September sun, sun on September One. Summer’s over, psychologically at least, but the sun is still warm and bright, betraying just a hint of what’s to come when it descends the sky later and the temperature drops into the 50’s, jacket weather.
You remember Septembers’ past, when the changing of the season had a more innocent meaning, one less fraught with responsibility and the awareness of time rushing past, of life’s chronology growing deeper behind you.
You spent part of the weekend purging, pulling apart shelves and boxing books that’ll be sold for a dollar at a Goodwill store. Throwing away old birthday cards, but not before flipping through a few of them, same as the scattered photos you found. Snapshots of a time and a place, those times long since past. You cling to the memories, but just for a second because all they are now are memories, and you cannot cling to memories or the past or the road not taken, not for one minute more. You’ve made it to this point, the fits and starts of a life in motion, in constant motion really despite the many vain attempts you’ve made at finding a “pause” button. There is no pause, only play. So you play.
You read old journals, recognizing the author and wondering what that guy would think about this guy. Would he be proud of where you’ve come since then? Disappointed? Impressed in some ways, bewildered in others? And you think about her, wondering what she’s doing while you’re doing this, while you’re putting into action the steps you’ve long talked about taking. Is she taking steps too? Are we stepping toward one another, walking toward that sandy beach path lit by a fiery orange sunset, that happy ending where we stroll off together, hand in hand?
You look up and forward, seeing only the present and the future. All this, all this is over...the last vestiges of who you were reminding you of who you are and how you got here. It’s all different now.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
A Moment on Art
I’m listening to Gram Parsons’ version of “Love Hurts” via Hype Machine, struck still by how fresh the song sounds, 35 years after it was first released. Emmylou Harris sings harmony, and their voices blend together so seamlessly that you can’t help but wonder what they’d have done had Gram’s demons not done him in so young (or if he’d have killed himself anyway after hearing Nazareth’s cover). So much raw, genuine emotion in that voice. Love DOES hurt, goddamnit, and this song makes you feel it. The Grievous Angel didn’t make it, but the angelic voice that remains, that of Emmylou, sure does. Thankfully. I spent a long obsessive weekend listening to her “Songbird” box set a couple of months ago and gained a whole new appreciation for her art...
Art is what makes us human, keeps us connected to the beauty that exists in the world, makes us think and inspires us and occasionally offends us too. Music, for so many of us, is an outlet without which life would be unbearable. The comfort of a familiar voice, a resonating lament that reminds us that these feelings aren’t always unique only to us, the joy of hearing a spectacular voice or searing guitar solo or thrilling live performance or an unstoppable rhythm or whatever it is that blows your proverbial skirt up, that raises the mundane to a higher plane, if even for the briefest of moments.
Art pulls us up above the everyday, of the have-to and the routine, of the forced smile and professional facade that barely conceals the beastly beating heart of the wild soul that seeks nothing more than escape, nothing more than the chance to thumb its nose and raise its middle finger at The Man.
Art enhances our emotions, makes the good better, adds contextual beauty to the intimate moments that define us and provides a richness to the experience of this short ride on the planet, the one lap we all get to run. Art reminds us that there is more, that life is deeper, that what we do for a living isn’t really life but rather a means to an end.
Art is what makes us human, keeps us connected to the beauty that exists in the world, makes us think and inspires us and occasionally offends us too. Music, for so many of us, is an outlet without which life would be unbearable. The comfort of a familiar voice, a resonating lament that reminds us that these feelings aren’t always unique only to us, the joy of hearing a spectacular voice or searing guitar solo or thrilling live performance or an unstoppable rhythm or whatever it is that blows your proverbial skirt up, that raises the mundane to a higher plane, if even for the briefest of moments.
Art pulls us up above the everyday, of the have-to and the routine, of the forced smile and professional facade that barely conceals the beastly beating heart of the wild soul that seeks nothing more than escape, nothing more than the chance to thumb its nose and raise its middle finger at The Man.
Art enhances our emotions, makes the good better, adds contextual beauty to the intimate moments that define us and provides a richness to the experience of this short ride on the planet, the one lap we all get to run. Art reminds us that there is more, that life is deeper, that what we do for a living isn’t really life but rather a means to an end.
Friday, August 1, 2008
AT&T Wireless: America's Telecom Travesty, continued...
A friend of mine recently sent some thoughts in response to my posting a couple of weeks back, Poison Ivy v. AT&T Wireless: which is worse? and it sparked an interesting thought...
His initial conceit was that as recognizably awful as AT&T customer service is, there is equal blame to be placed with RIM, the makers of BlackBerry devices. After all, they're paid in full by AT&T, which subsidizes the retail cost and makes up the difference (and then some) via onerous service contracts, so I should raise some hell with RIM too. Here is my response:
While RIM is certainly accountable in this (and I understand how it's all incestuously subsidized), my chief issues have been with AT&T. First, because their network sucks and I constantly have calls drop, people unable to hear me properly, etc. The larger issue with them is that their customer service is deplorable. Separate from any issues I have experienced with a faulty device or poor network coverage in the areas I frequent, the overwhelming frustration has been with the response from AT&T. It's a system designed to frustrate consumers into giving up. Rather than an empowered point of contact able to effect a true resolution, I get shifted around, patronized ("um, yes, I do understand that I need to see at least one bar in order to place a call..." true story), bait-and-switched, lied to, etc. I've complained to RIM and been offered tech help for just $45/hour, but the central issue is still with AT&T.
All things being equal among the 4 major cellular service providers in terms of technology and coverage, how does a company separate itself and stand out? Great customer service is one way. Give me a reason to brag about you. Make it natural for me to mention my positive experience. A million new subscribers are holding their shiny new iPhones right now, marveling at all the device is capable of...until they begin using it as a phone and realize the coverage and audio quality is the equivalent of dialing Nairobi from Harare...and then the call drops, inexplicably.
Here's a comparison: a few months ago, I dropped my COBRA coverage and bought an individual plan, privately. Different HMO provider, but same level of service and benefits, just $200/month less. While I didn't have problems per se with Blue Cross/Blue Shield, the treatment and service I've received since joining Fallon is outstanding. My PCP spent considerable time with me during a recent physical; all of my follow-up appointments (I had a bunch of tests) were scheduled quickly and upon arrival at each, there was little time wasted-no waiting, no duplication of forms, just comprehensive treatment that included genuine explanations of all that was happening. While I may be one of _______ subscribers, at each stop along the way I've been treated as their most important subscriber, and I've been raving about Fallon as a consequence. With health care a major concern in this country and that industry having such a heavily negative public perception, how valuable is it to Fallon to have satisfied consumers speaking to other potential consumers about their happiness with said service? Strong word of mouth comes to them without incurring any additional marketing costs. How easy would it be for AT&T (or any number of companies, obviously) to achieve the same?
His initial conceit was that as recognizably awful as AT&T customer service is, there is equal blame to be placed with RIM, the makers of BlackBerry devices. After all, they're paid in full by AT&T, which subsidizes the retail cost and makes up the difference (and then some) via onerous service contracts, so I should raise some hell with RIM too. Here is my response:
While RIM is certainly accountable in this (and I understand how it's all incestuously subsidized), my chief issues have been with AT&T. First, because their network sucks and I constantly have calls drop, people unable to hear me properly, etc. The larger issue with them is that their customer service is deplorable. Separate from any issues I have experienced with a faulty device or poor network coverage in the areas I frequent, the overwhelming frustration has been with the response from AT&T. It's a system designed to frustrate consumers into giving up. Rather than an empowered point of contact able to effect a true resolution, I get shifted around, patronized ("um, yes, I do understand that I need to see at least one bar in order to place a call..." true story), bait-and-switched, lied to, etc. I've complained to RIM and been offered tech help for just $45/hour, but the central issue is still with AT&T.
All things being equal among the 4 major cellular service providers in terms of technology and coverage, how does a company separate itself and stand out? Great customer service is one way. Give me a reason to brag about you. Make it natural for me to mention my positive experience. A million new subscribers are holding their shiny new iPhones right now, marveling at all the device is capable of...until they begin using it as a phone and realize the coverage and audio quality is the equivalent of dialing Nairobi from Harare...and then the call drops, inexplicably.
Here's a comparison: a few months ago, I dropped my COBRA coverage and bought an individual plan, privately. Different HMO provider, but same level of service and benefits, just $200/month less. While I didn't have problems per se with Blue Cross/Blue Shield, the treatment and service I've received since joining Fallon is outstanding. My PCP spent considerable time with me during a recent physical; all of my follow-up appointments (I had a bunch of tests) were scheduled quickly and upon arrival at each, there was little time wasted-no waiting, no duplication of forms, just comprehensive treatment that included genuine explanations of all that was happening. While I may be one of _______ subscribers, at each stop along the way I've been treated as their most important subscriber, and I've been raving about Fallon as a consequence. With health care a major concern in this country and that industry having such a heavily negative public perception, how valuable is it to Fallon to have satisfied consumers speaking to other potential consumers about their happiness with said service? Strong word of mouth comes to them without incurring any additional marketing costs. How easy would it be for AT&T (or any number of companies, obviously) to achieve the same?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
When the rain comes...
It’s been raining for days, torrential downpours and violent thunderstorms that crack tree limbs and spirits, turning summer into some nether-season...warm with a cold wind, the depth of the grey in the sky fluctuating throughout the day until nightfall comes and more rain falls in the darkness, fat raindrops wind-whipped against the window drumming a steady beat interrupted periodically by sharp crackles of thunder, flashes of lightning illuminating the skies for seconds of eerie brightness, making you grateful to be home, to be indoors and protected from a storm that feels like a Hollywood special effect, like the living room has suddenly morphed into the cabin of Andrea Gail in “The Perfect Storm...”
Funny too how rain like this leads you to introspection, forced indoors and into the contours of your mind, the mindless diversion of television no longer a diversion at all and the music you play in the background mirrors the mood and the lamps providing more of a soft backlight, a warming glow instead of the bright shine of luminescence...you feel your mind wandering, thinking back over your recent past and the highs you’ve felt, the beautiful moments you’ve shared with her, the days you made special for her because she’s made every day special for you...and then the lows, because so much of the future seems uncertain...you know there’s a way out, that there’s a path for you to follow and all you have to do is follow it, keep pressing on because that’s the only option and really, what the fuck do you have to complain about anyway?
But those lows...those cringe-inducing memories of telling an inappropriate story, of opening your mouth and hearing something so offensively stupid come out, seeing the expression on her face change, the smile draining away and that beautiful moment become one of awkward ugliness and you want more than anything to just take the moment back, to go back 4 minutes in time and talk about the Red Sox instead, anything at all...It’s too late though, and you proffer your effusive apologies and because she’s better than you are, savvier, she gamely tells you that it’s OK, it’s over, and you say your warm goodbyes, still feeling the electricity when her body presses against yours but you have to go your separate ways for the evening...and the rest of that evening you’re distracted, unable to focus on much of anything other than that nauseating pit in your stomach, the sting of imaginary bees piercing your brain and you just want to make it right, because until you do the rain will just keep coming down and you’re ready for the sun to shine again, you’re ready to dance in the sunlight with her...
Funny too how rain like this leads you to introspection, forced indoors and into the contours of your mind, the mindless diversion of television no longer a diversion at all and the music you play in the background mirrors the mood and the lamps providing more of a soft backlight, a warming glow instead of the bright shine of luminescence...you feel your mind wandering, thinking back over your recent past and the highs you’ve felt, the beautiful moments you’ve shared with her, the days you made special for her because she’s made every day special for you...and then the lows, because so much of the future seems uncertain...you know there’s a way out, that there’s a path for you to follow and all you have to do is follow it, keep pressing on because that’s the only option and really, what the fuck do you have to complain about anyway?
But those lows...those cringe-inducing memories of telling an inappropriate story, of opening your mouth and hearing something so offensively stupid come out, seeing the expression on her face change, the smile draining away and that beautiful moment become one of awkward ugliness and you want more than anything to just take the moment back, to go back 4 minutes in time and talk about the Red Sox instead, anything at all...It’s too late though, and you proffer your effusive apologies and because she’s better than you are, savvier, she gamely tells you that it’s OK, it’s over, and you say your warm goodbyes, still feeling the electricity when her body presses against yours but you have to go your separate ways for the evening...and the rest of that evening you’re distracted, unable to focus on much of anything other than that nauseating pit in your stomach, the sting of imaginary bees piercing your brain and you just want to make it right, because until you do the rain will just keep coming down and you’re ready for the sun to shine again, you’re ready to dance in the sunlight with her...
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
People Are Strange...
The Doors had it right...people are very strange.
Now that my month-long consulting gig at WUMB is finished (although I may be back on the air filling in later this Summer, stay tuned), I am back in the library until the next project begins. And henceforth, the strangeness...
First, some crazy woman with tribal tattoos on both wrists keeps periodically shouting out random things like "take that, Shannen Doherty!" or "you're so fucked now!" to whom I can only hope is a fellow role-playing gamer. At one point, apparently, her laptop froze, because an audible gasp was followed by a loud "how dare you!" directed at her Dell (weirdly, she sort of looks like that kid from the old "Dude, you're gettin' a Dell!"
commercials-you know, the kid who's probably only a season or two away from joining the cast of "The Surreal Life" or equivalent loser VH1 has-been reality show.) Other times, she looks up and smiles at me, and then breaks out this demonic cackle that I'd find unnerving normally...but this is Worcester after all, where the freaks come out in the daytime.Then, there's this old man shouting at the librarian about a newspaper he needs to read from 1927...he's got that old-man phlegmy rasp to his voice, a voice which nonetheless functions at the same volume it did back in the Roaring '20's. Statements like "you don't know how important this is to an old man!" and "do I have to put a quarter in this thing to make it work?" (in reference to the microfiche machine...and no, you don't, you just have to load the microfiche into it).
Earlier today, I had to go to an AT&T Store to get the SIM card replaced in my BlackBerry. AT&T is a horrible company with horrific customer service-so much so that it will be the entirety of an upcoming post-but I'm stuck with them until March 10, 2009 (I refuse to pay an early-termination fee; the cellular service is abhorrent and "customer service" is a notion entirely foreign to them. Wait until your new iPhone starts dropping calls every few minutes, sucker.). Anyway-I figured it should be relatively painless to get the SIM card switched out...
I walked into the local store, to be greeted by...no one. There was one kid working in the store, no more than 19 or so. He was at a desk with a customer and didn't look up when I entered. So I sat down in the tiny waiting area and waited...after 10 minutes, I noticed the kid-and by now, the customer-staring at me. He mumbled something along the lines of "be right with you," still without looking up. Just making faces at the phone in his hand. Finally, the customer left and after a few more minutes of him making weird faces, like he was trying not to fart or something, he spoke up. "Can I help you?" he asked. "Yes, I need a new SIM card. My account should be noted that this is a no-charge service." He looked it up, verified it...and then answers his phone in the midst of it! Leans back, smiles, and begins speculating with whomever was on the other end about the sexual preferences of the previous customer! I couldn't believe it...and as both of my regular readers know, I'm hardly a prude. It was just so inappropriate. Anyway, a few minutes later he finishes transferring all of my contacts from the old card to the new one, hands me the phone, and says simply "you're all done, have a nice day." No "is there anything else I can do for you today?" No "if you have any problems, bring it right back." Nothing.
I hate people. I mean, except you. You, I like. People in general. You know.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
A Brief Thought About Civility...
So I’m sitting at a study carrel on the 3rd floor of the Newton Library and some fat mustachioed asshole is talking at full volume on his cell about replacement windows. At least pretend to whisper, instead of just blithely chattering away about various sizes and installation dates or anything else, for that matter. It’s just so rude....
Speaking of rude...on the way here, I stopped at Whole Foods to grab a sandwich and a bottle of water. I’m in the “Express” lane, 12 items or less. There are two women in line ahead of me. The woman immediately in front of me, a Newtonian housewife probably in her late 50’s, looks at my sandwich & water and says “please go ahead of me, that’s all you have.” I thanked her for the kindness, appreciating the selflessness of the gesture, however small. But I waited and waited and waited....for the woman at checkout, an artistically entitled type around my age, had two separate orders to be rung, each with considerably more than 12 items. And she did not give a second thought (or a first, for that matter) to how she was tying up the line, demanding in that patronizing, passive-aggressive manner of the truly arrogant, that everything be bagged to her specifications (like the friggin’ oranges need be far away from the mangoes, lest the war of the citrus be fought in her reusable shopping bag). It was infuriating...this woman seemed completely unaware that there was anyone else in line waiting, that anyone else’s time was of equal value to her own.
This is the age we live in, where civility is a dying art, a language not spoken by the self-aggrandizing masses. America has become a loud, noisy place full of nonsensical distractions and a culture focused not on the truly pressing issues of the day but on a cult of meaningless celebrity where fame is a means unto itself and mirroring the behavior of reality show douchebags and idiotic celebutards is somehow accepted, rather than given the instant repudiation it deserves. We have a generation coming up that is constantly screaming for attention, constantly shouting “look at me!” I’m looking...and then I’m looking away in disgust, looking off in the distance in the hope that something meaningful might be just over the horizon...or maybe I’m just getting old...
Friday, May 23, 2008
DJ Oy Vey & The Beautiful Moments That Distract the Tragic
The week that was was a week that found me floating, feeling untethered, drifting loose and alone among the other lonely souls that dance around the periphery...and then bound tight in the warm concentric grounding circles of friends and family...it is some family...
Monday night, River Gods. My friend Melissa, aka DJ Big Missy, invited me a few weeks ago to co-host the Weekly Wax series. Theme this week was “Apopalypse Now,” featuring songs related to the end of the world. It was fun as hell; River Gods is a great little neighborhood Irish bar, very authentic (and they make a fantastic veggie burger). Place holds maybe 50 people, very intimate venue and a real warm vibe.
That warm vibe is what really struck me....I’d sent a blind email to a healthy number of friends, extending the (admittedly selfish) invitation. First off, it was great to hang with Melissa, since we hadn’t seen each other in months. My old friend Tom came by with his new girlfriend; Tom & I were friends at UMass way back when, then lost touch until last summer when we ran into one another at a downtown sushi joint. John Laurenti, another ‘BOS castoff who’s too talented to remain on the beach for long....and also just a good friend. My buddy Steve Morse, the tallest man in whatever room he’s in, also came by...and when a 30+ year rock critic says he digs your playlist, you take it to heart. My friend Michael was there too, taking a break from creating the best audio imaging you’re likely to hear.
Point is, I was really touched by the crowd being there and hanging out. It was a beautiful moment, shared with good friends...those beautiful moments are invaluable, reminders that we’re part of something larger than ourselves and supported and liked simply because of who we are. No agenda beyond that. This was one of those times when it mattered more than usual, where the weight of it felt heavier and more significant because it was needed more. I needed it.
For a while now, I’ve been pondering....why is it we’re shitty to the ones we love? Why do we treat strangers better than our own families? Is it because we hold those closest to us to a higher standard, some unarticulated yet expected pattern of behavior that inevitably leads to disappointment precisely because our expectations are so ill-defined?
Every family has its drama, and mine is no exception. Sometimes I think that because of the large and fractured and fragmented nature of it that my family has more than its share...but we don’t. It’s impossible to have any quantifiable measure. It’s not a competition anyway; the last thing we need is yet another wrinkle added. All I know is that there is a lot of hurt, a lot of sadness. Some of the damage is irreparable, some isn’t. But it will all be irreparable if we substitute inaction for resolution, if we limit ourselves to finger-pointing and blame-shifting, if we fail to look past ourselves and see another’s point of view. After all, you only fail when you no longer try.
All I know is that it’s all so goddamn unnecessary. It’s all such a waste of time and energy. Life is too short for this fucking nonsense to continue. Life is too short not to try again. Life is too short to not put our egos aside and be honest with ourselves, with each other. We’re never given more than we can handle. I can handle entertaining a room full of people, I can handle love and heartbreak, and I can handle my family...I just can’t handle not trying. I can’t handle waking up filled with regret someday.
Apopalypse Now, indeed. The theme was appropriate in more ways than one.
If you’re interested in my “End of the World Songs” playlist, email me & I’ll send it.
Monday night, River Gods. My friend Melissa, aka DJ Big Missy, invited me a few weeks ago to co-host the Weekly Wax series. Theme this week was “Apopalypse Now,” featuring songs related to the end of the world. It was fun as hell; River Gods is a great little neighborhood Irish bar, very authentic (and they make a fantastic veggie burger). Place holds maybe 50 people, very intimate venue and a real warm vibe.
That warm vibe is what really struck me....I’d sent a blind email to a healthy number of friends, extending the (admittedly selfish) invitation. First off, it was great to hang with Melissa, since we hadn’t seen each other in months. My old friend Tom came by with his new girlfriend; Tom & I were friends at UMass way back when, then lost touch until last summer when we ran into one another at a downtown sushi joint. John Laurenti, another ‘BOS castoff who’s too talented to remain on the beach for long....and also just a good friend. My buddy Steve Morse, the tallest man in whatever room he’s in, also came by...and when a 30+ year rock critic says he digs your playlist, you take it to heart. My friend Michael was there too, taking a break from creating the best audio imaging you’re likely to hear.
Point is, I was really touched by the crowd being there and hanging out. It was a beautiful moment, shared with good friends...those beautiful moments are invaluable, reminders that we’re part of something larger than ourselves and supported and liked simply because of who we are. No agenda beyond that. This was one of those times when it mattered more than usual, where the weight of it felt heavier and more significant because it was needed more. I needed it.
For a while now, I’ve been pondering....why is it we’re shitty to the ones we love? Why do we treat strangers better than our own families? Is it because we hold those closest to us to a higher standard, some unarticulated yet expected pattern of behavior that inevitably leads to disappointment precisely because our expectations are so ill-defined?
Every family has its drama, and mine is no exception. Sometimes I think that because of the large and fractured and fragmented nature of it that my family has more than its share...but we don’t. It’s impossible to have any quantifiable measure. It’s not a competition anyway; the last thing we need is yet another wrinkle added. All I know is that there is a lot of hurt, a lot of sadness. Some of the damage is irreparable, some isn’t. But it will all be irreparable if we substitute inaction for resolution, if we limit ourselves to finger-pointing and blame-shifting, if we fail to look past ourselves and see another’s point of view. After all, you only fail when you no longer try.
All I know is that it’s all so goddamn unnecessary. It’s all such a waste of time and energy. Life is too short for this fucking nonsense to continue. Life is too short not to try again. Life is too short to not put our egos aside and be honest with ourselves, with each other. We’re never given more than we can handle. I can handle entertaining a room full of people, I can handle love and heartbreak, and I can handle my family...I just can’t handle not trying. I can’t handle waking up filled with regret someday.
Apopalypse Now, indeed. The theme was appropriate in more ways than one.
If you’re interested in my “End of the World Songs” playlist, email me & I’ll send it.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A Great Big Dish of Awesome
I love diners. Always have. After all, I'm from the city that built the first production diner cars. So from the prefab-retro 50’s style to the authentically unhygienic, I love them. Neon, formica, chrome, salty waitresses and saltier food...the whole package. Some are more upscale than others, sneakily serving gourmet fare along with the traditional short stacks, omelets and hashes of various types (not that type.)
A favorite is Johnny’s Luncheonette in Newton Centre (they prefer the slightly pretentious French spelling). Great breakfast food all day long, as well as sandwiches, burgers and the like. In these tight economic times though, eating out has become more of a luxury, what with a gallon of gas costing as much as a side of bacon AND a side of home fries. So what is a man to do but recreate his favorite diner dishes at home? You know, minus the chrome, neon, formica, Guy Fieri and the rest...
So last night, after a long afternoon in the library and then attending Matt Taibbi’s book signing event, I came home hungry for grease, preferably with a side of protein. I still had some pastrami from Trader Joe’s that I hadn’t used yet; and suddenly inspiration struck! I’ve had the Pastrami & Eggs combo at Johnny’s many times...why not make it at home? And make it greasy?
Heated some olive oil while dicing a sweet Vidalia onion...let the onions get some color, then added the pastrami, sliced into small pieces. Let that cook for a couple minutes, melting the fat in the pastrami and blending the flavors of the onions & oil before adding the egg mixture. Let that set, then added some low-fat mozzarella cheese, scrambled it all together, and WHAM! A great big dish of awesome!
Sometimes, it really is just the small, simple pleasures that make life grand. This was one of those moments. Bon apetit.
A favorite is Johnny’s Luncheonette in Newton Centre (they prefer the slightly pretentious French spelling). Great breakfast food all day long, as well as sandwiches, burgers and the like. In these tight economic times though, eating out has become more of a luxury, what with a gallon of gas costing as much as a side of bacon AND a side of home fries. So what is a man to do but recreate his favorite diner dishes at home? You know, minus the chrome, neon, formica, Guy Fieri and the rest...
So last night, after a long afternoon in the library and then attending Matt Taibbi’s book signing event, I came home hungry for grease, preferably with a side of protein. I still had some pastrami from Trader Joe’s that I hadn’t used yet; and suddenly inspiration struck! I’ve had the Pastrami & Eggs combo at Johnny’s many times...why not make it at home? And make it greasy?
Heated some olive oil while dicing a sweet Vidalia onion...let the onions get some color, then added the pastrami, sliced into small pieces. Let that cook for a couple minutes, melting the fat in the pastrami and blending the flavors of the onions & oil before adding the egg mixture. Let that set, then added some low-fat mozzarella cheese, scrambled it all together, and WHAM! A great big dish of awesome!
Sometimes, it really is just the small, simple pleasures that make life grand. This was one of those moments. Bon apetit.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Moments to Memories
Woke up this morning-several times, actually-and just wanted to sink deeper into the covers, as though they’d shield me from the world, make it all go away. Then I remembered that I’m not 10 years old, so I got up.
Feeling adrift, feeling like I’m floating along some ephemeral track circling real life. Moments with friends, moments of sheer beauty with a real beauty, moments with family...moments become memories as soon as they’re over. The struggle is not to dwell on memories, but rather to work toward creating more moments.
But then, isn’t life just a series of moments? Great moments, awful moments. Moments that become snapshots of memories, the memories themselves stretching and taking on a life of their own, a heightened glow of days made perfect only through the lens of hindsight. You can appreciate them, but you cannot live in them. There is no going back, ever.
Feeling adrift, feeling like I’m floating along some ephemeral track circling real life. Moments with friends, moments of sheer beauty with a real beauty, moments with family...moments become memories as soon as they’re over. The struggle is not to dwell on memories, but rather to work toward creating more moments.
But then, isn’t life just a series of moments? Great moments, awful moments. Moments that become snapshots of memories, the memories themselves stretching and taking on a life of their own, a heightened glow of days made perfect only through the lens of hindsight. You can appreciate them, but you cannot live in them. There is no going back, ever.
Friday, May 2, 2008
TImeshifting
It’s a rainy Friday night in this nondescript coffee shop, at a window table with a prime view of the strip mall parking lot facing. Stores I give not a whit about. Fast food grease palaces that give me a feeling of pride in not being part of that kingdom. It’s early May, but feels like late November outside. Feels like winter inside, too.
I was thinking today about time-relating cliches, its inexorable march and all. Yet there’s this duality of time, of certain things remaining timeless even as time moves forward. Music. Friendships. Family. Dynamics may shift in all, but in their essences they remain the same. I’m listening to the KOPN Deadpod podcast right now, a gem of a 1980 show from the Spectrum in Philadelphia. The show was nearly 28 years ago, Jerry’s been dead nearly 13. Yet in my headphones, it’s as fresh and vital as if they were playing right here, right now. Weir’s soulful “Lost Sailor/Saint of Circumstance” carrying me off to a distant ocean, alone and navigating only by the stars. Thinking about her, about what once was and what could have been...and thinking back to being there, to being at a Dead show. The scene in the parking lot. The marketplace, everything from grilled cheese sandwiches cooked on the radiator of a VW bus to dorm-made tie-dyes to the dreadlocked Trustafarians playing their roles to the hilt, blissfully unaware of their BMW-driven hypocrisy. All I ever wanted to do at those shows was dance, to just hear the music, let it pour over me and through me and let me feel a part of something, instead of apart from everything.
Those shows were a long time ago. As vivid as those memories are, that’s all they are. Memories. Memories with mementos, but still. They belong to the past.
Time is infinite; life is not.
It’s the future I worry about. The dancing days of youth are long past.
I was thinking today about time-relating cliches, its inexorable march and all. Yet there’s this duality of time, of certain things remaining timeless even as time moves forward. Music. Friendships. Family. Dynamics may shift in all, but in their essences they remain the same. I’m listening to the KOPN Deadpod podcast right now, a gem of a 1980 show from the Spectrum in Philadelphia. The show was nearly 28 years ago, Jerry’s been dead nearly 13. Yet in my headphones, it’s as fresh and vital as if they were playing right here, right now. Weir’s soulful “Lost Sailor/Saint of Circumstance” carrying me off to a distant ocean, alone and navigating only by the stars. Thinking about her, about what once was and what could have been...and thinking back to being there, to being at a Dead show. The scene in the parking lot. The marketplace, everything from grilled cheese sandwiches cooked on the radiator of a VW bus to dorm-made tie-dyes to the dreadlocked Trustafarians playing their roles to the hilt, blissfully unaware of their BMW-driven hypocrisy. All I ever wanted to do at those shows was dance, to just hear the music, let it pour over me and through me and let me feel a part of something, instead of apart from everything.
Those shows were a long time ago. As vivid as those memories are, that’s all they are. Memories. Memories with mementos, but still. They belong to the past.
Time is infinite; life is not.
It’s the future I worry about. The dancing days of youth are long past.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Fear
I read your blogs every now and then, feeling somewhat vindicated by the fact that I'm not the only one with an endless stream of questions about life and the way I have chosen to live it. Then again, maybe I read it because it shows me just how much I haven't chosen, how much I've let circumstances choose for me. Its the coward's way out, one I've managed to justify through a series of excuses that mask what truly lies behind them: Fear. Fear of making a mistake, fear of letting others down, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, and even fear of success. Its amazing to me how one emotion can carry so much weight, keeping me immobile and preventing me from doing the one thing I need to do most. I need to change my life. But the craziest thing about this is that I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do that I've forgotten what it is that makes me happy. That's the biggest danger in living a life to satisfy others--after a while, you can no longer differentiate everybody else's needs from your own. You become just a collage of everybody else’s expectations.
The above is excerpted from an email from an old acquaintance of mine, someone I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Didn’t know she was a reader.
This was my response:
You're hardly the only one with questions. Religion, for instance, is prevalent worldwide and claims billions of adherents seeking to find meaning, or a deeper meaning, in life. Who was it who said "the unexamined life isn't worth living?" (Socrates, btw)
Believe it or not-and reading this shot across the bow of sanity, I'll not venture a guess as to what you may actually believe-I do understand what you mean. I let fear hold me back for YEARS. Funny thing though...once you let it go, once you find the path beyond it, find how to move past it, life gets so much better. Not easier. It's not supposed to be. Just better. Understanding the roots of your fears, what drives them. It's not necessarily about conquering them, just dealing with them, not letting them rule your life, just acknowledge that they are there and then moving beyond them. Ultimately, nobody can judge you but you. You have to find that strength & confidence within yourself. Learning to use fear to your advantage, as a motivator to make sure your shit is covered and allowing you to shine...the proper manipulation of your own fears makes you fearless.
It's your own expectations you must deal with. You haven't forgotten what makes you happy. That's a cop-out. You've just denied it to yourself. You have to be fundamentally honest with yourself. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks; they aren't living your life. Fuck 'em. Acknowledge that which makes you happy and embrace it, pursue it. You have to learn to be comfortable in your own skin, to just be who you are. Accept yourself. Trust me, I know of which I speak. I've been at unimaginably low points, stood at the abyss, all of it, and somehow made it through to the other side. Life is much better over here. Again, not easier, just better. Life isn't about the situations themselves, just how you deal with them. If you have faith, if you believe in a higher power (I do), you inherently know that you will not be given more than you can handle. It is all a test.
The above is excerpted from an email from an old acquaintance of mine, someone I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Didn’t know she was a reader.
This was my response:
You're hardly the only one with questions. Religion, for instance, is prevalent worldwide and claims billions of adherents seeking to find meaning, or a deeper meaning, in life. Who was it who said "the unexamined life isn't worth living?" (Socrates, btw)
Believe it or not-and reading this shot across the bow of sanity, I'll not venture a guess as to what you may actually believe-I do understand what you mean. I let fear hold me back for YEARS. Funny thing though...once you let it go, once you find the path beyond it, find how to move past it, life gets so much better. Not easier. It's not supposed to be. Just better. Understanding the roots of your fears, what drives them. It's not necessarily about conquering them, just dealing with them, not letting them rule your life, just acknowledge that they are there and then moving beyond them. Ultimately, nobody can judge you but you. You have to find that strength & confidence within yourself. Learning to use fear to your advantage, as a motivator to make sure your shit is covered and allowing you to shine...the proper manipulation of your own fears makes you fearless.
It's your own expectations you must deal with. You haven't forgotten what makes you happy. That's a cop-out. You've just denied it to yourself. You have to be fundamentally honest with yourself. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks; they aren't living your life. Fuck 'em. Acknowledge that which makes you happy and embrace it, pursue it. You have to learn to be comfortable in your own skin, to just be who you are. Accept yourself. Trust me, I know of which I speak. I've been at unimaginably low points, stood at the abyss, all of it, and somehow made it through to the other side. Life is much better over here. Again, not easier, just better. Life isn't about the situations themselves, just how you deal with them. If you have faith, if you believe in a higher power (I do), you inherently know that you will not be given more than you can handle. It is all a test.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
On Living an Honest Life
This morning, a friend said to me “you’re living a much more honest life than I am right now.”
What is an honest life? What is honest and true, beyond our own subjective definitions?
Religions have claimed their versions of “truth” since the beginning of time. How do we really know if any of them are right? But an examination of faith is for another day.
Politicians do the same, grandstanding on their versions of the “truth.” Look where the “truth” has taken this country.
This is why (among other reasons) I have little use for political parties or organized religion. Too often, the truth is sacrificed for ideology. God is too often a cover for the self-aggrandizing of man.
But this statement, this notion that I’m leading a more honest life, has been bouncing around my head all day. How am I leading a more honest life? On a one-to-one relative basis, maybe. On a grander scale? Doubtful. My life is as ascetic as it is honest right now. Does discipline lead to purity, and then wisdom? Does it matter?
We all have our skeletons. We all have our secrets and fears. Some people hold theirs close their entire lives. Sometimes, things are just too unbearable to face. Chances are too great that we could shatter our carefully constructed self-images with the truth. Honesty a cudgel, denial a means of survival.
Some summon the courage to face their demons head-on, ignoring the racing heartbeat and shivery sweats that anxiety brings. Some of us do both, reveling in the relief that comes with purging our secrets and sins and marveling at how big a deal it turns out not to be. Almost surprised to see that life has gone on, that once again day has followed night. I’m no exception.
So how does one live an “honest” life? I can only offer myself as an example, given that the source of the original statement knows me quite well, knows almost all of my skeletons and fears....and we share a unique perspective currently, one that in a direct comparison of our lives would validate the original statement. For now.
At the Seder the other night, as we breezed through a condensed version of the Haggodah, I was struck by this statement: according to the sage Hillel, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation.” Right.
The Golden Rule. Follow it, and you’ll live an honest life. Right? But what if you find honesty hateful? What if greed and avarice are are not deplorable to you, but rather virtuous? (Cheap shot: “you get a job in the Bush Administration!”)
Thankfully, I am one who finds honesty important, though I hadn’t consciously thought about it in these terms prior to this morning. I just am who I am. I am an honest man. Honestly quite good, and honestly, sometimes I’ve been very, very, bad. Guess that makes me honestly human.
So this honest life of mine...is it because I try to tell the people that I love that I love them? Or more accurately, to show them that I love them through deeds and action? By being a good friend, a good son, a good brother, a good boyfriend? I don’t know...honesty does not mask our faults and imperfections. I could be a better friend, a better son and brother, a better boyfriend.
Or, does the virtue of honesty rest in the continual attempts to be honest?
In the end, I believe honesty lies in the heart. We are each capable of great honesty in our lives, maybe great love and beauty too. Some people veer far away from these, whatever the reason. Sometimes being honest with ourselves, about what we really want, can inadvertently hurt someone else. Unintended consequences. But which is worse: living a lie to spare someone else-or ourselves-the pain that comes with being completely honest, or letting the truth set us free?
What is an honest life? What is honest and true, beyond our own subjective definitions?
Religions have claimed their versions of “truth” since the beginning of time. How do we really know if any of them are right? But an examination of faith is for another day.
Politicians do the same, grandstanding on their versions of the “truth.” Look where the “truth” has taken this country.
This is why (among other reasons) I have little use for political parties or organized religion. Too often, the truth is sacrificed for ideology. God is too often a cover for the self-aggrandizing of man.
But this statement, this notion that I’m leading a more honest life, has been bouncing around my head all day. How am I leading a more honest life? On a one-to-one relative basis, maybe. On a grander scale? Doubtful. My life is as ascetic as it is honest right now. Does discipline lead to purity, and then wisdom? Does it matter?
We all have our skeletons. We all have our secrets and fears. Some people hold theirs close their entire lives. Sometimes, things are just too unbearable to face. Chances are too great that we could shatter our carefully constructed self-images with the truth. Honesty a cudgel, denial a means of survival.
Some summon the courage to face their demons head-on, ignoring the racing heartbeat and shivery sweats that anxiety brings. Some of us do both, reveling in the relief that comes with purging our secrets and sins and marveling at how big a deal it turns out not to be. Almost surprised to see that life has gone on, that once again day has followed night. I’m no exception.
So how does one live an “honest” life? I can only offer myself as an example, given that the source of the original statement knows me quite well, knows almost all of my skeletons and fears....and we share a unique perspective currently, one that in a direct comparison of our lives would validate the original statement. For now.
At the Seder the other night, as we breezed through a condensed version of the Haggodah, I was struck by this statement: according to the sage Hillel, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation.” Right.
The Golden Rule. Follow it, and you’ll live an honest life. Right? But what if you find honesty hateful? What if greed and avarice are are not deplorable to you, but rather virtuous? (Cheap shot: “you get a job in the Bush Administration!”)
Thankfully, I am one who finds honesty important, though I hadn’t consciously thought about it in these terms prior to this morning. I just am who I am. I am an honest man. Honestly quite good, and honestly, sometimes I’ve been very, very, bad. Guess that makes me honestly human.
So this honest life of mine...is it because I try to tell the people that I love that I love them? Or more accurately, to show them that I love them through deeds and action? By being a good friend, a good son, a good brother, a good boyfriend? I don’t know...honesty does not mask our faults and imperfections. I could be a better friend, a better son and brother, a better boyfriend.
Or, does the virtue of honesty rest in the continual attempts to be honest?
In the end, I believe honesty lies in the heart. We are each capable of great honesty in our lives, maybe great love and beauty too. Some people veer far away from these, whatever the reason. Sometimes being honest with ourselves, about what we really want, can inadvertently hurt someone else. Unintended consequences. But which is worse: living a lie to spare someone else-or ourselves-the pain that comes with being completely honest, or letting the truth set us free?
Monday, April 21, 2008
Looks Like Rain
This song pretty much encapsulates how I'm feeling right now:
Johnny Cash would've been a close second, maybe "I Still Miss Someone." I miss someone very much.
This seems appropriate too...
Johnny Cash would've been a close second, maybe "I Still Miss Someone." I miss someone very much.
This seems appropriate too...
Friday, April 18, 2008
Goodbye & God Bless, Danny
Danny Federici, died yesterday. 58 years old.
Danny was the organ/keyboard/accordian player in the E Street Band, played with Springsteen for 40 years. That sound, that signature full-throttle E Street sound...Danny was a huge part of it. As evocative as Bruce's lyrics can be, it was the rhythm section that brought it to life. It was Danny's organ playing that helped blow the mind of an awestruck 16-year-old Gins at the Centrum back in '88, on the Tunnel of Love tour. It was that sound that came to life in the thousands of times I had Springsteen music blasting from my car speakers, alone on the road, feeling like one of those desperate characters in the songs trying to outrun the inescapable thoughts in my head. Even as I write this, I can hear his melancholy accordion lines on "Independence Day" in my head.
Goodbye, Danny, and God bless you. You will be missed by so many of us, but a big part of you will live on. You put an indelible stamp on a catalog of music few will ever match. I hope you are indeed in the Promised Land today.
Danny was the organ/keyboard/accordian player in the E Street Band, played with Springsteen for 40 years. That sound, that signature full-throttle E Street sound...Danny was a huge part of it. As evocative as Bruce's lyrics can be, it was the rhythm section that brought it to life. It was Danny's organ playing that helped blow the mind of an awestruck 16-year-old Gins at the Centrum back in '88, on the Tunnel of Love tour. It was that sound that came to life in the thousands of times I had Springsteen music blasting from my car speakers, alone on the road, feeling like one of those desperate characters in the songs trying to outrun the inescapable thoughts in my head. Even as I write this, I can hear his melancholy accordion lines on "Independence Day" in my head.
Goodbye, Danny, and God bless you. You will be missed by so many of us, but a big part of you will live on. You put an indelible stamp on a catalog of music few will ever match. I hope you are indeed in the Promised Land today.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Library is Full of Strangers...and Books
One cannot devise plans for world domination solely from the comfort of the home office (read: my living room) or any number of Panera Bread locations. The monotony can become overwhelming, and all that extra gluten can wreak havoc on the blood sugar (I'm not diabetic, just neurotic). So where does one go for peace & quiet and free WiFi? The library.
Prior to last week, I hadn't been in a library in years. I'm a bookstore guy. Love to browse bookstores, preferably with a warm beverage in hand from the in-store cafe. But last week, my brother Larry called & invited me to join him at the Newton Library, where he & Neil work from on occasion (for the same reasons mentioned above). I was going to be in the area anyway, so off I went....and I really dug it! Obviously, it's a quiet environment, leading to much productivity. That library is quite lovely too, architecturally interesting with lots of natural light. In fact, I ended up there again the next day, as I was in town and had several hours between meetings.
So this morning, a dreary April Fool's Day (albeit a warm one), I decided that the library environment worked for me and I should give my hometown branch a go. And here I am...here for the first time in years. I used to come here regularly as a kid, starting as a toddler when my mom would bring me here for storytime. As soon as I could read, she brought me here to check out books every couple of weeks, until I was old enough to ride my bike here after school & get 'em myself. Sometime in high school, I stopped coming. Haven't been here since.
There was a major renovation here in the ensuing years. A new front fascia to the building, a new, more open layout, new paint & carpeting, etc. It's brighter, airier. Yet it's still the same. It's still Worcester, this old blue-collar mill city tinged with a subtle municipal sadness that seems to infect every corner. Still not quite all that it could be. But hell, neither am I.
There is one great benefit to spending a couple hours here. The people-watching is fascinating. When I first got settled, up in a rounded third floor turret, the girl at the table next to mine had a full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm. Roses and vines and some tribal pieces. Then an old man walked in, looked vaguely like Andy Warhol. Sat down with a book and read for a bit, while every few minutes sucking loudly on his teeth, a noise further amplified by the natural echo of this big open room. Another older man walked in, short and fat and wearing a coat & hat like he just stepped off a Russian freighter after too long at sea. He was soon joined by a younger, even fatter fellow with a stack of books under his arm. They began arguing loudly, obviously a father & son combo. They were cruise books, including "Cruising for Dummies." (Cruises are vacations by boat...boats are typically on water...). The fight ended after a few minutes-hey, this is a library, please keep it down-and off they went.
The tattooed girl was joined by an older guy with a thick, untamed gray beard and equally bushy, unkempt gray hair spilling out from the sides of a greasy baseball cap. He appeared homeless at first, a mishmash of coats and flannel shirts and an enormous American flag belt buckle. But he pulled out a laptop, with attached webcam, and wore a headset mic, so unless the homeless have gone high-tech, I'm guessing he's merely eccentric.
They both left. For a few minutes, this area was all mine. Then another older guy walked in, using a walking stick as tall as he is. Looks like the adventuresome type. Fedora, bushman's vest, army coat. White beard, and a long white ponytail down his back. I wonder if he's doing research for his next faraway trip, or perhaps recounting his various excursions for a memoir. Or maybe he's just nuts, and hence the small squares of paper he keeps pushing around the table in some random fashion...
The kicker is the young redheaded douchebag who strolled in on severe pigeon toes a half-hour ago. The kind of kid (I figure he's about 16) who wants constant attention and has no idea how friggin' annoying he actually is. Keeps sighing loudly, then shuffling papers, tapping the table, coughing...and then picks up his cell and makes a call, has a conversation at normal volume as though anyone gives a shit what his sister ate for lunch. Keeps getting up for water, walking back & forth staring intently at the rest of us, as if to ask "hey, look at me! Please!" Fuck off, kid. You're in the library. Stop drafting my quiet.
Prior to last week, I hadn't been in a library in years. I'm a bookstore guy. Love to browse bookstores, preferably with a warm beverage in hand from the in-store cafe. But last week, my brother Larry called & invited me to join him at the Newton Library, where he & Neil work from on occasion (for the same reasons mentioned above). I was going to be in the area anyway, so off I went....and I really dug it! Obviously, it's a quiet environment, leading to much productivity. That library is quite lovely too, architecturally interesting with lots of natural light. In fact, I ended up there again the next day, as I was in town and had several hours between meetings.
So this morning, a dreary April Fool's Day (albeit a warm one), I decided that the library environment worked for me and I should give my hometown branch a go. And here I am...here for the first time in years. I used to come here regularly as a kid, starting as a toddler when my mom would bring me here for storytime. As soon as I could read, she brought me here to check out books every couple of weeks, until I was old enough to ride my bike here after school & get 'em myself. Sometime in high school, I stopped coming. Haven't been here since.
There was a major renovation here in the ensuing years. A new front fascia to the building, a new, more open layout, new paint & carpeting, etc. It's brighter, airier. Yet it's still the same. It's still Worcester, this old blue-collar mill city tinged with a subtle municipal sadness that seems to infect every corner. Still not quite all that it could be. But hell, neither am I.
There is one great benefit to spending a couple hours here. The people-watching is fascinating. When I first got settled, up in a rounded third floor turret, the girl at the table next to mine had a full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm. Roses and vines and some tribal pieces. Then an old man walked in, looked vaguely like Andy Warhol. Sat down with a book and read for a bit, while every few minutes sucking loudly on his teeth, a noise further amplified by the natural echo of this big open room. Another older man walked in, short and fat and wearing a coat & hat like he just stepped off a Russian freighter after too long at sea. He was soon joined by a younger, even fatter fellow with a stack of books under his arm. They began arguing loudly, obviously a father & son combo. They were cruise books, including "Cruising for Dummies." (Cruises are vacations by boat...boats are typically on water...). The fight ended after a few minutes-hey, this is a library, please keep it down-and off they went.
The tattooed girl was joined by an older guy with a thick, untamed gray beard and equally bushy, unkempt gray hair spilling out from the sides of a greasy baseball cap. He appeared homeless at first, a mishmash of coats and flannel shirts and an enormous American flag belt buckle. But he pulled out a laptop, with attached webcam, and wore a headset mic, so unless the homeless have gone high-tech, I'm guessing he's merely eccentric.
They both left. For a few minutes, this area was all mine. Then another older guy walked in, using a walking stick as tall as he is. Looks like the adventuresome type. Fedora, bushman's vest, army coat. White beard, and a long white ponytail down his back. I wonder if he's doing research for his next faraway trip, or perhaps recounting his various excursions for a memoir. Or maybe he's just nuts, and hence the small squares of paper he keeps pushing around the table in some random fashion...
The kicker is the young redheaded douchebag who strolled in on severe pigeon toes a half-hour ago. The kind of kid (I figure he's about 16) who wants constant attention and has no idea how friggin' annoying he actually is. Keeps sighing loudly, then shuffling papers, tapping the table, coughing...and then picks up his cell and makes a call, has a conversation at normal volume as though anyone gives a shit what his sister ate for lunch. Keeps getting up for water, walking back & forth staring intently at the rest of us, as if to ask "hey, look at me! Please!" Fuck off, kid. You're in the library. Stop drafting my quiet.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Barack & Me
This is a monumental speech.
I've been flirting with Barack-as a candidate-for quite some time. His speech today, "A More Perfect Union," sealed it for me. He has my support and my vote. (Yeah, I know, voting for a Democratic candidate in Massachusetts is about as surprising as getting wet in the shower).
I've been flirting with Barack-as a candidate-for quite some time. His speech today, "A More Perfect Union," sealed it for me. He has my support and my vote. (Yeah, I know, voting for a Democratic candidate in Massachusetts is about as surprising as getting wet in the shower).
Watch the speech, or read the text here.
You will see a politician who hasn't sold his soul to politics. You will see a man stepping up and dealing with a controversy head-on, without hair-splitting and qualifiers and pandering as has been the political de rigeur for so long. You will see the potential leader of the free world take ownership and turn a campaign trail negative into a positive moment of honesty and forthrightness, in tackling a subject so taboo that politicians-and indeed, we as a nation as a whole-have avoided a macro discussion of for far too long.
Barack Obama's speech today laid bare the complexity of the racial situation in America. The causes that led to the current stalemate. Yes, he also addressed head-on the comments of Reverend Jeremiah Wright that sparked the controversy. He didn't defend the comments, but rather condemned the words while contextualizing the realities of where those words came from. It's neither a defense nor a justification. What it is is very simply an insight into sentiments and resentments that no white person can truly understand. Nobody ever called me a n****r, after all. My grandparents were immigrants, but they were not systemically denied entry to the American dream. Who are we as white people to question the black experience in America? Equally as important, as he noted in today's speech, is the need for black America to stop blaming all of the problems in their community on white America. We are ALL Americans. We are ALL America. Personal responsibility...which party is it, again, that constantly espouses personal responsibility and self-reliance? Funny that this liberal is the one speaking truth to power.
What today's speech did was open a real dialogue. Obama embraces hope, sure, but it is a realistic hope, a desire for a pragmatic unity. Rather than the continued politics of demagoguery, of meaningless platitudes offered to the public while the special interests and self-serving politicians feed unimpeded at the public trough, Obama offers another way. A genuine belief that we can do better. A belief that the relatively small yet frighteningly powerful coterie of special interests and lobbyists and corporate interests come second to the American people. A belief that the American people, even with all of our differences, ultimately want the same things...a better world for our families, our children. Better schools, access to quality healthcare, equal access to opportunity.
Divide & conquer has been the dominant political strategy in this country for generations. Mass media (largely corporate owned, don't forget) embraces and furthers this strategy now more than ever. Keep the proletariat distracted with the travails of idiotic celebrities and manufactured controversy. Proffer rigid political ideologies and blame the "other" for all of America's problems. Never, ever forget that green is the only color that ultimately matters in the corporate world.
You may not agree with all of his policies. I don't. He's much more liberal than I am. Yet I find myself inspired by him, inspired by the notion of a new way in America. Inspired by a man who is finally saying enough is enough, we can do better. The present administration sold out the people of this country. For too long in America, the few have benefited at great expense to the many. It is long past time to remedy this situation. He may not be the perfect candidate, but Barack Obama is the best candidate and the best hope for America to inch ever closer to the more perfect union our forefathers' intended.
God bless and Go Barack.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Idealism in the Promised Land
I was driving home yesterday, feeling restless and contemplative, when Bruce's The Promised Land came over the Sirius airwaves. Ever feel like a character in a song? Ever see those characters fully realized, a movie only you can see? Happens to me all the time. Happens to anyone who feels their music deep in their soul, anyone who has ever felt the music penetrate them so deeply that it becomes a part of them. Usually strikes as a teenager, the music becoming your self-defining soundtrack, the source of solace and belonging and energy and happiness. That moment when you discover that you're not alone, you're not the only one feeling this feeling...
I've been told that feeling fades, that as you get older and life's various realities and obligations take precedence. Jobs, families, mortgages, illnesses, etc. Music becomes background noise. Concerts become fond memories, anecdotes shared with friends. But that's just what I've been told. My experience is very different.
That teenage passion, that fire in the soul...it still burns as intensely as ever. The music still moves me more than anything, still provides comfort and understanding and perspective and solidarity, still a reminder that someone else at some point has felt the way I'm feeling right now.
Yesterday, with a head full of doubt and discontent, with the fire of a man knocked off a path and hell-bent on climbing back on...I found myself singing at the top of my lungs, spitting out the words like the action of doing so led directly to redemption.
Mister I ain't a boy no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
Chronologically, I've been a man for a long time. But in my head, I'm still young and wild and free. Still walking along that edge, still on the outside looking in.
I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start
Don't we all feel that way at some point? The monotony of this routine, the crushing weight of being trapped in a life that you didn't plan for? Wanting action, wanting to escape?
There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted
Yeah...the freedom of the road. One of Bruce's enduring images, a motif he's returned to time and again. This time driving straight into the storm to face it head on, with only faith for support. Faith keeps dreams alive.
My dreams are still alive. When your dreams die, you die. Maybe I'm naive or crazy or too romantic for my own good. But I still believe in the Promised Land. I still believe I'm gonna ride off into the desert, my girl by my side, and reach that Promised Land. It could be closer than we think. I'm still going to let the music flow through me the way my blood does, keeping me alive. Anyone can live, man...but the music keeps me alive. Nobody can take your dreams from you unless you let them. Fuck that.
Turn me on, turn it up. Stop drafting my dreams.
I've been told that feeling fades, that as you get older and life's various realities and obligations take precedence. Jobs, families, mortgages, illnesses, etc. Music becomes background noise. Concerts become fond memories, anecdotes shared with friends. But that's just what I've been told. My experience is very different.
That teenage passion, that fire in the soul...it still burns as intensely as ever. The music still moves me more than anything, still provides comfort and understanding and perspective and solidarity, still a reminder that someone else at some point has felt the way I'm feeling right now.
Yesterday, with a head full of doubt and discontent, with the fire of a man knocked off a path and hell-bent on climbing back on...I found myself singing at the top of my lungs, spitting out the words like the action of doing so led directly to redemption.
Mister I ain't a boy no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
Chronologically, I've been a man for a long time. But in my head, I'm still young and wild and free. Still walking along that edge, still on the outside looking in.
I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start
Don't we all feel that way at some point? The monotony of this routine, the crushing weight of being trapped in a life that you didn't plan for? Wanting action, wanting to escape?
There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted
Yeah...the freedom of the road. One of Bruce's enduring images, a motif he's returned to time and again. This time driving straight into the storm to face it head on, with only faith for support. Faith keeps dreams alive.
My dreams are still alive. When your dreams die, you die. Maybe I'm naive or crazy or too romantic for my own good. But I still believe in the Promised Land. I still believe I'm gonna ride off into the desert, my girl by my side, and reach that Promised Land. It could be closer than we think. I'm still going to let the music flow through me the way my blood does, keeping me alive. Anyone can live, man...but the music keeps me alive. Nobody can take your dreams from you unless you let them. Fuck that.
Turn me on, turn it up. Stop drafting my dreams.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The Old Man at Panera
Hemingway would’ve left him at sea, with dignity...
I’ve become a regular at Panera Bread, in Shrewsbury. Free WiFi. Free change of scenery from the house, on the days when I’m not networking or interviewing. THANK GOD, there’s been a lot of that over the last few weeks. Anyway-this is a great place to people watch, and to speculate on the back story of strangers.
There’s this old man who sits in one of the overstuffed leather chairs here, in front of the gas fireplace. The fireplace that in reality throws off no heat, just there for aesthetic purposes yet people feel warmer sitting in front of it. The old man though...watch cap, pea coat. Looks like a deck hand from a merchant ship. Short, slightly hunched, thick fingers. Looks like he spent many years huddled against the cold, crouched over to light his unfiltered Lucky’s. Looks lonely, his lined face peering up from underneath that knit cap with what appears to be a scowl, although it could just as easily be the hard set of a taciturn jaw. Rarely talks to anyone, just sits and sips his coffee for a while. Who is he? Where does he go when he leaves here? Maybe he’s in mourning, lost the love of his life and is now just running out the clock. Or maybe he lost his love of life, the joy long gone, and comes here because it’s as good as anywhere else....
Over there, the middle-aged woman still carrying the long curly girly hair of her youth, the streaks of gray prominent in the track lighting. Denial or total self-actualization? Could go either way. Is she an old hippie, or maybe a strident feminist still holding fast to the ideals of her youth? Maybe she just likes the way she looks and doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. I sorta hope that’s the case, actually...
Med students scattered about, thick books in front of them opened, struggling not to nod off on the table. Many of them Indian or Arabic-looking, the hardworking children of immigrants or immigrants themselves, here for the education and opportunity. I wish I’d had their discipline when I was in school. They somehow seem older than their years, the rigors of med school and residential rotations adding weight and gravity to their profiles. One of these strangers could save your life, or mine, one day.
Over in the booths, office mates sharing an informal dinner together. Office talk, small talk, nothing deeper than where to get the best oil change and how busy things are at work these days. Teenagers behind them, earnestly making plans for their band, for life after high school. The world still bright and full of possibilities for them, laid out at their feet like a willing mistress just wanting to be treated right. I miss those days...
And me...dressed up from the interview earlier today. Iced green tea, per usual. Laptop open, surfing the net, surfing for potential leads. Long over the fear and worry, knowing that the next opportunity is coming soon. Still, I feel like a ghost, riding the rails of society’s fringe, a voyeur. Observing people, making mental notes, wondering who they are and what they do, what makes them tick. What makes me tick. We are all characters in some cosmic play, each of us assigned a role only we can play. Some of us take on more roles as we go through life, actors pretending to be ?? Or maybe it’s always the same role, shaded differently depending on circumstance. I only know how to be me, but the me with infinite variations. Today the introspective observer, tomorrow the extroverted visionary. Which one gets the job?
I’ve become a regular at Panera Bread, in Shrewsbury. Free WiFi. Free change of scenery from the house, on the days when I’m not networking or interviewing. THANK GOD, there’s been a lot of that over the last few weeks. Anyway-this is a great place to people watch, and to speculate on the back story of strangers.
There’s this old man who sits in one of the overstuffed leather chairs here, in front of the gas fireplace. The fireplace that in reality throws off no heat, just there for aesthetic purposes yet people feel warmer sitting in front of it. The old man though...watch cap, pea coat. Looks like a deck hand from a merchant ship. Short, slightly hunched, thick fingers. Looks like he spent many years huddled against the cold, crouched over to light his unfiltered Lucky’s. Looks lonely, his lined face peering up from underneath that knit cap with what appears to be a scowl, although it could just as easily be the hard set of a taciturn jaw. Rarely talks to anyone, just sits and sips his coffee for a while. Who is he? Where does he go when he leaves here? Maybe he’s in mourning, lost the love of his life and is now just running out the clock. Or maybe he lost his love of life, the joy long gone, and comes here because it’s as good as anywhere else....
Over there, the middle-aged woman still carrying the long curly girly hair of her youth, the streaks of gray prominent in the track lighting. Denial or total self-actualization? Could go either way. Is she an old hippie, or maybe a strident feminist still holding fast to the ideals of her youth? Maybe she just likes the way she looks and doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. I sorta hope that’s the case, actually...
Med students scattered about, thick books in front of them opened, struggling not to nod off on the table. Many of them Indian or Arabic-looking, the hardworking children of immigrants or immigrants themselves, here for the education and opportunity. I wish I’d had their discipline when I was in school. They somehow seem older than their years, the rigors of med school and residential rotations adding weight and gravity to their profiles. One of these strangers could save your life, or mine, one day.
Over in the booths, office mates sharing an informal dinner together. Office talk, small talk, nothing deeper than where to get the best oil change and how busy things are at work these days. Teenagers behind them, earnestly making plans for their band, for life after high school. The world still bright and full of possibilities for them, laid out at their feet like a willing mistress just wanting to be treated right. I miss those days...
And me...dressed up from the interview earlier today. Iced green tea, per usual. Laptop open, surfing the net, surfing for potential leads. Long over the fear and worry, knowing that the next opportunity is coming soon. Still, I feel like a ghost, riding the rails of society’s fringe, a voyeur. Observing people, making mental notes, wondering who they are and what they do, what makes them tick. What makes me tick. We are all characters in some cosmic play, each of us assigned a role only we can play. Some of us take on more roles as we go through life, actors pretending to be ?? Or maybe it’s always the same role, shaded differently depending on circumstance. I only know how to be me, but the me with infinite variations. Today the introspective observer, tomorrow the extroverted visionary. Which one gets the job?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
The Truth Bias
Happy New Year. Sincerely.
I'll skip the typical recap of the year just passed. Every year is interesting, every year is unique. 2007 was no exception. Every year brings joy, sadness, despair, elation, anger, laughter...name your favorite emotion, I'll second it like Smokey Robinson.
So what of 2008?
The Presidential election coming is huge. Every election is huge. There are always stakes so high that it's difficult to comprehend their enormity. Just seems like this one is slightly higher, the last ante before the call. All you can do-should do, as an obligation of American citizenship, living a participatory democracy, is vote. Maybe a little research too. Don't let the mainstream mass media fool you. Get your news elsewhere, from a credible source that doesn't lead off with the latest on whichever Spears is pregnant today. NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, FOX, NPR, The New York Times (like bringing Bill Kristol aboard will suddenly muzzle the liberal-bias drumbeat), Boston Globe, Time Magazine, Newsweek, talk radio...they have all either abdicated their responsibilities as the unbiased, uncompromised reporters of the unvarnished truth or never were in the first place, depending. Making your lead story about the antics of one fuckhead celebutard after another whilst our nation is bankrupted, corrupted and downright eviscerated by greed and avarice is damn near treasonous.
Search elsewhere.
Save for people like Keith Olbermann and John Stewart, David Letterman and Howard Stern, Matt Taibbi...speaking truth to power and telling it like it actually is, rather than how they want you to believe it to be. There's not much else in that realm worthy of your time or trust. Ignore the sensational and distracting. Most of world history is a direct result of the principles of divide and conquer. It's all a smokescreen meant to distract you, unless you're among the top 1% or so gaining from it. It's Democrats and Republicans alike. It's Christians and Jews and Muslims and atheists and pagans.
You want news? Try BBC News, or read a European newspaper online. Some of the Huffington Post. There are hundreds of credible outlets. The blogosphere has plenty of analysis and accurate reporting. Plenty of sources out there.
It's neither a liberal nor a conservative bias. It's a truth bias. Just gimme some truth, as John Lennon sang those simple words. Such a simple request. People who do tell the truth get laughed at, marginalized, disqualified. The spin machines go into overdrive to continue pressing The Big Lie. Agendas must be maintained. There's more money to be made. The blood washes right off. Just gimme some truth...I think I can handle it. A little bit of it at a time maybe. I'm just so sick of the steady diet of bullshit, of lies and deceit said with a smile and a wink, the written word just more of the same, the truth parsed so thin as to make splitting hairs equal to splitting firewood.
I'm a grown man, I know the world can be a cold cruel place. I also know it to be a beautiful place with occasionally transcendent moments of love, of happiness. Just seems like the balance is off, like we've lost our way but aren't quite yet too far off the path to find our way back. There is still hope. Perhaps a viable third-party will emerge, another way home. In the meantime, I don't care whether it's Ron Paul, Hilary, Obama, Edwards, McCain, Romney-bot, Bloomberg, Biden...I don't care who they pray to, how they laugh, what they may have smoked 25 years ago. I don't care how many times they've been married or what their favorite movie is or what color they are. Can you find our way out of the quagmire? Can you treat our veterans with the respect and dignity they deserve, and make sure every one of them gets all the care they need? Can you stop spending taxpayer money on frivolity and pay down the debt? Maybe balance a budget, and a dollar strong enough to buy back part of our country? Can you truly educate our youth, level a very unequal scholastic playing field? Can you point us toward an energy source that isn't oil or gasoline, or ethanol for that matter? (Look it up-ethanol is bullshit too.). Can you ensure that the top-notch health care you get as a member of the federal government will be the same quality of care that I get for my $500 monthly COBRA premium? Will you be vigilant in fighting terror, yet vigorously embrace diplomacy as a first resort?
Lennon wrote this song, out of disgust, over 35 years ago, and it's perhaps more poignant and accurate today than it was then. When Nixon was president. Think about that. George W. Bush makes Richard Nixon look like Thomas Jefferson. Happy New Year.
Im sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocritics
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
Ive had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope
Money for dope
Money for rope
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
Money for dope
Money for rope
Im sick to death of seeing things
From tight-lipped, condescending, mamas little chauvinists
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now
Ive had enough of watching scenes
Of schizophrenic, ego-centric, paranoiac, prima-donnas
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
Its money for dope
Money for rope
Ah, Im sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocrites
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
Ive had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
I'll skip the typical recap of the year just passed. Every year is interesting, every year is unique. 2007 was no exception. Every year brings joy, sadness, despair, elation, anger, laughter...name your favorite emotion, I'll second it like Smokey Robinson.
So what of 2008?
The Presidential election coming is huge. Every election is huge. There are always stakes so high that it's difficult to comprehend their enormity. Just seems like this one is slightly higher, the last ante before the call. All you can do-should do, as an obligation of American citizenship, living a participatory democracy, is vote. Maybe a little research too. Don't let the mainstream mass media fool you. Get your news elsewhere, from a credible source that doesn't lead off with the latest on whichever Spears is pregnant today. NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, FOX, NPR, The New York Times (like bringing Bill Kristol aboard will suddenly muzzle the liberal-bias drumbeat), Boston Globe, Time Magazine, Newsweek, talk radio...they have all either abdicated their responsibilities as the unbiased, uncompromised reporters of the unvarnished truth or never were in the first place, depending. Making your lead story about the antics of one fuckhead celebutard after another whilst our nation is bankrupted, corrupted and downright eviscerated by greed and avarice is damn near treasonous.
Search elsewhere.
Save for people like Keith Olbermann and John Stewart, David Letterman and Howard Stern, Matt Taibbi...speaking truth to power and telling it like it actually is, rather than how they want you to believe it to be. There's not much else in that realm worthy of your time or trust. Ignore the sensational and distracting. Most of world history is a direct result of the principles of divide and conquer. It's all a smokescreen meant to distract you, unless you're among the top 1% or so gaining from it. It's Democrats and Republicans alike. It's Christians and Jews and Muslims and atheists and pagans.
You want news? Try BBC News, or read a European newspaper online. Some of the Huffington Post. There are hundreds of credible outlets. The blogosphere has plenty of analysis and accurate reporting. Plenty of sources out there.
It's neither a liberal nor a conservative bias. It's a truth bias. Just gimme some truth, as John Lennon sang those simple words. Such a simple request. People who do tell the truth get laughed at, marginalized, disqualified. The spin machines go into overdrive to continue pressing The Big Lie. Agendas must be maintained. There's more money to be made. The blood washes right off. Just gimme some truth...I think I can handle it. A little bit of it at a time maybe. I'm just so sick of the steady diet of bullshit, of lies and deceit said with a smile and a wink, the written word just more of the same, the truth parsed so thin as to make splitting hairs equal to splitting firewood.
I'm a grown man, I know the world can be a cold cruel place. I also know it to be a beautiful place with occasionally transcendent moments of love, of happiness. Just seems like the balance is off, like we've lost our way but aren't quite yet too far off the path to find our way back. There is still hope. Perhaps a viable third-party will emerge, another way home. In the meantime, I don't care whether it's Ron Paul, Hilary, Obama, Edwards, McCain, Romney-bot, Bloomberg, Biden...I don't care who they pray to, how they laugh, what they may have smoked 25 years ago. I don't care how many times they've been married or what their favorite movie is or what color they are. Can you find our way out of the quagmire? Can you treat our veterans with the respect and dignity they deserve, and make sure every one of them gets all the care they need? Can you stop spending taxpayer money on frivolity and pay down the debt? Maybe balance a budget, and a dollar strong enough to buy back part of our country? Can you truly educate our youth, level a very unequal scholastic playing field? Can you point us toward an energy source that isn't oil or gasoline, or ethanol for that matter? (Look it up-ethanol is bullshit too.). Can you ensure that the top-notch health care you get as a member of the federal government will be the same quality of care that I get for my $500 monthly COBRA premium? Will you be vigilant in fighting terror, yet vigorously embrace diplomacy as a first resort?
Lennon wrote this song, out of disgust, over 35 years ago, and it's perhaps more poignant and accurate today than it was then. When Nixon was president. Think about that. George W. Bush makes Richard Nixon look like Thomas Jefferson. Happy New Year.
Im sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocritics
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
Ive had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope
Money for dope
Money for rope
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
Money for dope
Money for rope
Im sick to death of seeing things
From tight-lipped, condescending, mamas little chauvinists
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now
Ive had enough of watching scenes
Of schizophrenic, ego-centric, paranoiac, prima-donnas
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
Its money for dope
Money for rope
Ah, Im sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocrites
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
Ive had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
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