Robert Steven Williams

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.

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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