 1971 and I was sharing a bedroom with my little sister in the apartment we’d moved to when our house was sold.

At that point, I was still more of a jock than a freak – already a die-hard Philadelphia fan – the Flyers were only a year away from the first of two consecutive Stanley Cups. I was also an all-star little league third baseman – Brooks Robinson of the Baltimore Orioles was my favorite player. But a new side to my personality was emerging. I was learning the guitar, listening to FM radio, I was hanging out with a girl a year older than me. She was into the Buffalo Springfield, The Band, Dylan.

One day she put on the stereo a comedy album by George Carlin, Class Clown. We sat down that afternoon and listened to both sides. I’d never laughed so hard; the material also made me think about ordinary life in ways I’d never imagined. We were still years away from pot smoking, but listening to that record was like taking several bong hits – Carlin had blown our minds.

I went to the Echelon Mall and bought Class Clown, the following year I bought Carlin’s AM and FM. I played them over and over and over, and each time, they seemed funnier, his words a code that folks over 30 didn’t understand. When my grandmother came over from England that year, I played her some of the less subversive tracks. She politely nodded, but it was clear Don Rickles was more her cup of tea. I decided to turn her on to Al Sleet, the hippy dippy weather man. She was baffled. Then I player her the seven words you can’t say on television.

With hands on hips, she scowled, “Does your mother know what you’re listening to?”

This week with the passing of both Tim Russert and George Carlin, I’m feeling my age -- I remember 27-cent gasoline, 8 tracks, and my first digital watch. I remember listening to George Carlin and thinking that there was something revolutionary coming out of my Hi Fi. It was an awakening, unexplored territory, a fresh perspective, it was my coming of age, and looking back, Carlin’s sense of irony and perspective influenced me in profound ways that even now, as I pause to reflect this week on his passing, I hadn’t realized.

June 22, 2008

When I was in Haiti in 06, I learned that only Afghanistan had worse roads. We pushed a Range Rover to the point where I swore it would flip. We traversed rivers we had no business crossing, we bounced down steep, gutted, mountain paths in torrential tropical storms. The Range Rover performed admirably.

Although most suburban SUVs are not created to the specifications of this field Range Rover, our domestic gas guzzling cousins are equipped to handle more than just a trip to the grocery store or a cruise on the Interstate.

Westport, Connecticut, where I live, is home to one of the highest per capita SUV ownership in the world. With the exception of a few nasty snow storms each year, the SUV is more vehicle than any of us require.

I bought mine back in 1994. In my defense, they weren’t so popular then, and I really did think a lot of off-road activity was in my future.

The reality was much different. I’d say 95% of the 120,000 miles I have driven was on asphalt.

I get 14 miles to the gallon. In a five dollar a gallon world, this vehicle is too expensive to drive – but I’ve got no car payment, insurance is almost non-existent, the car has been well maintained.

Still, I plan on trading it in for a hybrid when I can afford it – in the meantime, here in Westport, the Gods decided it was time to put all those SUVs to use.

Over the past two years, the electric company has torn apart the Post Road, the main drag that cuts through town. The key pipe that carries electricity from the generating plants to our homes and businesses runs underneath this road. Because of increased demand, they are putting in a higher capacity conduit.

They are tearing up the road to replace this piping while at the same time, keeping the lights on and traffic moving.

Come sundown, construction crews emerge, traffic gets diverted, bulldozers and drilling equipment dig in. Come sunrise, the crews pack up and steel slabs are thrown over the holes where the pipe runs. These metal covers are sealed with temporary asphalt.

The Post Road has run rougher than some of the roads I saw in Haiti, God’s way of paying Westport back for its conspicuous consumption.

As I bump my way across town, I realize how much of what keeps us comfortable is conveniently kept out of sight. One peek at what lies beneath the road and I gain a greater appreciation of the infrastructure that keeps my lights on, my house warm in winter, my recording studio possible.

I also realize how invasive humans truly are on this planet, how much we demand of Mother Earth to keep us comfortably numb. Each time I bounce down the Post Road in my SUV, I realize I’m as much to blame as anyone else.

Father’s Day, 2008

I was fortunate in that I had two fathers, but when I was a kid, I didn’t see it that way. My parents got divorced in 1970. I was twelve, and at that time, few families broke up. I remember praying every night for months that they would get back together. They didn’t and we were forced to sell our house and move to an apartment in a neighboring town.

Both parents were remarried within a few years, and each second marriage lasted longer than the first. It took me awhile to appreciate the significance of that. My father and step-dad were very different, but in an odd way, complementary. In combination, they were the perfect dad – but of course there’s no such thing as perfection, and a dad as two people, obviously isn’t ideal.

My dad died back in 2001. My step-dad is still going strong. With the passing of Tim Russert on Friday, we are all reminded of how fragile life is, how precious our time is, how fleeting even the most successful life can be.

As I write this on Father’s Day 2008, I take a few minutes to honor my father’s life and memory, and to reach out to my step-dad, who’s friendship and wisdom I value, and who I love very much.

Happy father’s day to all Dads.

On another note:

Between work and my ear problem, I haven’t played guitar in ages. I’ve missed holding it, hearing it, getting lost with it.

Back in March, I blew my ears out in the studio with a low frequency synth pad – everything seemed louder than it was. I went to the doctor and then a hearing specialist – the prognosis was positive, but further tests were needed. My five-grand deductible insurance plan kept me from following up. Instead, I wore silicon plugs, the kind swimmers don – since I started wearing them, I’ve noticed a big improvement.

I can once again listen to music, talk on the phone, have a conversation without having serious pain. You have no idea what joy it is to play without a sharp, shrill shooting through my head. I will never take hearing for granted again.

Ironically, last weekend I picked up my Martin acoustic and played a few chords. It was a joy to hear the ringing overtones of an E chord, the rich swirl of an open tuning. But the calluses on my fingertips had softened and although my ears were okay, my fingers were now killing me. It hurt so much I had to stop playing.

I couldn’t believe it.

The hearing issue was only part of the reason I haven't been playing. I’ve been too busy with my consulting practice. This week I made a point of finding fifteen minutes each day to play a few songs, work out a few new progressions. By Saturday, the calluses had returned, the fingers stopped hurting.

Hooray!

June 9, 2008

Last month I’d issued a press release involving a family business – there was a father, his sons, other relatives and friends. This cast of characters had worked together across several generations. Think old world Europeans: the elders were off the boat with heavy accents and little understanding of English; the offspring, American, but still bound by tradition and the old country.

The father was retiring, the sons were setting off on their own. I was hired through a third party to promote the boy’s new opening. It sounded like a great story: human interest, family, very sweet, just the sort of thing that garners great local press.

I don’t do primary research on such releases because this isn’t investigative reporting, there’s no controversy, minor errors have little consequence anyway.

The story ran in a business journal. I learned after it ran that there was bad blood amongst the players – the sons were now competitors, their business had impacted the former establishment. Both sides held grudges.

There was one incorrect fact – the father had not owned the old place, he and the sons were employees – it turns out the father and two sons had set out on their own. When the wife of the owner read that the sons’ father owned the store, she flipped.

The paper issued a correction, the person that gave me the bad info contacted them and apologized, but the wife wanted more. She claimed that this article had caused her husband’s store damage.

Common sense would say that anyone reading that article would not have stopped shopping there based on this misstatement. The more likely reason for the sales loss was much more obvious – the new business. They’d opened up down the block with a newer, more modern offering.

I’m not sure how my source got his fact wrong, but I figured being old-school, these folks could use a hand. I called the wife to offer my services for free as a way of reconciliation. I could do a release, tell the great story of their 30-year run. But this woman never let me get a word in, she told me she didn’t care what I had to say, she was suing the paper and my client.

I doubt very much she’s suing, there are no grounds.

The families have probably been feuding for centuries. I could have turned this into an opportunity for them, but they were too angry to see straight, and that doesn’t bode well for their future.

Some folks need to blame others for misfortune, others just get on with it. When new competition comes to town, they sharpen their game, they make things happen, those that don’t, fade away.

At first I felt bad for the old woman, but when I spoke to her, I lost all sympathy – karma comes in many forms. I have no idea what the true source of that feud is, but my guess is, those families will be going at it for centuries to come. I plan to stay out of the line of fire…

June 2, 2008

Over the weekend I attended my 20th reunion at Harvard Business School. Reunions come every five years, and each time, I debate whether I want to go. As many of you know, I’m not your typical HBS grad. I hemmed and hawed before the fifth, tenth and fifteenth, but appeared at all three, and was happy that I did.

Naturally I put myself through the same gyrations this year, but I showed up, and not surprising, I was glad.

Coming out of business school, the Harvard degree was something I quickly shelved. Nobody in a record company wanted to know what school I went to, in fact, it worked against me with those that knew. But that was based on the school’s reputation, some of which is deserved; but by far, the negativity is the exception, not the rule.

For every Enron that business school grads have contributed to, there are far more success stories, companies that provided jobs and innovation that we all benefit from. Even musicians have reaped the fruits of HBS grads -- two Harvard Business School guys rejuvenated Gibson guitar in the late 80’s when that company hit rock bottom.

One doesn’t require a business degree to commit egregious corporate acts, but no doubt, MBAs in some respects have replaced lawyers as bottom feeders.

There were people at school that you couldn’t pay me enough money to work with, but others that would be a privilege to work alongside – but the same is true for people without an education. One of the best marketing folks I know doesn’t have a high school diploma.

Having said that, I often forget how much power and influence Harvard has over our economy, politics, and global affairs. The years I’ve spent as a struggling artist, barely making enough to pay groceries, it had made me on occasion lose sight that once I too was in a position to make an impact.

But my time away from the corporate world has also showed that often it is the random act of kindness that is the most powerful gesture -- rescuing a stray cat, donating time to a soup kitchen, even just throwing a buck in a street musician’s hat.

This weekend I made a point of talking politics, the war, global warming, rising gas prices – I also spoke about health care and how expensive it is for folks not on a corporate benefit plan. I shared firsthand experience. I also urged classmates to remember the privileged place they occupied, the responsibility that they had -- but these words were meant as much for me as they were for them.

It’s time to get off my ass, stop moaning about how hard it is for artists to make a buck. It’s time to do something about it.

The reunion couldn’t have come at a better time. I won’t stop writing or playing, but I’ve got to broaden my perspective, the agenda, I have to stop thinking just about me.

May 26, 2008

I’m finishing up year eleven of serious writing -- 1998 – 2008. I can’t believe how fast it went. But when I take a look at my writing back then, I wonder what I was thinking, given how awful I was. But I did possess the most important ingredient an artist needs, a deep, to the core passion for words and music. It has been that love that gave me the discipline to learn the craft. I put in endless hours of work, weathered thousands of rejections, and had the courage to face my true self.

I sing, play and write better than I ever have, more important, I found my voice, but I still firmly believe I am nowhere near my potential. Sadly, I don’t make enough to even pay weekly groceries. With gas going up almost daily, I’ve been confronted with a harsh reality, soon I will become the living embodiment of the term, ‘starving artist.’

Last year I had an incredible opportunity – to study with one of America’s great writers, Barry Hannah – part of me still thinks that I blew it, not jumping on that – but it would have meant selling my house, and risking absolutely everything – nearing fifty, with no shot at a pension, I had to honestly look at the next 20 years. I had no doubts that the experience would have been a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had a shot at realizing my full-potential, but I also knew that the odds of translating that into even a modest salary was a long shot – most writers, including Barry, earn little from their writing. It’s Barry’s position at Ole Miss that enables him to write – at my age, finding a tenured position was a stretch.

I often wonder what life would be like now, down in Oxford, but just the fact that a guy of my age secured such an opportunity, it made me realize how far my writing has come.

But that and a subway token will get me back home tonight. I drive a 1994 vehicle, my health insurance is a joke, each month is a scramble to break even.

After turning down Ole Miss, I took on various consulting assignments. Clients came via word of mouth. I’ve had more work than I can keep up with. But I still find time to write -- I get up early, I edit on the train, I type through lunch.

Last summer I was hired by a group that was working with Hilly Kristal, the founder of CBGB. The famous bar closed in ’06. They wanted help on a plan to reintroduce the club. It was the perfect fit for me -- my novel – The Sound of Money, was about a struggling songwriter that gets mixed up with the mob – he fronts an all-girl punk band called Spyder and the Widows – several scenes take place in 1978, the golden age of CBGB. In the book, the Police opened for Spyder the very month they actually made their first US appearance at CBs.

I was at San Diego State from 79-82 and booked bands for the school. I looked to what CB’s was doing, then brought those bands to campus – I did the Ramones three years in a row. Once we hosted 999 and the Dickies. The temporary stage came apart, kids were in danger of getting crushed up front; a few were already hurt. The show stopped, the lights came on. I took a microphone and told everyone they had to step back and calm down. I got pummeled with spit and food, someone tossed a bottle and it cut my arm. I yanked the mic off the stand and started screaming – take three fucking steps backwards now, or we’re fucking shutting this god damn thing down.” Stuff still hurled my way. “Do it fucking now,” I hollered, “or I’ll come out there and kick every fucking one of you in the ass.”

The place quieted, the kids moved back. Security rescued those up front. The stage was reassembled and more security was brought in; the show went on.

The next week I was in front of the University Board, explaining why punk rock was an important cultural activity that the campus needed to support. I lost the argument, punk was banned, but it was 1982 and New Wave had taken over.

In 2008, I have formally joined the CBGB family. I will take an active role in leading this iconic brand into a new and exciting era. This experience blurs what I once did as a music executive, with what I’ve done for the past decade – I’d always intended to come full circle, I just didn’t expect it to take this long.

Earlier this year, I was doing open mics, now I’m meeting movers and shakers in the entertainment business, as I had a decade ago. What comes next will only make me a better fiction/singer-songwriter. And of course, living the life of a writer and musician provides an insight into the essence of what CBGB really is, in a way that a typical executive would never get. It’s an honor and a privilege to be associated with such an important name in the history of rock and roll. Although I won’t be writing or playing as much as I have, I won’t make the mistake I did in my late 20s and 30s, by not playing while climbing the ladder at the EMI Music Group. I pledge to keep posting each week, musing about what’s going on in my life and the world, and now CBGB too…

May 19, 2008

It was no surprise that the Myanmar government kept the west out this week, tragically, nor was the escalation of deaths. A United Nations’ effort was also thwarted by the Chinese, who refused to support a unified effort to open the borders to allow aid in via an international force.

The Bush administration has been constructive. It also showed restraint. It isn’t our place to take unilateral action (of course, we shouldn’t have in Iraq either). Would we have acted differently if this situation was in the Middle East, maybe.

US business is forbidden to work with this government, but one key source of their revenue comes from a subsidiary that is partially owned by Chevron. The Bush administration has not sanctioned Chevron for allowing their sub to provide much needed revenue to this corrupt regime. The argument has been, if Chervon doesn’t, a Chinese or Japanese company would.

Either we do business with tyrants, or we don’t – there should be no gray area.

I’m not privy to the details to really know what needs doing, but I do know that our response to large-scale human rights abuse, as well as natural disasters, should not vary depending on the strategic importance of the area. Human suffering on this scale in the 21st century is appalling, there is no excuse.

This is why the UN must lead the global effort to eradicate extreme poverty. If the Russians and the Chinese have a different view, that will present potential gridlock, but human suffering has no geographic bias – natural disasters and civil conflict are distributed equally across the globe. If the effort to help was more evenhanded, perhaps a more unified approach is possible.

On another note: Jim Frey, of Oprah’s “A Million Lies” fame, released his first novel to positive critical response last week. I saw an interview on the Today Show. I have no doubt that Mr. Frey is an accomplished writer; his memoir was a compelling piece of fiction. In the interview, he handled the tough questions, he apologized, he admitted mistakes; he hoped this book was received on its own merits.

Watching his contrition made me sick. There are lots of great writers who will never be heard from, each competing for an agent’s attention. Manuscripts flood literary magazines that will never see daylight. There is simply too much material, not enough outlets. Frey jumped the line by cheating…

We all have something in our background that we could shamelessly flog to achieve fifteen minutes of fame. We could also just make shit up. Some use that dubious beachhead to parlay it into a career, but that moniker will always shroud the legacy. In Frey’s case, he will always be known as the guy who bullshitted a memoir. But he’s got his money, he’s got a career.

For me, that’s too steep a price to pay. I’d rather write in obscurity with integrity – I can always make a buck doing something else. I also know that in this freedom from market pressure, my art has its best shot to flourish…

May 12, 2008

Aid workers with supplies have tried to convince the Myanmar government that they have no interest in ratting them out to the world, they simply want to help those in desperate need. Food that did get through last week was relabeled by government officials as gifts from the generals. The situation is dire, but if the government was fearful last week, what will change their minds this week with over a 100,000 needless deaths on their hands?

And really, there’s no need for Aid workers to tell the world anything, the generals are doing a fine job on their own – but if by their refusal to allow aid to flow into the country, over a million people are at risk, is that not of enough consequence for the world to take action?

But what action?

For those who said it didn’t matter that Saddam didn’t have WMDs, his tyrannical regime had to be taken down, what do they say about the Myanmar government? There is ample evidence to support our taking over that country – the same could be said of several African regimes too.

But there’s no oil, no threat of an Al Queda incursion, so why bother?

Over the past decade I’ve worked with Concern Worldwide, a Dublin based famine relief agency. I helped them establish a US fund raising operation in 2000. The director often spoke about not taking sides in a conflict. Their objective was to help the people – staying neutral allowed their workers to avoid confrontation, it let them travel through road blocks and disputed borders.

When I went to Haiti, I couldn't write about the crimes of the current government, it would have made it impossible for Concern to operate in that country, in fact, it could have put their staff in jeopardy.

But staying neutral implies support of those in power, it allows the conditions that often created the crisis to repeat itself, staying neutral is a Band Aid, but people on death’s door can’t wait for a long-term solution.

A world court was created in 2005 to hold regimes accountable for human suffering. Over time this has the potential to be a true deterrent, but at the moment, there’s nobody in Myanmar fearing the possibility of accountability, the world court means nothing; on the other hand, an argument could be made that the court makes the Myanmar government even more fearful of outsiders, that it’s the reason they won’t let anyone in.

The news also reported that the US asked China to intervene. Why is it our role to have to do the asking? Isn’t that something the United Nations should assume? Since they were neighbors, one would have thought the Chinese didn’t need a nudge.

On a lighter but related note, I was also wondering what the difference is between a cyclone, a hurricane, and a typhoon. It turns out they’re the same thing -- it’s geography that drives the term. Here’s what I discovered:

A cyclone is a large-scale, atmospheric wind-and-pressure system characterized by low pressure at its center and by circular wind motion, counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere, clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.

A hurricane is a violent, tropical, cyclonic storm of the western North Atlantic, having wind speeds of or in excess of 72 mph (32 m/sec), where as a typhoon is a tropical cyclone or hurricane in the western Pacific area and the China seas.

Regardless of what you might have thought, now is the time to donate; one must hope that at some point AID will reach those in need.

May 3, 2008

Whenever the phone rang at an odd hour, I would check caller ID to see if it was my mother, wondering if this was the call saying that my grandmother, Nana, died. She turned 97 last October. I’d developed this habit over a decade ago. This week that call finally came.

Nana lived in England and had been in the hospital. She’d gone home over the weekend. I was in LA and Mom asked me to call her. I said I would as soon as I got home on Monday, since overseas mobile charges cost a fortune.

I had a horrendous journey back from LA, including a 2 am blowout at 65 mph. I walked in at 4 am, got up at 9, hustled to make an important meeting with a client in NYC. I got home that night at 8 – swung by the market and picked up a ‘Get Well’ card. It was too late to call because of the time difference. It was on my list for first thing in the morning…

I’m kicking myself now. I’d pay any price to have one more conversation –

Nana’s last years aren’t how I will remember her anyway – she was in amazing shape, but her hearing was shot, and phone calls were as difficult for her, as it was, me. Ten years ago, we were at my mom’s in Florida, it was tough to keep up with Nana on the beach. She could go for miles. I guess it was that good country living as a child.

Nana was born the year of Haley’s Comet, when organic food was the only food. She was raised on a farm outside of London, just a child during the era of the silent movie and the horseless carriage, a mother of two during the era of the wireless, a grandparent during the time of Elvis, a great grandparent during the dawn of personal computing. In 2008, in the era of the Internet, she’s gone.

I can’t imagine how she processed kids today with their mobile phones and Google, but she seemed to take it all in stride. She’d lived through World War One and Hitler bombing London, Vietnam, the Falklands, and now Iraq. She’d had much joy in her life, but lots of heartache too. She was the last of nine siblings.

My mother and father moved to America on the Queen Mary back in 1957. I was the first American born in the family. Nana visited every couple of years – it was like Christmas when she stayed at our house. We’d drive up from Philadelphia to JFK and wait for her in the Pan Am Terminal. The journey was a marvel, my Nana coming out of customs packed to the gills for a six-week stay, her pockets filled with English chocolates and biscuits, her suitcases jammed with gifts. I’d gawk at the funny colored pound notes and the odd shaped coins in her purse. Dad got English cigarettes, mom gooseberry jam and magazines; I’d scan the pages for words spelled funny like colour.

Strange things appeared in the fridge when Nana was at the house -- prune juice and borscht were her favorites; the adults drank tea instead of coffee -- she loved Campari and Soda too.

I made my first UK trip in ’64, but it was the Summer of Love I remember most because my sister and I were sent there for three months while my parents sorted out their divorce. Supposedly I saw the Stones in Hyde Park. I do remember navigating the Underground, traveling across London on my own at the age of ten. And there was nothing finer than Fish and Chips served up in newspaper. But it was shocking to discover that England had only two TV channels; one didn’t start until late afternoon.

I lived in the UK from 89-92, and during that period I saw Nana often. The second year I was there, my grandpa died. At least I was there to help with the arrangements. I also gave the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, even though I hadn’t spoken Hebrew in over twenty years.

I made several trips back over the past 16 years, and each time I wondered if this was the last time I’d see Nana. It got to the point that I stopped thinking about it because it seemed as if she would go on forever. Everyone thought she’d reach a hundred, and talking to her last month, she sounded strong and alert. But the last few years were not easy. Her body parts wore thin, and with her peers long gone, the will to live weakened.

I think she was ready.

I loved my Nana and I will miss her dearly, and even though she lived a long and prosperous life, losing her now is no easier. We had a lot of laughs together, she had chutzpah, she was some woman, and just the thought of her makes me smile.

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. The Yankees spend the most money and have won the most championships – even when they were down earlier this year, you knew that team had to turn things around – with the Mets or Phillies, you just don’t know.

Met fans feel like 2nd class citizens to the Yankees, but compared to most other teams, they spend a ton – the Mets over paid for Billy Wagner, the closer the Phillies once had. Met fans are so focused on the wealth of the Yankees that they forget they're one of the rich kids.

One Met fan told me that at this point it doesn’t matter if they get in this year, he can’t put his heart back into it after being crushed this month. I know that feeling – last night’s Philly loss was a crusher – I got one lousy day of celebration and boom, it was gone – that sense of sinking was back.

Was it worth all the suffering, that one day in first, with the Mets in misery?

This is a question that politicians won’t answer. If you can’t stand up for what you truly believe, you can’t ever be your own man or woman. You can’t be for the war and against it. You can’t take both sides and hope nobody notices. You can’t be for both the Yankees and the Mets if you live in New York.

So was it worth the suffering?

It’s now the third inning of both games and the Phils are in front of the Nationals; the Mets are off to a disaster of epic proportions – for me the answer is yes, but if the situation were reversed, I’d probably say no. Later on today, I might change my mind, depending on if the scores remain the same.

But anyone that knows me, can say with certainty that regardless of what happens today, next season, I’ll be rooting for my Phillies….

That’s the sort of certainty we need in our elected officials too.

PS -- It's now Sunday Night -- The Phillies are Division Champs -- I still can't believe it. I feel for my friends who support the Mets -- to their credit, they won't be jumping on the Yankee band wagon -- they'll suffer through a very long, cold winter. I know that pain all too well.

September 23, 2007

Westport is a beautiful town with a rich cultural tradition. It boasts some of the finest schools in the country. The beaches are beautiful and the Country Playhouse, revitalized by Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, is magnificent.

But nowadays Westport is also overcrowded. McMansions dominate the landscape, traffic is brutal. It takes twenty-minutes to reach Main Street during rush hour, only two miles a way. There is also a five-year waiting list to get a railroad parking permit.

In my novel, My Year as a Clown, the theme of change and loyalty is developed through Chuck Morgan’s commitment to staying in Putnam’s Landing, a fictional town based on Westport. The name Putnam’s Landing pays homage to the late Westport author, Max Schulman, who wrote a novel called Rally Round the Flag. His town was called Putnam’s Landing, set in the ‘50’s; even back then there was tension amongst residents – the commuters, mostly ad men, making big money, versus working class residents that wanted things to stay the way they were.

Not much has changed. It’s mostly bankers with the money now, but I was fortunate to have bought my house in 1992. I’ve refinanced to keep doing my art just to cover expenses. With gas at three bucks, oil at record highs, property tax moving upward, a recent sewer assessment as well, I’ve had no choice but to consult to pay the bills. I’m lucky to have a skill that can make money. I have fabulous clients and the work is interesting, but if I could, I would live modestly, writing novels and songs.

Most Westporters commute to Manhattan. Metro North has its issues, but for the most part, it’s a reliable and convenient means of transport. A parking permit is gold, and even though I haven’t needed one for ten years, I kept mine current. The permit is $225.

I hit the city once a week. I try to avoid peak-hour trains to save money, but the last two times I couldn’t find a parking space. I’ve taken the train for fifteen years. There was always a permit spot. Not anymore. There used to be a lot of farms here too, now they’re housing developments.

Each ticket is a twenty-five dollar fine. I got two this week. I’ve appealed both, but the woman at the desk said they cut no one a break.

It’s a Catch 22 – go to the city to make money so you can pay the taxes to live here, and yet there are no parking spaces for the train. Good thing I can do work from home, otherwise, I’d go broke trying to earn enough money to pay those taxes.

September 17, 2007

I feel bad for the Patriot players because their three Super Bowl victories are now tainted. Unlike the home run frenzy of the late 90’s where Maguire, Bonds and Sosa, made the choice to take steroids, the New England players are innocent of illegal behavior.

Whether it’s sports, business or home, cheating is wrong, but if you can get away with it, too many people say: why not?

I know a guy who made a fortune on Wall Street with insider trading. He got busted, spent a year in jail, paid a large fine, but walked out of confinement into luxury. To this day, he lives like a king. He suffered embarrassment, but shows no remorse or shame; in fact he’s quite proud of his social scars. He lives with no regrets, or at least that’s the front he puts up.

We will never know the true impact stealing signals played in the Patriots past victories. Apparently all teams try to steal these coded commuincations, but there are rules as to this thievery, a code of so-called honor amongst this elite club of NFL owners and executives. At least this commissioner is doing something about aberrant behavior – the baseball owners knew about the steroid use, but coming off of that strike in the 90’s, the game needed juice (no pun intended); they looked the other way. But it cost the sport because this era will always be known as the steroid period.

I’ve never understood the win at any cost adage. Lets'say the Pats did have an unfair advantage during those Super Bowl victories -- for those that knew, how do they handle it when kids look up to them as role models? They have accepted the spoils of triumph, the accolades, money and endorsements, but at night when that head hits the pillow, what goes on in their minds? Does it eat at the soul? Perhaps it is a private hell in a pimped-up Escalade, champions afflicted with the unseen rot of guilt.

But what if cheaters have no conscious, no remorse? What if their sense of entitlement trumps the angel of consciousness?

If that’s the case, let's hope that the joy and thrill of victory is so fleeting, like a coffee and donut sugar rush. These people are addicts and no amount of success can satisfy them.

At least I can rest my head at night knowing my teams don't cheat, or at least if they do, they aren't very good at it -- Philadelphia clubs haven't won a championship in any sport since 1983...

September 10, 2007

This week I worked on flushing out the main character for the docudrama about kids who play soccer in Somalia for peace. Their coach, Geela, is now the focus, and yet he only played a small part in the creative non-fiction piece I wrote for the NGO Concern Worldwide.

Focusing in on Geela takes the spotlight off of the kids, bringing to life the struggle to survive by focusing in on one person. It also gives the movie a central character and someone to root for.

Geela is a remarkable man. He was a soccer star, a father, a mentor, a refugee, a prisoner; for a time he was a man with nothing but the clothes on his back. Geela was also the Elman Football Club coach who led the team on a historic trek across Somalia in 2003 to play soccer and promote peace.

As a soccer star, Geela embodied commitment, hard work, perseverance and ultimately, triumph. In a way, he was as unlikely a hero as Herb Brooks, the US Olympic Hockey coach, both reluctantly thrust upon a political stage. But Geela won no Olympic medals, he wasn’t married to an International pop star as is David Beckham; few people outside Somalia knew his name.

Geela didn’t intend to be an extraordinary father either. He was like most dads, with the same aspirations for their families. He wanted to protect, nurture and love them, but few faced famine and civil war as a father, unless of course that man lived in Africa. What distinguished Geela was the juxtaposition of high profile soccer player/coach and family man against civil war, famine, and flight.

I wrote another three pages of material about this man, his time in a refugee camp, the month he spent in prison, and of course a recap of the Elman Club trek across Somalia.

I have no idea what comes next in this process of converting my story into a screenplay, but in theory someone who does, is going to help me.

As things progress, I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.

September 3, 2007

Earlier this year I was fortunate to refinance my house. It’s unclear today, with the sub-prime mess, whether I’d have closed given my independent lifestyle.

When the proceeds hit my bank account, half the cash went to pay-off my ex-wife (don’t ask). For the rest, I made a wish list of things needed or wanted:

Needed:

New roof (no leaks yet, fingers crossed)
New car (drive a ’94 that has lousy gas mileage)
Emergency cash reserve (you just never know, do you?)
Electric Kettle (I drink a lot of green tea, okay)
Winter jacket (It gets damn cold here)


Wanted:


New digital camera (mine is 4 years old, an eternity)
HDTV (what guy doesn’t drool for one?)


Or


Make a new CD (got enough material now for a 2nd CD)


The roof and car will wipe out this cash; but I'll wait until these things are absolutley needed. So I put all but three grand into the bank.


I walked around Best Buy and surfed the web salivating over HDTVs. I’m not a huge TV watcher, but I do like to catch the Phillies when they’re competitive, and they say the Eagles will be good this year. But every week the price keeps dropping, but there's lots of hidden costs -- wires, installation, extra service charges from the cable company.

And there’s nothing wrong with my Sony WEGA 27inch. It’s got a great picture and is only three years old.


So I went for a studio upgrade so that I can make a killer second CD. I’ll also record a few other folks to cover these costs (and buy those essentials on my NEED list like the jacket and kettle).


The new system is a complete overhaul from what I had. It comes with a host of sophisticated programs that simulate real-world compressors, limiters, eqs, reverb, the specialty devices designed to manipulate and enhance audio. I can fix an out-of-tune singer. I can take a dry guitar signal and make it sound like its being played through a stack of Marshall Amplifiers. The sound manipulation is virtually unlimited.


But there’s a danger when you’ve got all of this capability to overdo it. Often it’s what you don’t do that is most effective. That note not played can make all the difference.


By mid-September I'll be fully operational.


Stay tuned.

August 27

In ’04 I briefly met the director of the Squaw Valley Screenwriting Program, Diana Fuller. At the time, I was attending the conference for fiction. I told her that I wanted to take a crack at a screenplay, but I had no clue how.

She was kind enough to read one of my short stories. She encouraged me to apply to her program even though I’d never written for film. Over the next three years, with all the best intentions, I never got around to doing it.

A few weeks ago I was back at Squaw. At one of the evening programs, an instructor read several scenes from a teleplay about Katrina. It slayed me. Tragically, that project was killed due to lack of advertising support.

I ran into Diana the last night of the conference and told her I was inspired by the Katrina tele-play reading. I told her that I was still interested in writing for film. I also mentioned that I’d written a creative non-fiction piece about Somali kids who play soccer to promote peace.

She asked to see the story and when I got home I emailed it to her. She responded the next day saying she thought it was terrific. Diana added that if I was serious, she would help.

Last week she gave me my first assignment – flush out whose story it is by bringing the character to life in two pages. She also wanted me to address why I was telling this person's story. It sounded easy enough, but she warned me that it wouldn’t be.

I said I’d get back to her in three weeks.

I reread my piece that night trying to determine who the central character would be – three quickly came to mind. What was most interesting is that depending on which character I focused on, it was a very different story. I gave the piece to a friend to see what she thought. She identified one of the three people I'm considering, but she also came up with an entirely different way to think about the story – it was a killer idea and totally out of the box. I would never have come up with that.

Still, I’m not sure which way to go. Perhaps I'll write out the four to see what comes of it.

--

We’re at the end of summer. As a kid, I hated these last weeks of August because soon enough I’d be back in a classroom.

We had record lows on Tuesday, but today it’s hot again. I’m not complaining. Soon enough the snow will be falling and the fire place will be crackling. Hopefully I’ll be well on the way with this screenplay.

August 20, 2007

Can I interest you in a deal on organic vegetables imported from China?

Would you feel more confident in the integrity of the produce if it came from California’s Central Valley?

The reality is that you can’t be assured of anything from either producer since the US organic government standards are all over the place. Inspection is worse.

According to The New York Times, there are only 9 people in the US Dept of Agricultural Organic Advisory Board, the group responsible for setting organic standards. They also coordinate inspections.

No wonder no one knows what organic means.

Most people believe free range chickens roam around the barnyard, clucking away until it’s time to go to slaughter, but that’s not even close to the truth.

US businesses are in no hurry to establish standards because food companies can gain an instant profit boost by labeling products organic. But this is foolish, short-term thinking. It is in everyone’s best interest to establish clear guidelines and proper inspection before the bubble bursts on everything organic.

If you knew a product contained a ‘so-called’ organic ingredient from China, would you buy it?

At the moment, I’m leery toward everything Chinese. I’m not xenophobic, but the rush to capitalism from both sides is problematic. American companies are as eager to exploit the Chinese market as the Chinese are to sell us inexpensive parts and provide cheap labor. The last thing either side wants is cumbersome government regulations; but some sort of oversight is required to assure safety.

If you’re a CEO of a food company, you need to review outsourcing programs. Companies can't rely on the Chinese government, the US government, or a third party to do the job. It makes no sense to put your brand in jeopardy for short-term profit…or my life…

Mattel realized it's mistakes, but how many other companies still have their head in the sand?


Voters must speak up, or we will continue to be duped by so-called organic products that have very little to do with anything natural or healthy.

August 13, 2007

Just got back from the Squaw Valley Writers’ Conference. It was great to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen since ’04.

Plot often is a four-letter word at conferences, and yet Aristotle said that plot was the most difficult task for a writer; it’s my greatest challenge too.

Lots of literary types criticized Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code, and rightly so; but there was no denying the plot. Despite poor writing and cardboard characters, the book was impossible to put down.

I spent a lot of time this week thinking about how to keep my stories moving.

At Squaw, participants present 20 pages of fiction for critique. This year my workshop was predominantly novel excerpts. This is unusual because short stories are complete and easier to dissect. I guess it was fate that I too had brought along a new opening for my book.

A novel presents all sorts of challenges in a workshop format, and at first, I was frustrated. Not having all of the story makes it difficult to evaluate because critical information is missing -- what someone looks like for instance, can't be repeated in every chapter. Presenting the opening avoids some of this, but inevitably, I wanted background information to help evaluate the piece, or worse, I wanted to tinker with the book’s narrative presented in the synopsis.

But chapter one of a novel is all about hooking the reader – getting them to continue on. Sounds simple enough, and obvious, but not so easy to do in practice. Some stories require lots of background or lots of setting in the beginning. Some should unfold slowly. Others must begin with a burst of information -- it all depends on the material.

This week I gained a keener insight into how to launch a story because I had the opportunity to look at several beginnings in workshop. It’s a lot easier to see what needs doing when you aren’t attached to the material, or bogged down by being so close to the details.

I’m back home now, and hopefully, with a fresh perspective to finish this novel.

While I was away I heard that a tornado touched down in Brooklyn. That seems hard to believe, but in 2007, the weather has been so crazy, it seems as if anything is possible.

Stay cool, dry too.

All the best,

rsw

August 5, 2007

I know it’s cool to say you don’t like TV, but I have a handful of shows that I enjoy watching. My favorite is the Office. I watch a handful of House (Hugh Laurie is amazing). I’ve been known to watch 24 (but that last season should have stopped at 18). Loved the Sopranos and Entourage (but I cut HBO – so I catch the DVDs when they come out). I also flip amongst the Sunday news programs while on a treadmill between 10 and 11 am.

Summer used to be exclusively reruns, but lately networks have been running new programs. I’ve enjoyed the Bronx is Burning – the retrospective on the ’77 season of the Yankees. In ’76 I lived in Philadelphia, and opted to move west to California. I never considered NY an option because things were so bad there. This series reminds me of all the trouble and angst – it’s a far different place today.

Mad Men is about advertising in 1960 on Madison Avenue. It’s a period piece. I love the ad work, but I’m already getting bored with the non-stop chauvinism, smoking and hard liquor before lunch. I understand that things were a lot different in the sixties, and maybe advertising was more extreme – but in this agency, a sheepish new secretary has slept with two ad execs in her first week. She even made an advance toward the boss, thinking it was part of her job (thankfully, he said no). Working at this agency makes a record company of the late 70’s seem tame. Still, the sets, clothing and hairstyles are well done, but it's the insights into the advertising breakthroughs of that period that will keep me watching.

I’ve also caught the first episodes of Kill Point – a bank robbery gone bad; and Damages, starring Glenn Close as an aggressive and apparently damaged attorney. What’s interesting about these two shows is that both feature an extremely wealthy business man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Both have security men who hand over briefcases filled with cash to men who take care of things that require special handling. You often see this cliché in a story. It made me wonder – does Bill Gates have a man that does his dirty work? Rupert Murdoch? Everyone assumes that Dick Cheney does, but does he really?

I’m in California this week. Watch some TV (or not). Stay cool. Thanks for reading.

rsw

July 30, 2007

Nowadays lots of folks seem to know their credit score. When did that start and why has it become so important? Some people drop their score in cocktail conversation, as if it’s got cache. For some, a low tally is a badge of honor; it’s like giving the finger to the system, the way potheads once did by flunking out of high-school gym.

Living here in Fairfield County, where every other car is a Lexus or seven hundred series BMW, I was amazed to discover the breadth of low scores by folks living in McMansions. Clearly there’s an art to spending other people’s money. It’s a skill I have yet to master.

For me, a credit score is like my waist size or age, it’s something I keep to myself. But when I refinanced last month, I wanted to know what condition my credit was in before I applied. FreeCreditReport.com seemed like the logical place to go.

Get your score and whole lot more. And best of all, its free, and yet it’s not.

To get access to your free report, you have to sign up for the service, which includes giving them a credit card. You do get the first thirty days free – then it’s 12.95 a month, but to avoid paying, you’ve got to navigate the FreeCreditReport.com cancellation policy, which requires a deft hand with convoluted instructions and persistence.

It’s not as if FreeCreditReport.com pretends that anything is free. They asked for a credit card right away. When I said to the customer service rep, but it’s free, she said, yes, it is free, but I still need your credit card.

I accepted their terms with the goal of getting out before the charges were tacked on. I braved the steps required to cancel before my card got nailed; but that journey was not for the faint of heart. Beware those of you who desire a free credit report with no strings attached, the fear of God will be reaped down upon you for trying to extricate yourself from this garden of FreeCreditReport.com.

“Do you have any idea how serious ID theft is,” the customer service rep com had told me when I finally got a human being on the phone.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“But with FreeCreditReport.com you’ll be able to monitor your credit score daily. Do you know how important it is to keep on top of this?”

I told them that I understood what a fabulous deal FreeCreditReport.com was, but I still wanted to cancel my subscription. It took another twenty minutes to complete the cancellation.

I also successfully refinanced, but I was amazed at the onslaught of mail that showed up from companies that gave the illusion that they were associated with my mortgage. It was as if I was already doing business with them. They knew the bank, the amount, even the interest rate. These firms wanted to sell me insurance and other financial products. I tossed most of this junk out, but occasionally I got one that looked so offical, if I ignored it, I’d go into default.

There should be a law against such misleading marketing. This material should be clearly labeled with the following:

We have nothing to do with your mortgage or the company that gave you the loan. We are scum and we troll web sties that report loans issued so that we can put the fear of God into you in hopes you’ll give us all of your identification information so that we can rip you off big time.

Maybe I should start a web site called FreeAdvice.com – send me five bucks and I’ll send you a free email with the most amazing advice – here’s free tip number one – oh, but first, could you send the five bucks to:

60 Old Road
Westport, CT 06680

Your free advice will be sent promptly...

July 23

Nine years ago I attended my first creative workshop – a songwriting class taught by Jimmie Dale Gilmore. I’d just gotten laid off and had decided to embark on a major life change. Jimmie’s workshop was the first step. But if someone had told me that I would still be struggling despite writing three novels and over a hundred songs, that I’d be divorced and often out of touch with the contemporary world, I’d have said they’re absolutely bonkers, or if that’s truly what will happen, I’ll stop now and go back to the corporate world.

Thank God I didn’t.

Looking back I’m amazed at my creative and personal growth. Looking forward, I’m excited about the possibilities. But boy, did I suck back then. And yet, I had no idea. Good thing. I probably would have stopped.

It's not that I sucked sucked, but for someone with aspirations beyond open mics, I was pretty bad.

I don’t play any of the songs presented at that first workshop, even though at the time, I was convinced that once Jimmie had heard them, he’d start making phone calls. Of course I wasn’t the only one that thought that.

Those that have apprenticed with Jimmie over the years have learned that getting plugged in is about tuning into oneself and the writing community, not about hooking into the music business.

This weekend I returned to a new course Jimmie runs -- the advanced songwriting class. It’s held at Omega in the Hudson Valley. The retreat was like reconnecting with family. I knew all but three of the participants; it took no time to feel comfortable and at home. Of the 12 in attendance, three were from that ’98 workshop.

But like any reunion, I experienced plenty of angst and discomfort.

When I turned on to the Taconic Parkway, I stared getting nervous. I hadn’t seen Jimmie in three years. What if he didn’t remember me? What if nobody liked my new songs? What if I’m the worst writer in the group? These are ridiculous things to mull, but my mind generates a gazillion thoughts and it’s not like I truly believed any of this; but it’s easy to wander down a dark alley.

The butterflies were gone with the first warm embraces. It was mostly smooth sailing from there. The experience was grounding, it was a chance to reflect on my journey, to tap back into the energy that launched my creative self; it was an opportunity to recalibrate.

This weekend was filled with great music and conversation that ran deep into the night. It doesn’t get much better than that.

With any luck, next year I'll look back at this current body of work and see even more growth and development.

July 16, 2007

Zheng Xiaoyu was executed by the Chinese government last week. He wasn’t a dissident or radical student. He was no terrorist or threat to communism. He was the man in charge of China’s FDA.

Xiaoyu was found guilty of taking bribes from businesses seeking government approval for food and drugs. He became the face of the pet food debacle, of tainted toothpaste and toys, of drugs that killed instead of cured.

China believed swift action would show the world that they were serious about eliminating food and drug mishaps.

Much in the way the United States fails to understand the international community; it is interesting to see that China too, has a curious view on how the West thinks. They believed a swift execution of the man in charge would convince us that they had sorted out the problem. I found China’s action barbaric. I also think that we are making a huge mistake embracing everything Chinese.

A rapid rush to capitalism inevitably results in cut corners by unsavory characters. Without comprehensive government oversight, it is impossible to eliminate corruption. It has taken the United States several hundred years to balance free enterprise with the safety of its citizens; too often it’s still out of whack. Look how long it took for cigarette companies to admit to the dangers of smoking. And let's not forget Enron.

Access to China’s markets and cheap labor drives us to do business there, and yet net / net – China exports far more than it imports. This imbalance will accelerate China’s rise to global market domination.


The problem the West faces is as much themselves as it is China. No company wants to give up Chinese sourcing because it’s so cheap. An entire industry would have to collectively say, we aren’t buying from them until we know for sure that they can deliver goods to an acceptable standard. As if that would ever happen.

Western companies will however, listen to the market. Consumers must speak out to ensure that executives are held accountable for international sourcing decisions. Don’t buy products from companies that refuse to divulge their source of ingredients.

No one can guarantee 100% safety, but US companies can avoid questionable suppliers and not hinder the legislative process that improves food supply safety.

In a few weeks Paris Hilton will do some inane act that will displace ingredient labeling from the headlines. Without another rash of sicknesses or deaths we will forget about these dangers.

China is like no other country in the world. It has much to offer, but it is a mistake to think we can control its growth and influence. But we can lead by example by setting product standards here and ensure that all companies adhere to them. We need more FDA inspectors and improved procedures at ports. We should also work more closely with world organizations to promote improved international standards and enforcement.

In 2007, nobody should die from brushing their teeth regardless of their income, race, or country.

July 7, 2007

Al Gore’s Live Earth blitzes the planet on 7/7/07. Since 9/11 we’ve seen a lot of these big music initiatives from Live 8 to Concerts for Katrina. Last Sunday there was even a show for Diana at Wembley.

This week’s activity reminded me of an evening in April, 1999. I was watching thousands of refugees being herded on to trains in Kosovo. The scene reminded me of the Nazis, and it made me think that there hadn’t been a massive rock event since Live Aide in 1985. I set out to change that with Rock for Refugees.

I’d only been out of the music business ten months – my rolodex hadn’t completely dried up. I wrote a piece that Billboard published urging the music business to get off their asses. Although I wanted support for Rock for Refugees, I didn’t care how or who made something happen, just as long as something took place.

Doing a benefit still costs a lot of money even if the performers donate their time. Although I had promoted concerts in college and did a brief stint with a Southern Californian promoter, I knew that I needed a partner. A friend knew John Scher, the NY promoter, and I got to produce the show. He reserved a date at Madison Square Garden. I needed an 80,000 dollar deposit, but I didn't have to put up the cash for six weeks.

The Billboard article generated a lot of attention. Virtually every major label put Rock for Refugees on their agenda the week my story ran. I also got Rolling Stone and the NY Daily News to run stories.

I still needed a half-a-million dollars of working capital, because it’s against the law to use tickets sales to cover costs. There were union workers at the Garden to pay, stadium rent, advertising, and even if the performers played for free, I still had to get them to the show, house and feed them.

I needed corporate sponsors to cover the cost, so I started calling Harvard B-school classmates. Several considered supporting Rock for Refugees. I also had two charities set up to be recipients, Concern Worldwide and Doctors without Borders.

U2, Pearl Jam, and Smashing Pumpkins were the first to show genuine interest. I only needed one to commit and then everything would fall into place. In 1999, all three were monster acts.

Meanwhile the images from Kosovo continued to show the brutality and hardships of a million people in desperate need.

And then I got a call from a major music icon, a figure that had been involved with major artists since the 60’s. It wasn’t his secretary, it was actually him ringing me. Of course I knew who he was; anyone in the business knew this guy, but he tells me who he is and what he’s done, just in case. Then he tells me that he’s been working in secret on a global event to eradicate poverty. They were only two weeks from making the big announcement, when I stepped in with Rock for Refugees. He told me to back down because NETAID had Cisco Systems bankrolling his event.

I told him that I was just a guy trying to make something happen. Global poverty was certainly a worthy cause, but that wasn’t going to help Kosovo.

A month later the war came to an end, and the momentum for Rock for Refugees slowed. The people still needed the money, but when U2 decided to go with NETAID, that put an end to my show. The guy from LA called and asked if I wanted to help them and I did. But that effort was flawed for many reasons. The shows took place, but most people didn’t see it. In the Live Earth coverage, NETAID was never mentioned as a predecessor.

You can understand my healthy skepticism when it comes to such things now. Even Sir Bob Geldoff saw flaws in this earth event, but anything that gets folks talking about the environment can’t be bad. They say this is a Tipping Point for global warming, but I don’t believe that. The underlying driver behind tipping points is activity at the margin; a big manufactured event never causes the tip…

This event has caused me to make an energy saving move -- I will keep the TV off during Live Earth --
I think that will earn me one carbon offset.

Scams or legit? It depends on your point of view...

July 2,2007

The director of A&R for iLLUMINA Records contacted me through MySpace last week saying he’d just come across my page and really liked ‘Zen Cowboy.’ He cited specific lyrics and said he thought I’d make a great addition to their ‘Connecticut Rockers For Life’ campaign. He left his number and told me to call right away.

I send songs and stories out every day; mostly I get no response, or a form rejection letter. When someone calls unsolicited and they’re from a record company, it gets my attention.

It’s not the first time. Last year a director of A&R at a UK company, Matchbox Records, hit me with a similar pitch. They were putting a compilation together that would reach hundreds of radio and record folks throughout Europe. They loved my stuff and wanted me on board, but they only had a few spots left. I had to make a decision quickly. It would only cost 400 pounds to be part of the project.

iLLUMINA has a unique angle in that their compilation is linked to drunk-driving awareness. It’s unclear exactly what that angle is, but it gives them the illusion of more credibility.

I googled them and the men behind the company. I listened to the iLLUMINA compilations. Mostly, it was their web site material that came up. The bands sounded pretty good, and the web site has lots of testimonials; but what made me suspicious was the lack of legitimate press clippings – nothing from Billboard, the Boston Globe (where they’re based), or Rolling Stone. The execs state to be record biz veterans, but I found nothing on their previous employment.

But I did find several musician forums asking if anyone had gotten a similar pitch via MySpace. Apparently, I’m not so special.

Here’s something worse:

A hip, San Diego free music paper contacted me awhile back through MySpace – The Reviewer. I’d gone to San Diego State, so we had a cool chat – and I sent them my CD. They wrote back saying that they’d love to review it in the upcoming issue. I was excited that a young, hip paper like this would support my music. Then I got a note asking if I’d like to advertise – the email contained direct links to VISA/PAYPAL etc. I told them funds were tight (that’s no lie). When the issue came out, I asked them to send me a copy; I offered to pay, but I never heard back. I want to believe that they just spaced out, but I couldn’t find the review on the web site and he didn’t offer to email a copy of the review either.

Here’s something that’s bugged me for awhile, but others don’t seem so bothered:

Sonic Bids is an electronic press kit service that most of the industry uses for contest and audition submissions. Everyone from the John Lennon Songwriting Contest to the Folk Alliance Showcases uses Sonic Bids. You pay a fee. It’s sent electronically. You save time and postage. Once you sign up, you get daily emails with new, exciting opportunities, sometimes three a day. Each submission costs five to thirty bucks. Many of the opportunities are like airline deals – they are legitimate, but there are few winners – thousands apply.

These contests are no different from the short story and poetry ones listed in Poets & Writers.

All contests are money makers for the sponsors. The odds of winning are slim. Sonic Bids takes a cut of each entry. I’ve placed in a few contests, winning hard cash, so I’m not claiming sour grapes; but if I tally entry fees, I’m clearly in a deep hole. I could easily spend five hundred a week, saving money and time, by submitting to programs I probably won’t win.

What boggles my mind more is that despite these odds and the costs, I keep at it, as do so many other artists. My admiration continues to grow for all those that hammer away at their craft, never losing faith.

But I have no time for those that prey on the ones who don’t know any better. I’m an experienced, around the block sort of guy, and I still fall for spiels.

To be good at your art, we artists must become exposed and vulnerable to get deep into the truths of human emotion. In that process, while under a barrage of daily rejection, a few kind words can lull us into thinking someone really gets what we do…

I’m still tempted to call iLLUMINA Records. I want them to be legitimate, I really do…

But I won’t.

June 25, 2007

It’s been 22 years since the federal government raised gas mileage standards. I had no idea it had been that long, but it’s not that surprising. Why is it getting dealt with now? Because this war has finally woken us up to the fact that being dependent on the Middle East is not such a bright idea. Duh…

Coupled with a growing concern about global warming, politicians are finally standing up to the car and oil lobby. True visionaries, our elected officials, aren’t they?

The last federal mandate to raise mileage dates back to 1975 when vehicles averaged a paltry 14 miles to the gallon. High inflation and gas rationing got politicians off their asses back then. The goal was 27 mpg by 1985. The car companies screamed, claiming they could never do it. Cars would become too expensive, blah, blah, blah…but they did; most with time to spare.

But they’ve managed to keep increased standards off the legislative docket ever since. Jesus. These guys deserve to be taken down by foreign imports -- it’s too bad that it cost the folks in the factory their jobs. But they weren’t innocent bystanders either – arcane union rules have hampered US competitiveness for decades.

Capitalism means companies are driven by profit; the sad reality of a global economy is that a corporation with a conscious can not compete with company that pushes the legal limit on everything. I'm okay with this system if govenment is strong enough to stand up for what’s best for the environment, the people, and the economy. Government must balance these factors and govern wisely.

When business has too much access, then the people get fucked. When politicians allow company lobbyists to write legislation, that’s a major abuse of the capitalist process. To date, car and oil companies have had too much access. Politicians have put their interest in front of the people's, and that's a serious breach of responsibility.

The best thing the US government could have done to assure US global car competitiveness would have been to mandate higher gas mileage standards. Forced to innovate, US companies would have found a way.

But this isn’t just about manufacturing competitiveness, this goes to the heart of our global war on terror. How dependent on the Middle East would we be today if cars averaged 50 mpg? Would we care as much about what goes on there if we didn’t need their oil? Would we have gone into Iraq? What responsibility do oil and car executives have for our vulnerable position?

Mainstream Republicans fought this energy bill because they are still in the oil and car folks back pockets. Shame on them. They claim that cars will become lighter, smaller, and more expensive, that if Americans understood that, they’d be against this bill too. They also say that if cars are more efficient, we’ll drive more, and so raising standards will not lower carbon emissions. I totally disagree, but I'd admire the conservative spin doctor's audacity.

One million Priuses have now been sold in the US. The market has spoken. If GM and Ford had spent more money in R&D for hybrids, perhaps a little less on lobbying, maybe they wouldn’t be in the crapper today.

The Energy bill still has to pass in the House, and the president always has the option to veto, but I think we’re all getting hip to what’s going down in Washington. It’s a shame that it took gas prices near four bucks to get our attention, but now that it has, let’s not lose interest.

June 20, 2007

In an era where everything is for sale, it still horrified me to see the Target commercial that bastardizes the Beatle’s song -- Hello – Good Bye.

It’s not the first Beatle song to be used in a commercial, but what made this use particularly irksome was Target’s change of bye to buy -- quite clever from an advertising perspective. I can just imagine how impressed the creative team was with themselves for coming up with such an abomination.

Ironically, it might have been Nike’s use of the Beatle’s Revolution back in 1986 that started this trend of using classic rock in advertising. Not that the Beatles could have stopped Nike, since Michael Jackson bought the rights to Beatle songs in the 70s (although that right does not apply to the actual Beatle recordings); but if John Lennon had been alive, it seems to me, he would have found a way to stop them.

Will a kid whose first exposure to Hello/Goodbye via this commercial always think of the lyric as Hello/Good Buy? Talk about a cultural crime.

This makes me think of the film Demolition Man, a futuristic cop film with Sly Stallone and Sandra Bullock, where people listened to jingles from the 20th century, believing those were the classics of the time – this was due to corporate control of cultural history. It certainly is possible that two hundred years from now governance as we know it today, could shift to the board room.

And then again, corporate culture has been around since day one. DaVinci had his sponsors. So did Mozart, my guess is, so did Socrates and Plato.

Television also came of age through corporate sponsorship. Why do you think those daytime dramas are called soap operas: brought to you by Tide Detergent.

But today, the line between sponsorship and art has blurred. Coke cups sit on the desks of Idol judges. Sports stadiums are known by their benefactor. And even a classy show like Studio 60 uses product placement in ways that are appalling.

The show is about the inner workings of a program like SNL. In one episode, Sting appeared on the Studio 60 show, but really he was just plugging his new CD. Character dialogue actually touted the new tracks. In another episode Studio 60 producers argued with the suits about product placement, dropping names of real products, as they did their best to keep brand names out of the show. Imagine the smarmy looks of the ones who came up with that.

Remember the flak over colorization? That was the process of converting black-and-white films to color. I hated the idea, but lots of people loved it. Imagine if they went back and digitized product placement into such films – Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz wakes up in Kansas with a fresh cup of Folgers. Bogart serves Grey Goose at Ricks…

Don’t laugh, someone’s probably working on it as you read this…

June 11, 2007

Jacuzzi Repair: the sequel

A few weeks ago I wrote about feeling vulnerable to both blue and white collar service professionals – last week I fought back against The Jacuzzi guy.

Two seasons ago he’d repaired the leak, heating element and pump, but it started leaking within a month of the repair and it took almost a year-and-a-half to get him back. We traded a few calls, but the ratio was 8:1 in my favor; but at some point I stopped calling because electricity prices doubled over the last year. I couldn’t afford to run the damn thing anyway.

Now that I’m a freelance marketing consultant for small business, I decided to get it fixed; it still took many calls and several months to get him here.

A few weeks ago I posted a picture of his work: the pump was out of alignment; two bolts sat suspiciously by the side of the metal bracket. I paid another two hundred bucks for that.

I filled the Jacuz on Monday and water rushed out of that pump housing like Niagara Falls. I was furious. I called VISA to stop payment. It was too late, but I registered a dispute.

Next, I called Jacuzzi guy and left this message: The thing leaks big time. Just credit my card and I’ll find someone else. It’s clearly not close to being fixed. There are bolts sitting here. Just credit my card. Thanks.

One day passed without a call back. Two days, nothing.

On day three I called another Jacuzzi company. “He used to work with us,” they said. “We had problems.”

With that reputation would Jacuzzi Guy credit my card?

I called again and left this message: I don’t want any trouble; just credit my card. I also told him what X company had said about his work. Just credit my card and I’ll go somewhere else, okay?

Thirty minutes later, the Jacuzzi Guy was on the phone, aggressive and angry. “Who said that? What did they say? Why didn’t you give me a chance to fix it?”

“I don’t want trouble,” I said. “I just want a credit. The Jacuzzi is clearly leaking. This was the repair of the repair.”

“It’s a different leak. I fixed the other one. Your Jacuzzi is old.”

“The pump isn’t on the board properly,” I told him.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It took me a year-and-a-half to get you back here.”

“My parents were sick, the business had to suffer.”

“Monday you told me the pump was bad; when I showed you the receipt stating you repaired the pump, you hummed and hawed, then said, oh hang on, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Your pump had seized up. I fixed it. This is something totally different.”

“You’ve got an answer for everything, but it’s clearly leaking, and you left here saying it was fixed.”

“You didn’t want to pay me to stick around to fill the tank. We could have found that and sorted it out.”

“I don’t recall that conversation,” I said.

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Just give me a credit.”

“I’m not giving you your fucking money back.”

“You don’t have to curse at me.”

“I wasn’t cursing at you. I’ll come over and fix it this afternoon.”

He returned with his son. Last time he was Quasimodo, hobbled and weak; the son did the work. This time he’s standing upright, and he’s rolling around on the ground, twisting his arms inside the Jacuzzi. Our interaction was frosty. We argued more.

He took the pump out. “It’s a different leak,” he declared. ”I’ll have to take the pump back to my shop. I won’t charge you. When this is done, you can call whoever you want.”

Then he got his old employer on the phone.

“I’m not getting in the middle of that,” I said.

Fortunately all he got was a machine.

He left without a goodbye. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

The very next day he came back with the pump. While waiting for the tub to fill, I go to shake his hand. He refused. I say, shake my hand, I’m going to apologize. “I’m sorry.”

He shook my hand.

Then I said, “But I don’t know you. I can only go by you’re actions and the work. You gave the impression of sloppy work with those bolts. You’re difficult to get a hold of. Your ex-employer gave a bad reference. The Jacuzzi kept leaking. What was I supposed to think?”

He grudgingly admitted that he had some blame here.

And thus ended the sequel of the Jacuzzi Repair Man.

The moral of the story: If I hadn’t gone on the attack, I never would have gotten this fixed, certainly not in twenty-four hours.

June 4, 2007

I never expected to gain insights into race relations by listening to sports talk radio, but compare the WFAN to Stephen A. Smith, on ESPN, and you’ll see a big difference in coverage and opinion.

I saw the divide this week in the Michael Vick story. The Atlanta Falcon quarterback has been accused of being a participant in dog fighting – this is a felony and punishable with jail time.

Stephen A didn’t think it was a big deal; Mike and the Mad Dog were appalled. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, but I think race played a part in this.

Stephen A. said, “I’m from the streets of New York City. I know what real crime is, like rape and murder; Vick should not go to jail for dog fighting. That’s not a real crime.”

I’m a big Stephen A fan. He’s from Philly and I agree with a lot of what he has to say, but this turned me right off.

Everyone knows Stephen A is the man, the guy the black athlete turns to when they need to talk to the media – Kobe doesn’t use Jim Nantz to tell the Lakers he wants out; he’s not going to Bryant Gumble either, it’s Stephen A.

But what did Stephen A mean -- he’s from the streets of New York City? He knows what real crime is…
I took it as: look white America, you can afford to worry about what happens to dogs, we African-Americans are just trying to stay alive as a people. We don’t have enough food to feed our babies; we’ve got murder on our door step. We don’t have the luxury to arrest dog killers, we’ve got to find the guy who murdered little Jamal on 128th.

I doubt Stephen A worries about where his next meal comes from, or little Jamal for that matter; he clearly doesn't care about man's best friend, but I bet he worries about ratings...

He’s pandering to his core audience. Does he really believe that all black people in the South Bronx are ignorant of animal rights issues? Apparently he does. On the flip side, do I have to grow up in the hood to know what crime is? Give me a break Stephen A – and don't insult the black community either.

I understood why white and black were divided on the OJ verdict – Most people believe OJ did it, but lots of blacks have been wrongly convicted over the years; too many whites have gotten off; many African-Americans thought this provided some compensation – a high profile black finally bought his freedom, just the way affluent whites have done since day one.

But I don’t see how any one defends dog fighting; and I'm not alone on that.

Sports talk radio is entertainment, but it often crosses over into news reporting – what responsibility does Stephen A have to educate his audience when he knows something as vile as dog fighting justifies jail time? I guess it depends on how it affects the ratings…

According to Sports Illustrated, lots of football players are into dog fighting – nobody knows if its only black football players, but it doesn’t matter – football players of any color have a lot in common with those dogs bred to fight. These men are bred to play football – three-hundred and fifty pound lineman with necks thick as tree stumps – the average player lasts less than three years; and most suffer chronic injuries the rest of their life.

The NFL player is the modern day gladiator. It is no wonder that dog fighting is of interest. But if credible voices like Stephen A pander for ratings instead talking sense, we are not that far away from football being played for the ultimate stakes – to the death.

You only have to look at the rise in the popularity of Ultimate Fighting to see that this is not that farfetched. Maybe one day, dogs will square off against men – hey, isn’t that a lot like bullfighting?

Stephen A might have the ear of the nation, but he’s lost mine.

May 28, 2007

Blue or white collar, both leave rings...

Blue:

The Jacuzzi repair man hobbled up the steps like Quasimodo; his son, a pimply teen, followed, carrying the tools. “I had a car accident, disc problems,” Quasimodo said, grimacing. “I also need a hip replacement operation.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Can I get you guys some coffee or juice?”

“No thanks.”

The son opened up the Jacuzzi door and poked around with a wrench and voltage meter. I said to Quasimodo, “You fixed a leak two years ago at the end of the season, and it went bad within a month. I kept calling, but your wife said that you’ve been going through a bad patch, that for a year you were out of business.

Quasimodo nodded.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“We’re fine.”

I went back into the kitchen to do some work. About ten minutes later Quasimodo called out, “You need a new pump.”

Damn, I thought, thinking it was just a faulty repair that he’d honor and fix at no cost. “How much?”

“Three hundred to six hundred depending on the size, plus installation.”

“Jezz. That’s why it’s leaking?”

“Yup.”

I grabbed the receipt from two years ago for five-hundred bucks and reread the work he’d performed. “Look at this,” I said, “pump repair. You fixed it last time; it hasn’t had an hour’s worth of operation since you did that. How could it need a new pump?”

“Hmm,” he says and instructs his son to check something with that meter.

The Jacuzzi makes a buzzing sound. “We got lucky,” he says, averting my eyes. “We can fix this.”

White:

Earlier in the week I refinanced my house to lower my payment and pull a little cash out to cover expenses. I’ve lived here fifteen years and have refinanced three other times. In the process of getting this loan I discovered that all the prior mortgages were still attached to the house title. Although the banks got paid, the title stated that I still had five mortgages.

“The lawyer who did those refinances was sloppy,” this new attorney said. “He should have cleared that up. You’re lucky it didn’t wreck your credit. “

Folks tend to do what you inspect, not what you expect. If I hadn’t had that receipt, Quasimodo would have stuck me for another pump repair. And a lawyer at two-hundred-and-fifty an hour should do what he’s paid to do.

As Quasimodo drove away in his banged-up Ford pickup, I wondered what he was saying to his son. Perhaps: If that guy hadn’t kept the receipt, we’d have made an extra five hundred bucks. But what I hoped he had said was, “Son, I should have fixed that damn pump the first time.”

Either way the son was probably figuring out how to tell his dad that he was hanging up the tool belt -- he was heading for law school.

May 20, 2007

This week I considered throwing in the towel after a promising lead for an agent went south. Rejection is part of the publishing process and I've had lots of it; I often spiral for a few hours after getting zinged -- this time was different.

I'm not a quitter. I'm Mr. Confidence. There is nothing I can't do, and I have a track record to back up the bravado, but to date, I have failed to get an agent to represent my fiction. This week I had enough.

"What you need to do," a good friend suggested, "is get the manuscript printed, then die."

He wasn't kidding. Go to ebay and you'll find lots of deceased authors fetching princely sums for unknown books.

This week's rejection was awful because of how positive it was. Here's what happened:

After sending out tons of queries in January for my novel, I finally connected with someone that got me. The agency was a solid, mid-tiered NY group. In early April they wrote via email:


Dear Mr. Williams,

I've spent the last two days completely absorbed in your novel. Chuck's candid, raw narrative left me breathless; I felt as if I were mourning with an old friend in the comfort of my living room. .

This is a quick note to spread my encouragement to you and let you know that I'm passing your manuscript on to X. I will be in touch with you soon.


You can imagine my excitement. No one has ever been this enthusiastic. And yet, I've had many encouraging notes over the years; none panned out. X was the decision maker here, not the note writer; I knew better than to get my hopes up.

But I did. I mean why would anyone send this if they didn't think X would like it?

And each day news did not arrive, I grew less hopeful; then this showed up:

Dear Mr. Williams,

Thank you for letting me read MY YEAR AS A CLOWN. I apologize for the length of time it’s taken to respond; this was a difficult decision for me. I’m also sorry to say that I just fell short of falling in love with this. You’re clearly a talented writer with a keen eye for character development, but for some reason I failed to connect with it fully. I know that’s the most frustrating thing a writer can hear, but I trust that you’ll find (or have found!) a representative who’s whole-heartedly passionate about this.

Thanks for thinking of me and best of luck on your path to publication. Please feel free to send me any of your future projects.

Sincerely,

X (dictated, not signed)

I was talking on the phone when I read that email. The person on the other end thought we'd been disconnected. I had indeed gone mute. My head was spinning. There was bile in the mouth. I ended the call quickly, walked out on to my deck and tossed the cordless phone into the woods.

I didn't sleep for two days. I barely ate. I talked to no one.

The end of this month marks nine years of trying to make a living as a writer. My creative progress has been nothing short of miraculous, but I'm no closer to getting a novel published than I was in year two, when an ICM agent requested the manuscript of my first novel after reading fifty pages (ICM is a top-tier agency).

That book didn't sell either.

I've climbed higher mountains. I moved out of the house before I was 18 and haven't taken a dime from anyone since. I was the first in my family to finish college. I published a non-fiction book, selling 15,000 copies before I turned 30. I once saved a baby raccoon from certain death, but I can't get an agent to represent my fucking fiction.

So I was done. Finito. Sayonara. Hasta la vista, baby…

What brought me back was my ability to keep rewriting. Before that first note had arrived, the rest of the leads from my January blitz had dried out. A few agents had made suggestions (a rarity from what I'm told). I was already rewriting when that first note appeared, but I didn't want to send them the new version since they liked what I'd already sent; instead, I kept rewriting. And that's what pulled me out of the muck this week: I had a new and improved Clown ready to go.

On Friday I rebooted the query process with the fresh manuscript.

Now that I've started a consulting business, the pressure to squeeze cash out of writing has eased. But I still need to disconnect getting published from success. That's not easy in a world where folks judge the quality of wine by the price, songs by the chart position, books by the number of copies sold.

So what was the good in the bad?

Most writers just get a form letter.
X said he'd look at other material.
Someone in the business said she was completely absorbed by my novel.
Blah, blah, blah…

In the end I still got dinged.

This week I was slammed. It was the worst blow ever, almost getting knocked out for good; but I got up before the count of ten. I can't control the reaction to my work; but I can control my response. Next time, and no doubt, there will be many next times, I plan to stay on my feet.

May 14, 2007

I think of Cherry Hill, New Jersey as home even though I left in 1976 and rarely returned. My mom moved out in ’81, and I lost contact with friends still in town. But this week I’m thinking about Cherry Hill because several of the men caught in the Fort Dix terror plot lived there.

It’s difficult to imagine seeing your father killed by a dictator, or having your friends blown to bits in a car bombing; not that it excuses terrorist acts, but you can see how a kid sours under such circumstances. And yet these young men grew up in New Jersey. Granted, things have changed in my home town, and these men are of a different generation. Pockets of immigrant conclaves did not exist when I was growing up there, but it’s still difficult to imagine Islamist Extremists blossoming in the same place where I lost my virginity.

One of the families moved to Cherry Hill from Turkey in 1992. Mr. Tartar experienced the American Dream -- he started out as a dishwasher and ended up owning a pizzeria near Fort Dix. Unfortunately, his business is on the brink of bankruptcy because of a boycott, despite being estranged from his 23 year-old son. The kid had left home at 18 and got in with the wrong crowd.

What happened in Cherry Hill to make this young man susceptible to such extreme influences?

I can’t imagine anything happening there that could have turned this kid into a potential terrorist. But I’m not Muslim. I’m not Turkish. My father wasn’t a dishwasher. How could I know of anything that this kid experienced?

And yet thinking back to my youth, I realized even in my day, there was an underbelly to what was considered a great place to live, home to America’s first enclosed shopping mall; even Muhammad Ali lived there at the apex of his career.

I graduated high school in 1976 in a haze of pot smoke. In my junior year, the son of a high ranking, law-enforcement officer threatened to kill me because I pressed charges against him for throwing a brick through my folk’s living room window – my step-sister had a party and she knew better than to let him in. We were lucky that's all he threw.

A few years after I graduated, one of my high school teachers hacked his girl friend to bits with a pen knife. In the late 80’s, the rabbi that had led our services, got caught for having his wife murdered.

The Cherry Hill underbelly.

Last year my mom and I returned to see the old neighborhood. The blue spruce we’d planted all those years ago towered over the house; the nearby farm was now a shopping center; but for the most part, things looked the same, much like any other solid, middle-class, suburban American town.

Although that kid got away with throwing the brick through my folks window, Rabbi Nuelander is behind bars, Otto Krupp, the teacher, also got caught, and these young men will pay the price too, if found guilty for this terror plot.

You just never figure this to happen so close to home; and yet if you think about it, it has to happen in somebody’s home town; this time it was mine…

May 7, 2007

Thanks to all those that came out to see our first NYC appearance in over five years.

Where have we been? Well, my marriage fell apart and I dug a hole and buried myself for a while. When I reemerged I wrote a novel. I did a publishing deal in Nashville. I went to Haiti. I had a few short stories published. I made a CD. But I never got back to doing any gigs.

That needs to change…

We had a great time and it seemed like everyone that attended had a good night too. The Rockwood Music Hall is a wonderful venue – low key, friendly, and intimate. It’s in a great neighborhood. I hadn’t been on the east side, south of Houston, in ages. It used to be dodgy around there, but now Whole Foods occupies an entire block just around the corner. New cafes and clubs have sprouted up like weeds.

We did an hour set playing old and new songs, some of mine, some of Gerry’s. Earlier in the year, Gerry and Paul played with me at the Towne Crier Open Mic finals – but that was only two songs. We hadn’t done a real set in a very long time.

When I do an open mic, I'm often by myself, and the time just before I go on stage is when the butterflies flutter. It's a lot easier when I'm with Paul and Gerry, they're a distraction. Gerry just had his hair buzzed, and that was enough to keep my mind off the jitters.

When you're doing several shows a week, you find comfort on the stage and hit the ground running, but when you aren't doing a lot of shows, it takes several songs to find that groove. Because the sound at the Rockwood was great, we felt comfortable right away. We hit our stride early, and by mid-set I felt like we were in my studio performing for friends.

Michael Brunnock helped me get the gig and his band played afterwards. Michael is from Ireland and he’s quite a talent – a little Damien Rice, a bit of Jack Johnson, maybe some Waterboys and Paul Brady. The band is tight and showcases Michael’s songs well. He sings about war, Jesus, and his homeland, love and lost.

For all those that missed us, we’re hoping to get back in early June.

April 30, 2007

Jon Stewart said it took the Virginia Tech shootings to make him realize he'd lost site that much worse takes place in Iraq every day. I know the feeling. I rarely think about what happens over there.

This fight for our very existence, as George Bush has called it, takes place while I go on about my life as if it's simply another episode of 24. What's General Petraeus going to do this week to catch those pesky insurgents?

I don't know anyone fighting over there. I certainly don't feel as if I'm under siege. To be honest, until another domestic attack takes place, or a draft is instituted, it makes no difference to me what goes on over there.

That's why putting a deadline on getting troops out is simply an intellectual debate with little consequence to my life. I don't feel the pressure or the pain from this conflict. I've even accepted three dollars a gallon at the gas pump. What can I do about windfall oil company profit anyway?

But is it really necessary for more blood to be spilled here at home before I wake up?

Unfortunately, history indicates that the answer is yes. It wasn't until Pearl Harbor that Americans were mobilized to enter WWII. 9/11 should have been sufficient, and for a brief moment, it was, but no more. I used to get nervous when I went into Manhattan. I had an emergency suitcase ready. I even had one set-up for my cats including a travel litter box. Now I go into the city without thinking about terrorists; the emergency cat supply has long ago expired.

The Bush solution is to extend the tour of duties of our enlisted men and women, to ensure no further Americans will be touched by this war. Democrats have a timetable. Me, I've got a yoga class to make; the cats, they've got mice to catch.

April 20, 2007

Anna Nicole Smith. Don Imus. Massacre at Virginia Tech.

Each week the media has a new drama to cycle through 24 hours a day.

But is it a tougher, meaner world nowadays?

I was raised in the '60s. That peaceful decade started off with the October Missile Crisis, moved on to the Kennedy, King, and Kennedy assassinations, then the riots in Chicago, murder at Altamont, and of course Vietnam provided a thread to tie the years together.

I wonder how much worse things would have felt if we'd had 24/hr news coverage.

The first prick in my childhood bubble had nothing to do with these worldly events. It was the Halloween warnings: don't eat opened candy, don't accept fresh fruit, watch out for razor blades in apples. Was this media hype or truth? I never knew anyone that had been bladed by a piece of fruit.

Did NBC really have to air the shooter's video? Why did all of the other channels have to run it a million times too? Was it for the public good or to generate ratings? If it was purely for the news, why did they brand their logo into the footage distributed to the other media?

The power of the news cycle, the luck of the draw. If the Virginia Tech shooting had happened a week earlier, Don Imus would probably still have a job.

How does it feel to face such tragedy dodging hundreds of reporters with cameras and microphones?

Nearly 25% of American kids are on psychiatric medication. Nobody has any idea of the long-term repercussions, and yet parents are willing to subject their children to these drugs -- why?

Kids today suffer from peanut allergies, ADD, and numerous other serious conditions. I don't remember any ADD kids when I was growing up. But I do remember troubled kids were in a special class. We called them retards and most of us made fun of them, if not to their face, certainly to their backs.

Could the Virginia Tech have done anything to prevent this?

When I was in elementary school we often had air-raid drills. It was an exercise for preparation in the event of a nuclear attack by the Russians. When the siren went off, we were told to hide underneath our desks and put our hands over our heads.

One day in the fall of '68, the siren went off. Normally we got advanced warning on drills, but not this time. 1968 was a Molotov cocktail, the assassinations, the riots and protests, an attack by the Russians was not out of the question. And the look on Miss Pelley's face said it all. We got underneath our desks as instructed and put our hands over our heads. Two desks down was Colleen Jenkins. I was sweet on her, but in fifth grade all that meant was extra pushing and shoving on the playground, a little smart aleck talk after class. The siren was still blaring and I shot out from my desk to join Colleen. She didn't flinch or make a sound. I put my arms around her and she did the same to me. We waited for the nuke to drop…

The Imus affair shows how polarized we still are on race. Even watching Meet the Press on Sunday where a panel of white and black journalists discussed the firing -- the view differed by color.

Imus was an equal opportunity abuser, but I'm amazed he did this within the context of serious political debate with a litany of politicians and media celebrities.

David Brooks said Imus often went after Jews, but he could differentiate between an Imus slam and the way a Nazi would say the same words. Gwen Ifill from PBS felt differently. She said Imus went after the very best the black community had to offer, young women who excelled in both sport and academics. To her, it didn't matter whether Imus was a racist or not, a racist comment is still racist (Imus called once had called her a cleaning lady).

Earlier in the week, Snoop Dogg clarified the rapper's position by saying that they never go after college educated black women, just the drug addict bitches in the hood…

Tom DeLay called for banning Rosie O'Donnell for her remarks against conservative Christians.

Clearly, we've got a ways to go before this dust settles.

I don't know Don Imus or Al Sharpton, but I almost met both. Here's how:


My Imus Story:

It wasn't until Don Imus started pushing the Flatlanders that I tuned in his show. I knew Jimmie from taking his songwriting workshop in '98. The Flatlanders got screwed by their record company back in the 70's and had been ignored by radio ever since. Jimmie built a cult following through the decades, and the unsolicited exposure by the I-man was unexpected, but welcomed.

I didn't like the show or its humor, but at about the same time as the I-man was playing the Flatlanders, I wrote a spoof song about Martha Stewart, called the Martha Stewart Prison Rag. I figured it was worth a shot to try and get it on his show.

Imus has a weekend mansion not too far from me, and a friend had heard that someone had once dropped a tape off at his house -- Imus liked it and played it. So I drove by his beach front, gated home, to drop off the Rag.

This was after 9/11 and the Imus mail box was long gone for security reasons. I slipped my CD package underneath the wrought iron gate and hoped for the best.

About a week later a man in a beige trench coat knocked on my door, flashing a silver State Police badge. "Are you Robert Steven Williams?"

"Yes."

"Did you drop this package off at the Imus residence in Southport?" He was holding my brown bag with the CD and promo materials.

"Umm, yeah."

"Their housekeeper called us, thought it was a bomb. Any explosive material?"

"Well, it is a satire." The cop wrinkled his brow. I quickly added, "It's just a CD about Martha Stewart. I was trying to get him to play it."

The cop shook his head and handed me back the bag. "Next time, do us all a favor, drop it off at his office."

The Martha Stewart Prison Rag was never aired.


My Sharpton story:

I moved from England to the New York area in 1991. I was head of marketing for a new chain of record stores in the US. My first day on the job, I faced a potential Sharpton led protest against our 72nd & Broadway store.

In those days, music was vibrant, immediate; it still mattered. HMV had made a huge splash in the market. The week prior to my arrival, HMV had fired an African American store clerk. We were part of the international conglomerate EMI Music. Sharpton planned to protest this dismissal based on racism by leveraging our corporate parent's high visibility.

The kid in question was a bad employee and had been fired properly. But when I showed up for work that first day, I had no idea if this was the case. It was my job to defend the company and mitigate the damage regardless of the facts.

I hired a crisis management PR firm to get up to speed on Al Sharpton. I couldn't believe what I was up against. I marketed records. I loved music. This was the last thing on earth I wanted to deal with. I also knew that HMV wasn't a racist company; but an employee still might have done something stupid.

During the week the rhetoric grew. We were told through the grapevine that if we didn't reinstate this kid, thousands would be outside our store on Saturday protesting. Every major network would be there to cover it.

We conducted another internal investigation and determined that the employee had been treated fairly and warranted the firing. I also discovered that HMV was one of the largest African-American retail employers in Manhattan. We did not rehire that kid.

On the Saturday, I was at the store ready to handle whatever might happen. Fortunately, the protest never materialized, and I went back to marketing music…

Six years later, I convinced EMI and HMV to put the first international record store in Harlem. I left the company shortly thereafter. HMV opened up on 125th Street, across from the Apollo Theater in 1999. Although the store was a success, EMI sold HMV. The chain pulled out of the US market in 2003.

Last week's reference to the movie -- The Secret -- caused several folks to reach out. A few successful business people urged me to continue on the artistic front with a renewed attitude. Paraphrasing -- they said -- One has to smell it, touch it, breath it, and live it completely at all times to realize it -- that's how we made it in business and how you can make it in writing.

In almost all endeavors I would agree, but when it comes to visualizing making art and substantial amounts of cash, the idea is flawed. Some will say that's exactly the reason why I'm not successful in money terms.

Maybe they're right.

But I've been in the trenches for nine years. I've seem immensely talented people struggle to put food on the table. I've seen hacks driving Ferraris. The top thirty or so Nashville songwriters walk the line between artistic integrity and crass commercialism; many songs that rise to number one look simplistic -- that's deceptive. Most successful Nashville writers are extremely talented, highly motivated, and very ambitious. Those songs are not easy to write.

I spent a year considering Nashville, but I realized that I couldn't taste it, breathe it, or live something that I didn't like. If I wanted money, it made more sense to take a music executive job paying 200 grand, rather than a staff publishing position that paid 20. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have gotten the staff job -- thousands beg for those jobs daily (seriously).

American Idol is paying 100 grand for a single song. Why not take a shot, some friends have asked.

I won't be submitting anything because I'd be wasting my time. I don't love that type of music; it's not what I do, or what motivated me to return to playing music and writing fiction. I couldn't win that competition, because I don't breathe it.

There are lots of lazy artists out there that don't take on quality feedback, they refuse to rewrite or learn craft. They won't assume responsibility for the business side either. You often hear them diss the industry and make bold declarations about not selling out. They believe there's a conspiracy to keep their art from reaching the world.

That's not me.

I'm not averse to making lots of money from my art, but it's not part of my vision because to factor that into the equation, would force me to alter what I create, and that compromise will cause me to fail.

Fame and glory might not be in my future, but with my business background, I still have a shot at making a decent living at this. Granted, it hasn't been the case so far, but it's still early days. I've been at this less than ten years. I'm just a late bloomer; well, okay, very late…

and you know what they say...better very late than never...

John McCain was on CNN last week declaring the surge a success. "Areas of Baghdad are safe, even General Petreaus can walk without guard or armor."

CNN cut to Michael Ware, in Baghdad, immediately after the McCain interview to verify the situation on the ground. "Senator McCain is off is rocker," Ware said. "McCain's comments were met with laughter down the line from US military sources."

Within a day, McCain's people backtracked. McCain himself, denied saying it, but I saw the actual interview, live. He said that and more. How could a smart guy be so dumb? He's bet the campaign on the success of this surge.

McCain is in Baghdad now buying carpets.

---------------------

It's been an odd couple of months for me. I rewrote my novel, recorded some new songs, and I did some freelance consulting. I also waited for the result of my MFA applications.

The novel was ready, but that feeling wasn't shared by the publishing community. Several agents showed interest, but I got no takers. I pulled it off the market, and rewrote it, yet again. It's in great shape now. I totally believe in it, and I’m thinking positive in the way that movie, The Secret, says you must; but it's not easy to keep doubt from undermining my vibe.

Last night I saw Ricky Gervais interview Garry Shandling on a new program airing in England -- Gervais, is the genius behind The Office. In this new series, he visits his comedic heroes. It's an awkward and amusing hour at Garry's house. At one point, Garry says in regards to success -- you can't get caught up in the results of your work -- it's meaningless.

He's right. The value of my work is not linked to the amount of money it generates. It's so obvious, and yet, it's so easy to forget.


I received an offer for a teaching assistant at Ole Miss. I wanted to accept their gracious offer of free tuition and stipend, but I couldn't make the numbers work. I've deferred the opportunity for a year.

I could have sold my Westport house, but it's not a good time to sell, and I didn't want to give up the last remaining jewel from my life as a music biz executive. I had intended to rent this house out. The numbers were close, but I have outstanding obligations that made this move impossible.

Some say situations are tied to fate, that if it was meant for me to go to Ole Miss this year, it would have happened. I'm not convinced that's true. I think that destiny is forged in real time, that a result is not in stone until it happens. But I do believe it's the culmination of all your effort -- things that occurred years ago still contribute to the future. And so everything I do and think, does affect what happens…

Let's hope I can keep writing, but more important, let's hope someone finds a solution that gets us out of Iraq without starting WWIII…

March 26, 2007

I'm in revolved triangle, one of several dreaded postures that forces my body to twist and turn in ways it dislikes. Before I entered the asana, I told myself that I hated this posture, that I couldn't do it, that my body wouldn't turn in such a way, that in three years I'd made no improvement, and ten more years wouldn't make a difference either.

What chance do I have of breaking this pattern with thoughts like this?

I had my new novel out to several agents in the past three months. I thought positively. Each day I checked email and the post box in search of good news. When I sell this book, I told myself, everything comes good. It will be validation for all the hard work and sacrifice; but deep inside my head, ran another narrative -- what if I don't sell the book, then what?

Must I suffer? Will I be eternally unhappy? Does it mean I suck at writing?

In that story, the answer was yes, yes, and yes.

It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that without external validation I must have no talent, and therefore I will be forever unhappy. And what was worse, I applied this way of thinking to much of my life.

I would say:

When I _____, I can be happy.

It didn't matter how I filled in the blank:

get a promotion
buy a new car
win the lottery
lose weight

No matter what it was, soon after I got it, I'd find new reasons for unhappiness. Sound familiar?

Now I'm trying to break that pattern.

In yoga, when this all too familiar discomfort arises in revolved triangle: the burning in my hips, the pain in the lower back, the awkward sense of being off-balance, I now try to eliminate the story that runs in my head. Instead of labeling these sensations with pain, or finding a reason why I must pull out of the posture, I work to stay in the moment. I am observant, aware, present and undivided. With a neutral mind, I hold postures longer. It allows me to unshackle the very limitations that I alone have established.

If I could keep that same observant, non-judgmental mind when a short story is rejected by a magazine, or the novel by an agent, I'd have a better shot at recognizing ways to move forward with a rewrite or new marketing options. This doesn't mean that I'm passive; on the contrary, by not wasting energy on unnecessary emotional diversions, I can focus on what really counts. My mind is free to find creative solutions, tapping into energy that was once squandered on emotional spirals.

My neutral mind creates possibilities.

March 19, 2007

This week I entered the Kerrville New Folk contest for the eighth year in a row. It's hard to believe that I've been hacking away at this for that long. When I listen to what I was doing back then, I realize how far I've come. Ultimately that's what's most important, but the mountain of rejection I've collected over those years does get overwhelming.

Kerrville is Mecca for many singer/songwriters. It's a two-week gathering in the dusty foothills north of San Antonio, Texas. New Folk finalists have gone on to successful careers -- David Wilcox, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Lucinda Williams, Nanci Griffiths, and Lyle Lovette, to mention just a few.

I went to Kerrville in 1999. I'd been playing seriously for about six-months. I took the three-day course, and attended a week's worth of concerts. I had a great time, and met a lot of interesting people.

I know one person that made the final 32 since I started submitting -- Jan Smith. She got in last year, but didn't make the six finalists. Jan's an incredible talent, and I was surprised she didn't go further. But I've also been surprised at others that haven't made it either.

Back in '99, I heard a lot of good players in the finals, but there were several that I felt were questionable. That's the nature of contests. There's always going to be someone you think you're better than.

At this point I've stopped worrying about whether I’m better or worse. I'm focused on being the very best ME; that's all I can do. Contests are money makers for the sponsors and I don't enter nearly as many as I once did. Literary contests are suspect for the same reasons, but I was a finalist in the Raymond Carver contest, and I bagged an honorable mention in a contest up in Canada. Winning is possible.

Recently I've taken on freelance consulting projects to meet the monthly bills. Although I enjoy the work, it does zap energy from my writing. I can already feel the disconnect. Part of that is psychological, my system shocked back into reality. I was blessed to focus the way I have, but I could now easily let the creativity slide, or not.

That's why I got off my butt and entered Kerrville. I'm still a player. And even when I'm not writing, my writer's eye is on the hunt for insight and opportunity. I'm no different than most artists -- lots of balls in the air, smoke and mirrors, juke and jive -- I juggle to keep doing what I love. I'd have it no other way.

March 12, 2007

A well-regarded British journalist blogged about her sex life under a different name for years; the sex site grew so popular, she scored a lucrative book offer. A week before the publication, a UK tabloid threatened to release her real name unless she granted an exclusive interview and advanced excerpts. After discussing it with her family, she opted to come forward on her own.

Its one thing when Tommy Trailer Trash or Sally Stripper tells all, but when an established reporter goes noir stiletto, it does beg the question -- what's going on? Is blogging about bedroom activities the virtual version of having sex in a public place? Is telling all in print just another fetish? Or is it something deeper?

Considering how fixated we are on sex, it's amazing how infrequent honest sex talk takes place. We all tuned in to Anna Nicole-Smith, red and blue states alike, we gawked and stared at her boobs, and yet most of us struggle to communicate what we want from our partners.

A writer's job is to push the envelope, to make readers uncomfortable, and make them think. Does the Queen of England masturbate? Does Barbara Bush like it doggie style? Most of us shudder at the thought of our parents having sex. But is it a writer's job to reveal everything about themselves?

I write a weekly essay and strive to be as truthful as possible about my life. Sometimes I talk specifics; sometimes I tackle larger subjects from politics to sports.

Annie Lamont, a well-respected Bay Area writer, talks about the necessity of going for the jugular. She's written about her parents, her children; practically everyone she knows. She says those she writes about get mad, but so do those she ignores; they feel left out.

Putting certain things into print would complicate my world and friendships, but I do wonder if this censoring prevents having a wider readership. The more I write and read, the more I realize that truth is stranger than fiction; and yet great fiction is a reflection of truth, and so there's a flaw in that logic. I'm sure Annie Lamont doesn't tell all. She doesn't have to, as long as she stays true to the emotions of her experience. The facts are irrelevant. I too must strive for such honesty, otherwise this won't be worth anyone's time.

March 5, 2007

A few weeks back I had an epiphany watching American Idol. Honestly folks, I never expected to learn something about my own writing from watching this show, but what surprised me even more, was realizing that this insight applies to all singer songwriters, regardless of genre.

I will admit, when Idol first appeared, I wanted to puke. I, like many music industry dinosaurs, longed for the old days, when true music folks ran the business, and new groups were given more than a few weeks to prove their mettle. Idol represented everything wrong with the music biz. Although some of those issues still plague the program, here's why I've changed my mind.

You can't argue with long-term success. Idol is in its sixth season bigger than ever; few shows of any ilk last that long. Idol has spun-off credible talent. Who could have imagined that an Idol reject would bag an Oscar? The New York Times wrote this week that Idol is the only TV show that brings teenagers and parents together. In an age where kids have the Internet, cellular entertainment, and video games for distractions, this is a remarkable feat.

Now to the epiphany. For those that don't watch the show (which I assume is many of my readers), the 24 finalists are whittled down from a pool of over 500,000. You might not like Simon, Paula, and Randy, but they've been around enough to recognize folks that can sing. When you sift through that many bodies, you'll find 24 who can carry a tune; and yet, all too often, each finalist has a karaoke break down. Many sing off-pitch, lack emotion, and appear completely out of touch with the performance.

Obviously nerves plays a role, but setting that aside, what's the number reason these decent singers derail?

Avid Idol fans should know the answer.

Song selection. Pick the wrong song, or just the wrong key, and a singer, even a fabulous one, will struggle. The wrong song will put them out of their comfort zone. It makes a singer think, instead of feel. It creates a barrier that keeps a singer from connecting with the song.

Picking the right track, or writing songs in a key that best shows off a voice is not as easy as it appears. Singers of all levels all too often misjudge their abilities. I've done it more than I care to admit, but thanks to Idol, I hope not to repeat that mistake again.

February 26, 2007

I wrote an article for this month's Poets & Writers. It's great to have something in such a prestigious magazine in the publishing field, but it was never my objective to be a writer's writer. I am a musician who also happens to write. Once upon a time, I was a music-business executive. Although it's nice to be appreciated by writers, I look forward to the day when my fiction reaches the hands of civilians, folks in the real world, people who don't deal with words for a living.

In college I was mesmerized by prog rock -- bands like Gentle Giant, Hawkwind, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return to Forever, and the Dixie Dregs. These bands were musician's bands. Technically these groups were flawless. They pushed the boundaries of modality, time signatures and arrangements. They often appeared to defy physical laws of nature in their speed and improvisational skills.

Today, most of that music is unlistenable to all but balding male musicians in their fifties.

Writers like Thomas Pynchon and Jonathan Safron Foer are the writer equivalents to prog rockers. There is no denying their technical skills, but their words fail to touch me in the way that Sadie Smith or a Lolly Winston does. Much of it, I can't comprehend; they operate on a different level, but that's doesn't make it better. Gravity's Rainbow was heralded by those in the know as one of the 20th Century's greatest novels. I couldn't get through the first hundred pages. Today, it's almost fashionable to come out of the closet to admit not liking it.

In this week's New Yorker, there's an article about the Poetry Foundation and the brouhaha over the drug money that now fills their coffers to the tune of two-hundred million (that's an insider's joke: it was a donation from one of the Lily Drug Company heirs).

The foundation's president, John Barr, a former Wall Street executive, wants to make poetry more accessible. He wrote an essay that created controversy by saying that poems are written only with other poets in mind.

He's right. Last year I heard the poetry editor of one of the country's leading journals state that he had no interest in expanding his paltry 4,000 circulation. Few others, in his view, would get it anyway. According to him, to expand his readership would require dumbing his poems down. He felt it was his responsibility, as one of the few keepers of the flame, to ensure that poetry upheld the highest standards.

In the days when I listened to Chick Corea, Joe Zawinul, and Stanley Clarke, I snubbed my nose at those that didn't know these folks. I took pride in my chummy, closed circle. Today, you couldn't pay me to listen to an entire Return to Forever Lp. But what if the musical world had decided back in the 70's, that the only viable musical format was prog rock, and that the funding for all lesser forms, like the Village People, and Abba, even Bruce Springsteen, should be eliminated? Where would that leave the music today?

In some ways, this is exactly what the poetry community is doing. It's what the fiction world does when it says Harry Potter is derivative and bad for kids, or that Steven King doesn't deserve a national book award. I'm not saying Pynchon and elitist poets shouldn't be funded, of course they should, but when most of the world thinks going to the dentist is preferable to reading a book of poems, something's seriously out of whack.

I never would have discovered Weather Report if I hadn't first fell in love with the Monkees.

Must poets be forced to choose between writing for the so-called literates and the masses? Isn't there a middle ground? With a two-hundred million dollar base, the Poetry Foundation should be able to support the full-spectrum of voice, from the impenetrable to the whimsical. Broadening poetry's reach won't dilute its power, or its ability to push boundaries, but it will ensure that the poet doesn't become an endangered species, on the road to extinction.

February 19, 2007

I was reminded of the Pete Townsend line -- Meet the new boss, same as the old boss -- while flipping through the latest AT&T junk mailer the other day.

The full-color glossy was jammed packed with the latest products and deals offered by the new AT&T. I can now purchase all of my communication and entertainment needs from them -- everything from mobile, satellite TV, music downloads, to local and long distance phone service.

It wasn't that long ago that AT&T was busted into pieces to make way for innovation and competition. But in 2007, where a computer becomes obsolete by the time it's shipped, the early 80's, in terms of telecommunications, is the Pleistocene period.

Some will recall no choice for phone service back then. AT&T was regulated by Uncle Sam. You went to Ma Bell for everything. Rotary dial was still common. The answering machine was nonexistent; if you missed someone, you actually had to call them back. All equipment was rented. You had to plan ahead when you were moving, because in some areas, it could take weeks to get your service turned on.

The bust-up took place in '83. AT&T became a series of regional companies; many of those spawned-off Baby Bells, as they were dubbed, were reacquired by this new AT&T.

Meet the new AT&T, same as the old AT&T.

Back then, everyone was confused and concerned. Although we all hated the phone company, it's all we knew. How would things work in the new era of choice? How did one decide what was a viable alternative? What happened if the phone broke? Who came out to fix it, and how much would it cost?

The first choice I had to make was whether I wanted to purchase the phone I rented for five bucks a month -- the princess was the latest in touchtone technology. I figured it was worth buying because it was manufactured to last. As a rental, when it broke, it was on Ma Bell's dime (the cost of a local call). She had to come out and replace my phone at no cost. I bought the princess for $80 bucks.

There were cheaper models already on the market, and I've bought many phones since, but the princess is still in my collection. It's clunky compared to today's wireless versions; it weighs a ton, but those Bell Lab scientists knew what they were doing when they designed it. The damn thing could survive a nuclear bomb; it certainly will outlast me.

For a decade or so, every household in America was bombarded with calls enticing us to switch long distance. Often we were tricked by convoluted sales pitches, and bounced to another carrier without realizing it.

Then MCI got into trouble. There was a new telecommunications act. The Internet exploded. Lucent collapsed. The cyber bubble burst. And here we are with AT&T, once again, a giant amongst a couple of other mega-communications companies.

No doubt deregulation increased competition and provided improved products and services. Over time, we all adjusted to the new telecom world. Live long enough and just about anything comes full-circle. For those too young to remember those heady days, just wait. In another decade or so, they'll be busting up AT&T again.

As I flip through this new catalog filled with great prices and packaged deals, I wonder if the Who got it wrong -- have we been fooled yet again?

I guess we'll have to wait another twenty years to find out...

February 12, 2007

UN Peacekeepers in Haiti are taking on the street gangs of Port-au-Prince this week. I was there last fall, writing about the efforts of the NGO, Concern Worldwide.

There are over two-million people living in Haiti's capital city, and most can't feed themselves. In the worst parts, where gangs still rule, people live in shacks with no electricity or plumbing. Children play on waste heaps, teenagers carry guns, and young adults have no jobs.

I was supposed to a visit a school sponsored by the charity, but it was too dangerous. Gangs were kidnapping people including aid workers, for ransom.

The streets have become so unsafe, parents won't allow their kids to go to school; without education, there is no future for Haiti. Fifty percent of the population is illiterate; if yet another generation grows up uneducated, the country has no chance.

But arresting gang leaders without providing immediate aide and support for the starving and jobless, will result in a new cycle of violence.

The Bush administration has pledged $20 million, an accounting rounding error, compared to the money that is spent daily in Iraq. NGO's, like Concern, do great work down there, but it's simply not enough. Haiti is the poorest country in the western hemisphere.

Last year's elections have provided a slim window of opportunity for change, but people must see progress, otherwise they will fall prey to the promises of a new generation of gang leaders.

Here's one of several vignettes I wrote to help Concern raise funds for schools down there:

Widline Fontus is a sixth grader in the Fabre Géffrard National School, located in the heart of the urban slum of St. Martin in Port-au-Prince. Her favorite subjects are math and French. "I love going to school, but I have a hard time learning and reciting by heart," she says.

Widline wants to be a singer/songwriter when she grows up, singing in English. She's got a shot at realizing this dream because she's one of two-hundred fortunate children that attend a school assisted by Concern's Urban School Health project.

Haiti's school system has been in shambles for years. There is no national curriculum, no superintendent of schools, no PTA. Most classrooms have been neglected for decades. Roofs leak. Electricity is sporadic. There are few desks or blackboards. Kids get nothing to eat because there's no cafeteria, not even a bathroom.

It's not just the schools that are in disrepair. Haiti's infrastructure has collapsed: roads, sanitation, security. The government's ability to provide even basic services is a struggle. Over a half-a-million people live in the Saint Martin slums. Most housing has no indoor plumbing. Many bathe in polluted rivers lined with mounds of trash. Children can often be found playing in these cesspools.

City gangs control the streets. Teens sling AK-47's about their shoulders the way American children tote backpacks. Most locals refuse to travel at night. In 2006, kidnappings were rampant and even ex-pat aid workers were abducted near Wildine's school. Thousands of Haitians needlessly die from senseless violence, malnutrition, and curable diseases. To reach your fifth birthday is a major accomplishment in a Port-au-Prince slum.

"Sometimes I hear the gunshots," Wildine says, "and it makes me scared."

Widline's mother is 40 years old. She raises three children by herself. She is a dressmaker and they live in a one room shack with no electricity or water. They cook on stones in a narrow alley. "We don't go out at night," Widline's mother says. "It is not safe."

With such desperate need, many of the schools are unfit for even the wild dogs that roam the city streets. But for Wildine, conditions have vastly improved thanks to Concern. Funding provided by donors in the US enabled Concern to rehabilitate Wildine's school. They fixed the roof, installed latrines and provided water treatment kits to ensure the children had safe, clean water to drink. The school now has first aid supplies, desks, benches, blackboards, text books.

The Concern program provides a hot meal for each child in school. "Yummy," Widline says about the food. Often this is the children's only meal. Food is an important part of the Urban Health Project, not only because it ensures that children get at least one decent meal per day, but it also encourages kids to attend class. In a society where fifty percent of the population is illiterate, this is critical to changing the Haiti's future.

Crowded conditions create an unhealthy environment for everyone. Imagine a New York high rise without a single bathroom or shower. It is virtually impossible for Haitians to avoid getting sick. That's why another critical component of the Concern program is to provide instruction on basic health and hygiene.

Sadly, there are too many children living in this part of Port-au-Prince that do not attend a school like Widlines'. Those kids need your help. A fifty dollar contribution could provide latrines for an entire school, text books for a classroom, or water treatment kits to provide a child safe and healthy water for an entire year. Please help and give generously.

February 5, 2007

During professional football's biggest week, the Super Bowl, the long-term health of its players came under scrutiny.

Make no mistake about it, today's player is a 21st century gladiator. We as spectators, love the big hit, the sound of two human beings colliding in mid-stride. Players thrive on the contact too and they often push themselves to get ready for the game before their bodies are ready. But much of the physical damage doesn't surface until well after the final whistle blows. Earl Campbell, a Sherman tank of a running back, walks with a cane. John Elway wobbles up the fairway. And a few weeks ago, the former all-pro standout for the Philadelphia Eagles, Andre Water, committed suicide.

Water's was suffering from brain damage and depression caused from concussions on the football field. His death inspired, Ted Johnson, the former captain of the three-time Super Bowl champion Patriots, to come forward with his diagnosis of early Alzheimer's. He's 34, and will soon run out of health benefits. In a New York Times article this week, he claimed that future hall of fame coach, Bill Belichek, had made him take the field before he'd fully recovered from a concussion.

No coach can make a player do anything he doesn't want to do, but the threat of losing one's job is usually all that's needed to force someone to push themselves beyond the pain. Compared to baseball or basketball players, footballers are second class citizens. They don't have guaranteed contracts; their health benefits stop after six years even though the odds of injury are much greater. Salaries are much lower too despite the fact, football generates more income than any professional sport.

Still, it's hard to feel sorry for these gladiators. They are hailed as heroes and make a ton of money compared to the average Joe. And yes, they do put their bodies at risk, but so do lots of other folks. Coal miners in West Virginia don't make in a year what a football player makes for a single game. And lets not forget the men and women in our armed forces in Iraq. The odds of death on a football field are minimal; every day at least one US solider dies in Iraq. Military personnel might get a decent pension if they can survive twenty years, but they still earn peanuts for the risks they take. So before we get too carried away about feeling sorry for our grid iron warriors, let's not lose our perspective or forget the true soldiers of the battlefield and the sacrifices they make for inconsequential remuneration and recognition.


I posted this essay on myspace blog and got these comments on the first day:

One thing you might be over looking is that mot of these people. whether it's football, coal mining or iraq were'nt given many economic options in life...all three of those occupations are usually filled by people trying to improve their economic situation...what does it say about our society that we use such people and when we're done with them we heartlessly discard them...more often than not they did not have a choice...I was in a upscale bar watching the super bowl as everyone cheered no one gave a shit about earl campbell, ted johnson, coal miners or iraq for that matter...America has become a surreal dark place of the haves and the have nots..cell phone, suv, condo stock deal...it's pretty much what drives most people..
JL

I chose to see Pan's Labyrinth instead of watching the Super Bowl, so the idea of acknowledging the reality that lies underneath the myth is fresh on my mind. If you haven't seen the movie, I strongly encourage you to go. It fits in perfectly with what you're talking about in this post ... and it's simply an amazing film.
Patricia

The day we stop 'playing' at the field of War, is the day we wage Peace.
War is no game, that's for sure. All 'playing fields' are not created equal.
The 'glory' of victory is a double edged sword; on the football field we cheer,
on the battle field, we pray.
Sobering topic, Robert. Thanks for this.
Tyler

January 27, 2007

Last month's Yoga Journal was as thick as a phone book, chocker block with adverts from clothing, food, workshop and accessory companies. There's nothing unethical with making money through yoga, but as I flipped through the magazine, the line between editorial and advertising began to blur. For me, that's a problem. In yoga, that line should be razor sharp.

Here's an excerpt from the Lounge About column:

Rest is essential to every yoga practice. Unfortunately, many of us find it difficult to slow down….This week, set aside time to light a candle, get comfortable, relax and renew.

All quite reasonable until you get to the bullet points:

Wrap up -- Restore the goodness in you with a flowing cardigan wrap by Eileen Fisher ($158), layered over this stretch silk jersey ($78).

Stretch Out -- There's nothing cozier than snuggling into a good pair of sweats. If you want the warmth, but not the frump, try the silky-soft Benessere Pant by File ($65).

There's no legal or ethical boundary broken here -- Rolling Stone has portrayed rock stars in fashionable brand named clothing (with price tags) for years, but this isn’t rock and roll. Yoga is about the body, mind and spirit. The commercial side of Yoga, all too often tugs participants toward fashion and fitness. The subliminal message is:

Look good and you'll feel good. And you'll feel better much faster by buying these cool looking clothes and accessories.

That relax-and-renew outfit will set a person back over three hundred dollars. The average person must work double-overtime, or keep a stressful, high powered job, to attain this state of fabric bliss. Or maybe the spouse puts in the hours -- odds are, if that's the case, there's going to be trouble in that marriage soon enough. The point is, nobody needs a three-hundred dollar outfit to relax, but when Yoga Journal suggests it, people think that's the short cut to enlightenment.

Ninety percent of Yoga Journal's audience is women. There's even an article this month about why men don't take yoga. That story was full of clichés -- men are overly competitive; women are nurturing and more spiritual by nature. I had no idea women have a greater predisposition towards spirituality. Is that because they lack abilities in science and math?

Yesterday I took the 9:30 yoga class. It's one of my club's most popular. It's always jammed with women, and this time, there was only one other guy. Some of the women were dressed in simple, comfortable attire, but there were several in those outfits you see advertised in Yoga Journal. Towards the end of class, women started rolling up mats. It was especially disturbing when it continued during Savasna, the last posture, when one is supposed to rest quietly to process what took place during class.

Afterwards, at the front desk, I looked into Studio B. Many of the women from yoga were in that Jazzercise session. They'd left yoga to get to that on time. For them, yoga is simply another exercise class in a daily fitness regimen. There's nothing wrong with that, but clearly the spiritual side of yoga is not what has drawn them to the practice. And from the adverts in Yoga Journal, it seems that much of the audience doesn't rate spirituality high either…

January 22, 2007

A friend asked the other day why I don't just write something that will sell. It wasn't meant to be an insult. "You know you can write," they said. "So just write something commercial, so that you can do what you want."

At first I wanted to smack that person. I was insulted. Can you imagine saying to Van Gogh, "Nobody wants sunflowers, paint fruit; that we can sell."

But once I calmed down, I understood that they were only trying to help. I'm not afraid of rewriting, or hearing constructive criticism; in fact, I love taking on feedback and folding it into what I've got. But I can't write what's not me. I wouldn't be any good at it. It's one of the reasons why I'm not down in Nashville trying to crack the country market.

I know too many songwriters trying to sell songs who don't listen to country music. "Can't stand it," they admit. "But it's the only market that buys songs, so I'm writing for it."

They might get lucky, but they stand a better chance of winning the lottery.

The successful Nashville writers eat and sleep country. It's in their veins. I learned a lot about how to craft songs down there, and I often incorporate that structure to support my voice and musical vision, but I know better than to waste my time selling something that isn't right for the market.

My opportunity is doing me the best I can.

The same applies to the writing.

I enjoy commercial fiction and read a lot of it. Often, it’s the overtly literate writing of a Foer and Pynchon, that turns me off. But I'm not mainstream. The same goes for TV. Deal or No Deal, America's Number One TV show, makes me sick. Most of the reality shows bore me. But I will admit -- I enjoyed the first Survivor, the first two Apprentices, and one of the Idol seasons. After that, the category became a blur.

Looking outside of culture for examples might hammer home the point. Subway is the number one sandwich chain in the country. There's a better sandwich shop in almost every American town, and yet, Subway is tops. The same could be said about the cool,local pizza joint compared to a national chain.

I could start a sandwich shop or a funky pizzeria, but the odds of me making money would improve dramatically if I bought a Pizza Hut franchise. But I don't like their pizza. I'd be miserable in all that wealth. If it was just about the money, I wouldn't go into the restaurant business anyway, let alone a chain-pizza joint; I'd go into something that would assure me huge profit, something like what Haliburton does.

The same can be said about my writing. And ultimately, for better or worse, that's why I can't just whip off something commercial. I have to do just stay true to myself and hope that it resonates with others

January 15, 2007

There are no easy answers for Iraq and the risk of failure is enormous, but most of us go on about our lives as if the fate of the world is not being wagered at a high-stakes poker game. Not that the average guy on the street could do anything about it anyway. But it is odd, that here in America, most of us are still not affected by what could become Armageddon.

Listening to the so-called experts last week on TV, most say that 20,000 more troops is not enough. The number is more like 200,000. The generals who believe we should have pulled out, were replaced two weeks ago, by generals who support this new Bush strategy. That doesn’t fill me with optimism about this surge.

The new plan assumes that the Maliki government can function effectively. What are the odds of that? I believe Iraq is already separating into three different countries, like Yugoslavia in the '90s.

I don’t think pulling out fast is the answer either. Regardless of how or why we’re in this mess, a stabilized middle east is in everyone's interest. Therefore, the entire world from France, China to Syria, should play a role in resolving the situation. There has to be a part for the UN too. But this means that the US must share the spoils. Share the decision making. Share the redevelopment projects, and most important, share the oil.

I watched a smug Senator Mitch McConnell, the minority leader, tell America last week that although mistakes were made in Iraq, the Bush policies are working because we have succeeded in preventing another domestic terror attack.

If Al Queda wanted to strike the US, they could do it at any time, any where, and there is little either republicans or democrats could do about it. Not even Jack Bauer could stop them.

That’s not to say there aren’t good people working in the government, or that they haven’t foiled several terrorist attempts already. I’m sure they have, and they’ll stop others too, but the only way to end terrorism is to create a world where people have more reason to live than die. At the moment, much of the planet simply has little hope or opportunity. From Darfur to Port-au-Prince – even parts of the South Bronx, the situation is so hopeless for so many, suicide becomes a viable option, a great career move.

There is enough wealth on this planet to ensure that nobody goes hungry. I'm not so far to the left to think it's all capitilism's fault. But seeing the deposed Home Depot President walk away last week with hundreds of millions is just as disgusting as seeing a deposed dictator live the high-life in South America. The system is broke and it contributes to further this cycle of terrorism by creating another generation of children with no hope.

US policies continue to alienate rather than embrace. Somalia is the latest example. For over a decade, we’ve ignored the plight of those living there, but as soon as an Islamist leadership came to power, we backed the war lords, and now we’re engaging in air strikes. I read an article this week about how the Islamists recruit teenagers for the militia. I’m sure they do, but the war lords have been doing that since the start of the civil war; but that got no coverage. This AP article ran throughout the nation. It was propaganda, a subtle vehicle to promote the idea that Islamist regimes are all evil, that only they would do something so heinous as to recruit teenagers.

Americans don’t pay attention to details. They’re more interested in 'Deal or No Deal,' than to understanding what’s really going on in Somalia. This upcoming week, most of the US will be more interested in getting to know the new contestants on American Idol, than the new generals who are now in charge of our forces in Iraq.

Is it really that surprising that we’re in this mess?

Deal or no Deal -- 20,000 more troops...

January 7, 2007

It's been so warm in Yaroslavi, a city about 150 miles northeast of Moscow, that Masha the bear, a resident of the city zoo, woke up last month from his hibernation after only a week.

And here in Westport, CT, I sit on my deck with bandana and shades, writing the weekly essay in mid-January. The low hanging grey-and-white clouds march eastward overhead. The sharp-angled sun breaks through and warms my face. It grows dark again, as if the curtains have been drawn. The wind kicks up. It feels like rain, and then those curtians open up and it's blue sky for as far as I can see. I swear it feels like summer.

The two cats are on the Jacuzzi cover, sunbathing too. I don’t know if this is global warming, but it hasn't been this mild in these parts, at this time of year, maybe ever.

----------------

I’m playing in the open mic finals at the Towne Crier, a hip club about an hour from here. Top folkies often play there. Christine Lavin, Chris Smithers, and Leon Redbone are scheduled in the next month. I’m pumped, but it’s at the same time my beloved Eagles are playing the dreaded Giants in the first round of the playoffs. By the time you read this, the game will be over, and my gig will be done; but as I sit here in the hot sun on my deck, I’m hoping that I can get through the show without hearing the score. I’ll have the game taped and I'll watch it when I get home.

Chuck Morgan, the protagonist in my new novel, My Year as a Clown, is also a die-hard Eagle fan. I chronicle the 2003 Eagle season as Chuck tries to find his footing after his wife leaves for another man. The football narrative is about loyalty and commitment.

Claudia disliked sports and never understood why I stuck with the Eagles. “I don’t know anything about your American football," she’d say, "but I know they will lose."

She was right, but I stayed faithful.

"Why don't you support another team?" she had said when we lived in San Francisco while Joe Montana was tearing the league apart.

I tried to explain that it wasn't that easy.

"Just move on," she had said.


This has been one of the more unlikely Eagle seasons. After last year’s disaster where they failed to make the play-offs for the first time in five years, they got off to a tremendous start. Then they nosedived, losing five of six, with McNabb going down with a season-ending injury in week nine. At 5-6, it could look no worse, but somehow they turned it around, winning their last five games. They won the division, taking three on the road – Washington, New York, Dallas – and now they host the Giants in the playoffs.

No matter what happens Sunday night, the Eagles were entertaining this year, but I’d be lying if I said it I'd be okay with a loss to the Giants. The Eagles have hit their stride and are the hottest team in the league. It's this sort of unpredictable year that results in a trip to the Super Bowl.

Why not?

As a Philly fan, I know not to get too carried away. We haven't won a major championship since 1983. The Eagles last won it all in 1960...

But here I am again, thinking this will be our year...

January 1, 2007

It's hard to believe 2007 is upon us. Y2K seems like another century. It was.

Instead of doing the standard recap of the year (snzzzz), or resolutions (ugh), I'm going to share my GRE experience, the graduate entrance exam. It's a requirement for MFA programs and I spent the last month preparing.

Thank God it's over. It was like reliving high school -- geometry, simultaneous equations, reading comprehension. All I was missing was homeroom and Mr. Johnson's gym class.

The last standardized test I took was the GMAT back in 1984. I scored in the 96% that year. I'd taken a course, studied my butt off, but in 2006 I simply crammed with a book from Barnes -- I didn't bomb, but I didn't ace it either.

In the 21st century these tests are given on computer and cost $140 bucks. At least the tests are offered daily. You can still take a paper administered version, but only a couple of times a year. I'd missed the last one of '06 because I made the decision to apply to these three MFA programs after my visit to Oxford, Mississippi, back in October.

I practiced at home on my PC to simulate the testing environment and quickly uncovered an issue with the reading comprehension section. The text in reading comp is intentionally dense and obscure. The questions are wordy. It's a timed test (you have roughly a minute per question), so really this section is a verbal scavenger hunt. In a paper based test, I could ace this, but the words just don't jump out at me on screen.

I improved with practice, but the testing center didn't have the nice LCD flat screen that I had at home; they had much older CRTs. My eyes fatigued quick on those screens, and by the time I got through the preliminary questions and tutorial, my eyes were red and throbbing.

I had a splitting headache two hours in, just in time for the most important part of the test, the verbal section. If only I could have popped a couple of aspirin, or drank some water, but everything was prohibited from the testing area including coffee, snacks, even wallets and purses. They actually checked your pockets and there were several video cameras hovering above the cubicles.

I was dying of thirst and I've had a brutal bronchial infection for almost two months. The proctor confiscated my water, but he didn't catch the cough drops I'd slipped into my underwear in anticipation of the pocket search. It was tricky fishing them out without getting caught on camera or looking like a pervert, but I managed.

The computer administered tests had other quirks too. The worst was not being able to skip something for later. Once you moved on, there was no going back.

It was also a smart-ass computer, or CAT as they refered to it: a computer adapted test. This meant questions varied depending on how well you did. If you missed a few early, the computer assumed you were an idiot, and started feeding you easier problems. If you blew the first part of the test, it was impossible to get a top score.

I thought I did well on the first half of the verbal, but I took too much time, and had to rush the 2nd half. And that's where the dreaded reading comprehension section was. I had three passages and by the 2nd I was too far behind. I was forced to guess on numerous questions and made unlucky choices.

When the test was done, I got my scores -- in the old days you had to wait 6-8 weeks. I landed in the 65th percentile on the verbal, a long way off from GMAT '84 -- at least it wasn't a total disaster.

I'm sure I would have done better with a paper test. Hopefully it doesn't matter. The stories I submit are the most important part of the application process. At Iowa, GRE scores aren't even considered.

I'm also hoping to get a break for being an older student.

Still, it was a humbling experience, one I hope never to repeat.


Happy New Year and thanks for stopping by.

December 24, 2006

Everyone loves getting holiday cards, but most of us hate sending them. It's a chore, a duty, something that is put off until the last second. "I've got to get to those cards," a friend says as if putting off a root canal.

Regardless of whether you loath or love the annual card dispensing, we do appear to fall into a handful of sending categories.

The one most maligned is the annual Xmas letter, the family recap. These have reached the heights of the fruit cake in the cringe-and-shudder holiday category. I still think the fruit cake wins out as long as letters are kept to one page and well written. But I do wonder why those that send them out appear so oblivious of this lowly status?

Thank God the email card has gone the way of boy bands.

But it's the untouched by human hands card that bugs me the most --you know the ones, they arrive with the computer address label and preprinted card, typically with a snap of the family, or worse, just the kids. Since no one took the time to even write the address, at no point in the process was I thought about. For all I know, I could have been long forgotten, but still on a list that hasn't been culled in years.

As far as I'm concerned, those cards don't count.

At least the hand written address involves a visible review process. Writing my name at the top of the inside of the card would be better, but in my book, the short, personalized note is the card I most appreciate receiving. I only send this sort nowadays, but when I was a vice presidentat HMV Records, I had to send a small forest worth of cards to business acquaintances. The process was ridiculous. My secretary would generate the list and put a pile of cards on my desk to sign. Even if I wanted to write something personal I couldn't because the cards weren't matched to the envelopes.

In the last weeks of December my mail would be clogged with cards from people who had done the same thing. A meaningless exercise -- I would blindly say to whomever I was talking to, thanks for the card, and they'd return the platitude, both of us not having a clue on whether we'd sent or received one.

Things are less complicated now, but since I combined my email addresses with my real-world address book, I've lost the plot. I don't know how to find addresses or make lists anymore, so this year I'm doing it by memory.

But no matter what system I have, it never fails that a few folks will send a card that wasn't on my list. When it arrives with that hand written address and personalized note, I will feel awful. But if they're really a friend, they'll cut me a break and keep me on their list for next year.

Happy Holidays to everyone that sent me a card, even the preprinted sort with the computer address label…

rsw

December 18, 2006

It’s Hanukkah. I was a raised Jewish, sort of. I never got bar mitzvahed, but I did go to Hebrew School. We celebrated Christmas and always had a tree, but we burned candles on a menorah too.

I don’t even own a menorah now. I won’t get a tree this year, but in '05 when my mom and step dad came up, I had one. He’s a non-practicing catholic, so there were no wise men or a manger at the house, just tinsel and flashing colored lights.

For years the holidays had nothing do with religion anyway. When I worked in record retailing, this was our busiest time of year. We put in long hours. We got zero time off. But if it was a good year, we’d make a big bonus, and even Santa couldn’t top that.

The first year HMV was in New York, we spent a fortune on Christmas decorations. We had two huge stores on the upper east and west sides of Manhattan. We hired a big-time designer. The stores rivaled Macy’s Xmas look, but the Jewish customers demanded to know where the Hanukkah decorations were. Rabbis wrote letters. Others boycotted. Articles appeared in the local papers. Our chairman in London was contacted by an irate shopper.

I wasn’t officially part of the US team that first season. The board was all Brits. HMV was owned by EMI, a UK company. There weren’t enough Jews in all of England to make the fuss those Manhattan Jews did that year. The executive team was nonplussed. They scrambled to dig up dradles, menorahs, and blue and silver stars. Apologies were made and discounts given. HMV never made that mistake again.

I had one of the best jobs at Christmas – I got to be a DJ in the Manhattan stores -- spinning discs, talking up product, engaging customers. We had these fabulous DJ booths in our Manhattan stores. The sound systems at that time were state of the art.

With Tower Records folding up, this will be the last Christmas for large record retailers in the United States. The digital world accelerated the superstore demise, but it was the discounters like Best Buy and Wal Mart that made record retailing unprofitable. When a competitor sells product below cost, you can’t make it up in volume.

I don’t miss that work, but I did enjoy the camaraderie of the team. We had a lot of great employees. And I do miss the buzz of the stores. Don’t get me wrong, I love the digital age and the convenience of downloading. What’s not to like about Amazon and iTunes? But as a kid, there was nothing like an afternoon in a Tower, walking down aisles of product, rifling through the browsers, checking out girls. Kids today will never know how cool that really was, and that's too bad.

December 11, 2006

It's the season to be jolly, to reach out to loved ones as well as to those who might not be so beloved. We shouldn’t need a reason to let those we care about know how much we appreciate them, but we do. Maybe Christmas isn't such a bad thing, even if the jingle of the holidays is more about the sound of cash registers than sleigh bells.

I'm a better giver than receiver. But here comes another holiday season with me still struggling to make ends meet. I hope that my actions throughout the year will make up for not buying many presents. It feels cheesy to even say that, but that's the way it is.

My situation is by choice, not necessity, and those that know me well, understand that. They respect what I'm doing and why. And that means more than any gifts I might get.

Having said that, I was the recipient of an amazing act of generosity this week. One of my oldest and dearest high school friends -- Brent Marshall Hess, sent me a beautiful electric guitar. It was surprising and quite touching. All too often gifts are given out of obligation or with anticipation of something in return -- this was a selfless act from the heart.

Back in the day, a crowd used to hang out after school at his house. His folks were divorced. Mom worked and didn't get home until six. It was party central. I spent many a hazy afternoon playing guitar, listening to music, smoking pot and kissing girls at his place.

A few weeks ago I wrote about camping out for a '75 Who show. Brent and I spent a night on the steps of the Spectrum for the 2nd Who show, based on what we discovered the next day, was an unfound rumor.

After high school Brent moved to Michigan for college. I attended Syracuse. I made my way through Canada for a spring break visit. We caught an amazing Johnny Winter/Muddy Waters concert. One day we were stuck somewhere, hitchhiking. It was freezing with two-feet of snow on the ground. The sky was heavy and gray. The winds kicked up. I said something snotty. He said something back. It could have been the other way around, but either way, it didn't take long for the two of us to start slugging it out. Later that night, when we got back to his dorm, we smoked a joint, drank a few beers, and strummed guitar.

We both dropped out of college. I ended up in California. He returned home to New Jersey. Then we lost contact.

Six years later I was in San Francisco on a job interview. I was late and lost and in a panic. I walked into a building for directions. I entered an office on the first floor and asked the receptionist for help. Brent was behind the desk, doing some carpentry work. When he heard my voice, he stood. Instant recognition. We couldn't believe it. What were the odds?

Brent was a good carpenter, but he wanted more out of life. In his mid-thirties, he decided to go back to school to become a veterinarian. It was a gutsy move. I was impressed that he was willing to suck it up to make such a major life change.

I was at his wedding four years ago. I got to see his Mom and his sister. I hadn't seen them in over twenty years.

Brent's now a partner in a practice in Long Beach. He's married with two kids. He still finds a little time to strum guitar. Last May he came to see me read at Orange Coast College. And this weekend he sent me the guitar. I think this is his way of supporting me, giving me the encouragement to keep going. I do feel a bit awkward accepting such a gift, given how many in the world are in much greater need. But it was a wonderful, kind and loving gesture, just the sort of thing I needed to pick me up this holiday season. I really appreciated it.

I hope everyone reading this is as lucky as I am to have such a good friend. Thanks Brent. I love you.

Happy Holidays everyone.

December 4, 2006

My eagle eyes are failing. I can still read a street sign from a far, but in a nice restaurant with candles flickering, I can’t read a damn thing on the menu. It’s as if there’s a font conspiracy, a madcap scheme to shrink every written word on the planet so that I won’t be able to read it.

Of course reading glasses would solve the situation. I bought a pair of drugstore glasses for fifteen bucks last year. They work great, but I need to have them in reach when I want to read something, which means, I can’t go anywhere without them -- as if that’s going to happen.

I should buy ten pairs and keep one in each room. A pair would come in handy when I'm on the toilet.

I’ve worked on the computer a lot lately. My eyes felt tired, weak, and blurry. I went to the eye doctor.

“We haven’t seen you since 2002,” the doctor says, shaking his head. “I need to see you every year.”

“My insurance is crap,” I tell him. “I’m self-employed, money’s tight.”

He frowns. “This is just like an annual physical, you can’t afford not to.”

Hmm, I think.

He proceeds to give me a thorough exam. I don’t doubt his abilities, but his bedside manner is brusque. He’s harried and speaks as if on auto-pilot.

“You’ve done this a few times,” I say.

He smirks.

But he does test my drugstore glasses. “They aren’t pretty,” I say, “but they do the trick.”

No response.

At the end of the exam, he scribbles me a prescription. “You can see the guy out front for the glasses.”

It’s a posh shop filled with designer spectacles at high prices. I’d need several thousand dollars to station glasses throughout my house.

I walk back to the doc’s office. “Sorry,” I say. “What’s the difference between these glasses and yours?”

“Minimal,” he replies.

I smile, turn, and walk straight out to the parking lot. I head over to the drugstore.

I’ve spoken to a couple of doctors since my appointment and they said at my age if I’m not having eye trouble, there’s no need for an annual pilgrimage to the eye doctor; especially if I get a yearly physical.

When a doctor tells you something, it’s tough not to believe it. How’s a civilian to know what’s really necessary?

The eye doctor says come every year. The dentist wants to see me every six months. The general practioner says at my age I have to come yearly for a check-up. The apple industry association still claims eating one everyday keeps the damn doctor away. How does that factor into all of this?

And yet my insurance doesn’t cover eye or teeth; it makes no contributions for fruits or vegetables either; it does, however, cover 25% of an annual physical, but only once every two years.

It's a struggle to navigate our healthcare system, but at least I can read the fine print of the my insurance policy with these handy fifteen-dollar-drugstore glasses…

November 27, 2006

That was thirty-one years ago. I was number sixteen in line and scored second row center. It was a frigid October morning that day when over four-thousand people, most of them behind me, bought tickets. An hour later I was taking the SATs to get into college.

This week I'm studying for the GRE, the graduate admissions test. It's a requirement for the writing fellowship I'm applying for. Coincidentally, the Who are appearing in Bridgeport on Tuesday, only ten minutes from my house. No need to worry that I'll spend a week in line stoned. There are plenty of tickets still available.

Back then I cut school, but I did get a spotter to hold my place so I could take a math test. My mom thought I was staying at friends. I did homework in line. I took practice SAT tests. I also smoked a lot of pot. Needless to say, my exam result wasn't brilliant.

There won't be any test conflicts this time around. Nowadays you can choose the day to take the test because it's administered on computer at official testing centers. I can't recall what it cost in the 70's, but I'm sure it was no where near the hundred and thirty bucks it is in 2006.

Back in '75 the Who sold out the Spectrum in Philadelphia within a few hours. Center section on the floor cost $8.50. This week the best seats in Bridgeport were $200 and they went fast, but there are plenty of $50 seats still available.

What does one do in line for a week? We huddled about trashcans that burned refuse. We scrounged wood. We swapped rock and roll stories. We played guitar. We sang Who songs. We talked about how disgusted we were with the republicans. On occasion we'd warm up in someone's car. A treat was a run to Pats Steaks.

Everyone at school knew I'd scored those tickets. The next week when my step-sister had a party, one of her friends stole them. I never found out who the culprit was, but I always suspected Richard Samlin. For all I know, he ended up in jail for bank robbery

I wrote to the Spectrum and explained the situation. I knew the guards and the ticket manager because I'd been in line for so long. They issued me passes. Can you imagine that happening today?

The night of the show was quite a reunion in that center section. Those first rows were full of friends. Many of the ushers were guards that had patrolled the Spectrum steps where we'd camped. They already knew about my situation. They said not to worry; they weren't going to honor the tickets when someone showed up.

Two people with my tickets appeared, bought from scalpers. The guards made them sit elsewhere.

This was the last American show of '75, and local critics called it the concert of the year. Upfront it was pandemonium. This was before that Who show in Ohio where kids got trampled to death. The ushers were overwhelmed and lost control as thousands rushed the stage. We were forced to stand on our seats. Midway through the show my girlfriend fell. We retreated to higher ground(I wrote in detail about this in the short story The Chaperone, which appeared earlier this year in the Orange Coast Review).

I doubt the Who will destroy the stage this week, as they did that night in Philly.

I've got more studying to do, so I better get back. The last time I did geometry was probably when I studied for that SAT. This time around I'm studying sober.

November 20, 2006

I couldn't figure out why the supermarket was so crowded today, and then it dawned on me, Thanksgiving. I've been so focused on writing that the holiday almost snuck up on me.

Maybe it's the weather. We've had lots of sixty-degree plus days the past several weeks. Even today, it's warmish.

I've had four invites for Thanksgiving, which is great since I don't have family nearby, or a girlfriend at the moment. Last Thanksgiving was a debacle for lots of reasons that aren't worth going into. Suffice it to say, this year I want to spend time with real friends.

It's been a tough few months. I've had my new novel circulating and nobody took it. I got lots of encouraging rejection, but few specifics on what to do. One agent said she liked it a lot, but was still passing. She was unsure why. Perhaps the beginning was too slow. Another said there was too much exposition. Another said there wasn't enough.

I hadn't read it since early September, so a few weeks back I took a long hard look at the manuscript. It was coming in at 465 double-spaced pages. I decided to get rid of the back-story, speed up the early pages, and delete the opening scene. I worked around the clock for the last ten days. I cut over eighty pages. I tweaked certain scenes and cleaned up sentences. I clarified and embellished where necessary. I had a good friend review the first hundred pages in detail. The result is a much leaner, meaner manuscript.

I've already got an agent lined up to read it. This week the new improved My Year as a Clown hits the pavement.

This week I also started studying for the GRE. I haven't done math without a calculator since 1985. When I broke out the study guide, I grew despondent. It was horrifying. I couldn't remember anything. It made me question why I'm bothering with graduate school.

Time spent studying could be used instead to write, but an MFA could also help my writing. If I score one of these fellowships where they pay me to go to school, I can't lose because I'd get lots of time to write. And a shot at working with Barry Hannah is truly a once in a lifetime opportunity. Although Barry is supporting my application, he can't guarantee me a slot, so I'm also applying to Iowa and University of Texas at Austin -- they are both excellent schools too and I'd would be a privilege to attend any of the three.

So my pencils are sharpened and I'm dusting off the cobwebs in that part of my brain that once knew how to do geometry, algebra, and fractions.

Damn, it's dusty in here…

November 13, 2006

I was thrilled at the election. It turns out the country isn't as far right as everyone thought. Many of us are either conservative democrats or liberal republicans. Most were unhappy with the war. It wasn't a good year for moderate republicans either, that is, except here in Fairfield County, where Christopher Shays hung on to his congressional seat. The rest of the country felt it was important to send a signal to Washington -- why didn't it happen here?


Some folks will say that it was Shay's character that got him the votes, his record in office, that he's a great guy, a mensch. I voted for the man since the early nineties -- he is all of those things. But this election wasn't about local politics, it was about the war and the overall direction in Washington. Fairfield County should have followed the rest of the country, but it didn't.

Why?

Two things -- the war is too far removed from much of the population here. But perhaps more important, money, moolah, cashola.

Housing might be in the dumps, but Wall Street is booming. There will be record bonuses paid this year. Folks in this neck of the woods couldn't face repeal of those high-income tax breaks put in by Bush.

Is it fair to say that these people don't care about global warming, the kids dying in Iraq, or the millions in this country that can't afford health insurance. If you asked them point blank, of course they'd say they care. Most would mean it too. But if they have to make sacrifices, like putting off that kitchen remodel, or that third house in the south of France, well that's another thing.

The irony is that even with tax break repeal, many here could afford all of that and still not notice the tax burden.

What's most disheartening is that nobody is asking the question. Everyone is back to what they do around here. Kids have to get to school. Folks work out at the gym. The 6:12 am train to the city is as packed as ever. Hordes of Mexican gardeners are blowing leaves. McMansions are still under construction.

Kids still die in Iraq.

November 6, 2006

I finally got around to watching the Jackson Pollock film starring Ed Harris. There's Peggy Guggenheim living in extreme luxury while Pollock toiled day to day.

Things haven't changed much for artists. The value placed on artistic skills is capricious, the odds of making enough to raise a family so small, one is almost certain to live below the poverty line. That's why artists moonlight, doing what they can to get by, to keep at their art.

I've been fortunate to have had eight unencumbered years of writing fiction and songs. I worked hard to get that shot, I had a little luck too, but that's run out, and it's time to face facts, I need a job.

I heard a hit songwriter in Nashville say, "Take a menial job to preserve your brain power for writing."

There's a lot to be said for that, but I once earned in day what most menial jobs pay in a month. I can't see myself behind the cash register at Barnes and Noble, unless it's undercover for character research.

My means are modest, I drive a twelve year old car, but I've still got a mortgage -- interest rates have doubled my home equity payment. Last week I wrote about the oil hikes. Property taxes jumped too.

I was busy in the studio this month, and I picked up a free-lance writing gig at Poets and Writers, but it's not enough to keep the house here in Westport, CT, where most people earn well into six-figures.

If I have to get my butt back to work, I will, but I'll need some new clothes.

Although I was on the board of directors of HMV Records, mostly, I wore casual. On occasion I met with heavy weights like Donald Trump, the mayor of Philadelphia, the master architect, I.M. Pei. On those days I wore Armani suits, Egyptian-cotton custom shirts, hundred-dollar silk ties.

I dusted off a few of those Armanis and took them into local retailer Ed Mitchell's, an institution here in Westport, to see if I could get them refitted.

Mitchell's is the king of customer service. Bill Mitchell was at the door to greet me. "Would you like some coffee? What can I help you with?"

I wanted to see if I could get those suits readjusted in hopes of saving a few bucks. "No problem," Bill said.

He introduced me to Mark Taylor, a guy who has worked there twenty-two years. I put on one of the Armani jackets; that suit cost twelve-hundred bucks.

"How old is that?" Mark asked.

It was over ten, but I said eight.

"It's dated, shoulders today are tighter, it's a more tailored fit, the buttons are a good four inches higher."

He gave me an equivalent Armani to try on. It looked good, and it should since it cost almost two grand.

I asked it we could tailor my existing suits, update them. There were a few options, he said, but nothing could be done with the buttons.

Mark asked what the suits were for. I need at least one for interviews, but the clothing depends on the job I seek. Problem is, I haven't figured that out. I’m still hoping that someone will pick-up my novel. There are more freelance writing opportunities to explore. If I can hold off formal interviewing until the post-Christmas sales, I could save a bundle.

We decided I should try on that old Armani to see if there was anything the tailor could do. I was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and casual shoes. Mark gave me a white oxford shirt and a pair of dress shoes, to make sure I had a good fit. I came out of the dressing room with that shirt draped over the trousers.

"Tuck in the shirt," he said.

I laughed. "I haven't tucked a shirt in for almost eight years."

"You're like the college grads that come in here. I've got to tell them what to do."

And there you have it: at forty-eight and still mistaken for an irresponsible college kid.

I could get depressed over this, but maybe it indicates there's still hope for me as a writer….

October 30, 2006

The leaves are falling, daylight savings is over, there's an early morning frost on the dormant grass. Soon puddles will ice over and I'll be wearing gloves. Earlier this week I was actually sitting at the computer with a jacket and scarf. For three days I froze, it felt like an ice box in my house.

I grew depressed not understanding how it had turned so quickly. Then I realized my heater was broken. I was just so busy, working on that Poets & Writers article, the studio was booked almost every day too. I knew something was odd, me and the cats huddled up at night, our teeth chattering.

The boiler conked out when I got a delivery on Monday. Here in the northeast it's oil heat. I've got a five-hundred gallon tank. The fresh oil stirs up the sediment in the tank and on occasion that clogs the system and it shuts down. I didn't realize until Thursday.

To top it off, I got the season's first heating bill -- over five hundred and sixty-three bucks. I'm fixed at $2.66 a gallon. Last year it was $2.16, the year before that: $1.69; it was 85 cents back in 1995. It's enough to make me sick, or at least wear two sweaters and throw an extra blanket on the bed.

I just bought a glass door for my fireplace. Once the fire goes out, the flue sucks out the warm air, and in the morning I come downstairs to a freezing living room and kitchen. This year I'll be able to close it off when I go to bed and keep the heat in.

I thought about getting a pellet stove, but it uses over five-hundred dollars in pellets a season, the stove costs two grand. I'd hate to give up my fireplace. There's nothing like the crackle of oak, the smell of mesquite wafting up through the house on a cold winter day. A half-a-cord of wood only runs a hundred-and-ten bucks.



My Nana, over in England, turns 96 on Halloween. She was born in 1910, the year of Halley's Comet. She's lived through two world wars, the invention of radio, TV, the Internet too. When she was a kid the only food in existence was organic food. Nobody paid a premium for free range chickens or eggs, that's just the way it was. It's hard for me to imagine what she feels like, given what she's seen. Happy Birthday Nana!



Thankfully, the election is coming to an end. Here in Connecticut the republicans ran an ad saying that Diane Farrell had befriended the Taliban. I mean really, Diane Farrell is no saint, but a friend of the Taliban, please, I doubt she could pick out Afghanistan on a map, let alone be in cahoots with terrorists. It made Shays look like an idiot, which to his credit, he admitted.

Catch any political ad nowadays and one can only conclude that all politicians must think that we the electorate are schmucks. Mudslinging has become a high art form. But since 9/11 there's an even more diabolical strategy: keep an eye on the terror alert color scheme this week. Also, look for gas prices to rise post election.

October 23, 2006

You can’t imagine the looks I get from friends when I tell them I’m thinking about moving to Mississippi. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. A lot has to happen before this becomes a reality; my three-day trip to Oxford was a first step. Before applying to the Ole Miss MFA program, I needed to see what the place was like, to make sure I could live there.

Oxford is a small university town. Courthouse Square is the hub with stately southern, well preserved buildings. Two-story wood structures with clapboard porches, house independent bookstores, quality restaurants, student haunts, antique shops, and a handful of bars featuring live music.

The University has excellent facilities, the campus looks great, there are modern buildings and well-maintained old ones too. Its spread out across a wooded campus and rolling hills. Football is king, but literature is a close second.

Mississippi is the poorest state in the union, but it’s steeped in a deep, rich literary tradition. Some say the country’s greatest writers were born here. The list is impressive: Faulkner, Welty, Williams, Brown, Ford, Spencer, Bass, and of course Barry Hannah, one of America’s great living writers.

The opportunity to apprentice with Barry is unique. We met this summer at Sewanee. Until I’d met Barry, it had never crossed my mind to get an MFA. I was unaware that some places offer full scholarships as well as living expenses. John Grisham sponsors several fellowships at Ole Miss.

Naturally, it’s competitive. Barry can’t guarantee a slot, there’s a committee, an application process, I'd have to take the GRE. That might kill it right there, I can't add or subtract without a calculator. I don't remember algebra or geometry. It cost $130 to take the test nowadays. But it’s quite an honor to have someone like Barry encouraging me to apply.

Some highlights of the trip -- visiting Faulkner's house. Having lunch with Barry and his wife. Sitting in on a class. Seeing Barry's home, his library, the place where he writes. I also visited Memphis, an hour to the north. I made a pilgrimage to Graceland and Sun Records, the birthplace of rock and roll.

Oxford, Mississippi, it's a great place to visit, it might also be a wonderful place to hang my hat and pen. Last night I went on-line and ordered an application...

October 16, 2006

Amazon has created a way to present my favorite books and CDs to visitors on my site. From time to time I'll feature friends and teachers, or something that has taken my breath away. If you want to buy something, Amazon will sell it to you. I'm the filter. It's a cool way to introduce you to the artists that have most influenced my work.

Speaking of which, this week I'm off to Oxford, Mississippi to spend a few days with Barry Hannah. I met Barry this summer at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. One day I took a ride off the mountain with him and his dog, Nell, to a nearby Wal Mart. I wrote about that a few months back. Barry and I have stayed in contact. I'm going to Ole Miss to check out the literary scene and talk about my writing.

While I'm there, I'll be meeting another esteemed writer, Tom Franklin. He wrote a critically acclaimed short story collection called Poachers. His most recent novel, Hell at the Breech, is about an Alabama gang of vigilante/criminals in the late 1800's. The book has received rave reviews. I was hooked from the opening page. I'm a big Larry McMurtry fan, this is in that tradition.

On the Connecticut political front, Shays and Farrell duked it out in their first of eleven debates for US Congress. Shays said in one interaction that this isn't a national election, it's about what we can do for the district. In a different time, I would have agreed, but not this year. Farrell retorted: everyone knows that this is a national election. She's right.

The Nobel Peace prize was awarded to one of the founders of third-world micro-finance. The concept is simple enough. Lend poor people fifty bucks, give them training, hold them accountable for the loan. I've seen this in Haiti -- women given cash to buy a few chickens, seed, or flour. They sell products at markets, they earn profit, they payback the loan; sometimes they borrow more to expand. In the process they develop self-sufficiency, they learn marketable skills, they gain self-esteem.

I'm working on a piece about a Haitian woman that was lent fifty dollars. I will detail what she bought, sold, and how it changed her life. When its done, I'll post it here.

Time to pack, I'm heading south...

rsw

October 9, 2006

Since the dawn of rock and roll teenagers have learned to play guitar to attract the opposite sex. In eighth grade I went out with a ninth-grade girl. No way a boy does that without a cherry-red Harmony electric. A guitar overcomes a lot of personality quirks, but it doesn’t trump a senior with a car. I was devastated when Christine broke up with me, but my first song came out of that heartbreak and it helped with the healing. Although my newly found status as a songwriter was no threat to a guy with a driver's license, it did put me ahead of mere guitar players.

Performing in coffee houses kept the social life active through college, but writing also allowed me to explore feelings, I got to know myself better. Soon after graduation I was married. Tragically, it was time to grow up, get a job, put my guitar in the closet.

Twenty years later I was a vice president for a division of a major record company, wishing I'd never stopped playing. I bought a couple of classic, vintage guitars, dusted off my old Martin too. I rediscovered songwriting. I took guitar lessons, attended workshops, I wrote my wife a couple of sappy love songs. She said that’s nice, then bought me a pair of headphones. We’re divorced now, but the issue was much larger than me and those guitars.

Now that I’m single again, writing songs takes on a new dimension. It’s not the means to score women it was in my misspent youth, rather an additional way to express myself. Recently I studied with Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. They taught me how to dig deep for inspiration, find serendipity. I learned the nuts and bolts too.

Marshall McLuhan said the medium is the message. Songs are potent vehicles, but they are subject to misinterpretation. Sometimes when you write a song for someone, the result isn’t as you expect. I learned this lesson the hard way back in high school.

In tenth grade I had the hots for Donna Duclose, but she was going out with Alex Savage, an eleventh grader with a Camaro. One night Donna and I hung out behind the gym and started kissing. I wrote What Do You Do?. I made her a cassette copy:

What do you do
When your mind is confused
You don’t know what’s going on
But you know you’re the fuse

Savage got a hold of the tape. He drove over in that fast car with a buddy. They burned a couple of wheelies in front of my parent’s house. They jumped out of the Camaro and beat me up. That was the end of me and Donna.

Almost thirty years later, with several years of so-called serious songwriting under my belt, I put my new found craft to work. My marriage was on the rocks and I wrote Going for a Ride: in an attempt to get things back on track:

I want to feel like I did that time we met
When the wind blew through our hair
We drove all day with the top rolled down
Like new found millionaires

My wife never heard it because she left me for another guy before I could play it for her. No song was going to get us back from that.

The divorce wasn’t pretty, but it provided a great source of material for writing. My first few dates after two decades worth of marriage were a disaster, but eventually I met someone that was worthy of a song. Gail and I had similar tastes in music and during the holidays I gave her a recording of a tune she inspired. The song wasn’t for her, but that was a subtle distinction she failed to grasp despite my awkward explanation. She heard it once and fell in love. I blame that damn song for ruining what was a good situation. We both knew it was too soon for me to get into something deep, but I should’ve known better than to write that song.

I’ve written several others for women since, but I’m more cautious about sharing. Maybe She Loves Me was about Nadine, my yoga instructor. I really liked her and I thought she dug me too, but she refused to go out, saying she didn't date students. We had great chemistry, a real connection, so I wrote this:

Maybe she loves me
But she don't know it
Maybe she loves me
Just can't show it -- maybe that's it
Maybe she loves me
But she can't risk a lot
Maybe she loves me
Maybe not

I never played it for Nadine because I valued our friendship, I loved her class. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that. Today we're still good friends. Looking back on how things were, it’s clear that if she'd heard that song, the answer would've been: Not.

Cool Things Down was about a fiery relationship last year. Jules and I burned like a fourth of July sparkler, it was hot, passionate, short-lived. This was inspired by our first fight:

And when you hear the sound of thunder
Don’t run away
Baby, give it one more day
Cause when it rains
It will cool things down

Nothing could have cooled down that affair, Jules ran at the first crack of thunder.

Last week I wrote I Can’t Fall. It was inspired by Sara, a beautiful songwriter I met this summer at a workshop. She's smart, funny, warm, she has an angelic voice and plays a great honky-tonk guitar. We have so much in common that it scared me, but it also gave me an idea for a song. I took a gamble and sent an mp3 to her via email (she doesn’t live locally).

I Can't Fall is about the fear of exposing the heart, that feeling of vulnerability when you’re unsure if the other person is feeling the same. I probably shouldn’t have sent this, the love pundits would say it’s too soon. And yet I know Sara likes me, but this could cause her to put on the breaks. Oh well, it’s too late now:



I Can’t Fall

She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
She’s a sports car with a rag top
She’s the sound of a mountain stream
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…

I’m a forest after the fire
I’m the eye of a hurricane
And I have walked a thousand miles
To avoid love’s pain
Cause I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…

There’s a second chance
For broken hearts that still believe
It’s a simple dance
Anyone can learn this dance of love

She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
And she’d be worth it, of that I’m certain
She’d be a star on any team
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
If I let her in
I’ll fall in love


The song was supposed to let Sara know I thought she was terrific, that despite my baggage, I still believed 'Love' was possible. She liked it, but had a few melodic suggestions (that’s the dynamic of going out with a fellow songwriter). They were good ideas and I took them on board. But things felt different between us. She called less frequently, and when we did talk, she seemed preoccupied. Long distance relationships are never easy. I thought the song would boost her confidence to take a chance, but she pulled back. Did the song accelerate the inevitable? Maybe.


Some people believe getting a girl is a lot like fishing -- you’ve got to know how to handle that reel: bring ‘em in too fast or too slow and you’ll lose the catch. When I was a kid, love songs were an essential tool in my bait-and-tackle box. We talked of catching women the way Hemingway would write about the chase for marlin off the coast of Cuba.

There’s no doubt that writing love songs requires that same deft hand of a fisherman, but nowadays for me, getting a girl isn’t sport, it's certainly no game. And yet all too often it feels as if it is. I get sucked into playi