Robert Steven Williams

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.

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June 22, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father’s Day, 2008

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

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

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

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

Happy father’s day to all Dads.

On another note:

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t believe it.

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

Hooray!

June 9, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 2, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 26, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 19, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 12, 2008

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

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

But what action?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 3, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think she was ready.

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

April 27, 2007
Last night I attended the fiftieth surprise birthday party for a friend that I’ve known since tenth grade. We hung out a lot back then. We smoked too much pot, we camped out for tickets to see the second Who show at the Spectrum in Philadelphia based on a rumour (which turned out to be false) – somehow we survived those years and here we are in 2008 this weekend in Long Beach, California, with his family and friends celebrating the big Five O.

It’s funny how there are certain people that regardless of how much time passes between visits, when we do get together, it’s like we’d seen each other yesterday. That’s the way it is with this guy – of course we chat on the phone a lot, so even though we don’t see each other much, I feel as if he’s part of both my past and current life.

He’s got a great family, he’s owns a veterinary practice here in Long Beach, he still manages to play guitar a few hours a week. Although he makes it look effortless, he puts in long hours, he runs a big business, I’m sure the family wishes he could be around more too. That’s what the world of 50 looks like – it is possible to have it all, but to pull it off, you’ve got to be on your game at all times – balance – it’s a key theme for many folks nowadays – and finding that combination of career, family, and self, isn’t easy, despite what Oprah’s gurus might say.

From the joy and love at this party, I’d say my friend has done a heck of a job, and he’s earned it, I couldn’t be happier for him.

Speaking of birthdays, my sister, Lisa, had a birthday last week. She lives in Sacramento and we don’t see each other a lot, but we do chat on the phone often. I’m very fortunate because she and I are quite close. I value her insight, support and love. I know that a lot of people don’t have that sort of relationship with their siblings. When I got divorced, Lisa was there for me and I think we’ve grown a lot closer since then. We tried to connect this weekend too, but just couldn't pull it off. I'll be seeing her this summer, but I wanted to say here for the record: Happy Birthday – I love her very much.

April 21, 2008

Six weeks ago I was experimenting in the studio with a new synthesizer program, looping drums, weaving in vintage keyboard sounds with a modern dance beat and a MIDI bass. I was excited about this new direction for a song and took a break to work on lyrics.

When I came back, I hit play not realizing that I had switched the audio source. The speakers blasted and the noise was so loud, it was heard in the next county. I knew immediately that I’d done something to my hearing, but I figured by morning it would settle down.

It didn’t.

Everything sounded as if the world’s volume button had been pushed to the max – any sound was actually painful, even opening a drawer bothered me; the clanging of my cats ID tags on their bowls while they ate was like standing in the belfry of church when the bells rang.

After two weeks, I went to a doctor, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. The doc suggested I wear ear plugs. “Don’t listen to anything loud, let the ears settle,” she said. “If it doesn’t clear up in a few weeks, I’ll send you to a specialist.”

So I wore ear plugs around the house, and when I went out, I wore a wool cap to keep them hidden to avoid looking like an idiot.

Heading into New York was a nightmare. You don’t realize how much noise pollution there is, or how a person could go nuts with the onslaught of noise in your head. The subway screech, the taxi cab honk, the ambulance siren, each sound more painful than the next. Thank God for the plugs.

My ears did settle down. Then I went to an open mic. I knew the second I entered the joint that I should have turned around. But there were old friends I hadn’t seen for awhile. I put up with it. The worst was when someone wanted to talk to me, they screamed in my ear to be heard over the PA system – ugh.

My ears slid back to square one.

After a week or so, they seemed to settle down again, but this time, I would be more careful -- no open mics, no loud music without earplugs, I even wore them while driving.

Yesterday I was visiting one of my clients in their office. It was a Friday, and a lot of people had left for the weekend. Suddenly a piercing alarm blasted overhead, my ear was literally two feet from this torturous device – Evacuate the building, there is an emergency – the piercing robotic voice repeated between a sonic noise designed to wake the dead.

I’m writing this on my back deck, the birds are chirping and it’s like they’re inside my head. My neighbor waves hello from across the yard. It’s the first weekend that feels like summer. The sun’s bright, the sky is blue, and there’s my neighbor mucking about with his gas powered sit-down mower. He starts it up for the first cut of the year. There’s an explosion of diesel as the mower clears its throat after a long, grey winter. He revs that engine like he’s about to take the first lap in a NASCAR race.

I recheck my earplugs, make sure they’re nice and snug. I go back to writing.

April 14, 2008

It’s a beautiful day, but I’m inside doing taxes. No matter how much I prepare, this deadline always sneaks up on me.

This week’s FAA move, and the subsequent grounding of hundreds of planes by American, has me wanting to sneak up on both the government and the airlines, to kick them in the butt.

This is a case of cover your ass – the FAA was in bed with the airlines – and now that it’s been outed, the pendulum must swing back. The very letter of the law will be enforced ‘come hell or high water’ regardless of the impact to passengers, creating the very havoc in the skies the FAA was set up to avoid in the first place. American hasn’t found a single incident of wire chafing, so why the sudden need to inconvenience millions of passengers?

It’s a sham.

Bill Maher spoke about the impact of volume on government policy this week on his HBO show – for example, a single home owner that makes a bad decision and defaults on a mortgage is forced into foreclosure and is looked upon as a bum. Default on a million mortgages through bad decisions like Bear Stearns and instead of going into bankruptcy, the government bails them out because they’re too big to fail.

I don’t understand how this catastrophic banking fiasco occurred, but apparently those in charge didn’t either. What I’ve managed to glean is this:

Let’s say your home is worth 500,000 – the banks took out 499,000 dollars worth of mortgage, bundling them into a package of thousands of mortgages of varying credit quality -- no one realized the credit-worthiness or how leveraged they were.

This so-called innovative financial securitization product smells a lot like what Enron did with energy pricing.

As long as property values went up, everyone made money, including home owners. When prices dropped, this house of cards collapsed.

We clearly need government regulation, but as we saw in the airline world this week, we also need to regulate government – that my friends, is supposed to be our job.

Well, I better get back to dealing with those taxes before the IRS sneaks up on me with an audit.

Thanks for stopping by.

April 7, 2008

The weather is finally turning. I spent the weekend cleaning up the winter debris in my yard. While I raked and picked up branches, I was thinking about the election, the economy, the war on terror. I was thinking about how most people see things in black and white. My liberal friends say corporations have too much control, that we need more aggressive government regulation to fix the environment, education, health care and the financial markets. My conservative friends say we need less government, that only the free market can solve these issues.

I don’t see it either way.

Most experts agree that a free market drives innovation, it keeps companies sharp; communism proved central control doesn’t work. But the free market in its purest form is akin to fiscal Darwinism – think of it this way -- if evolution had been regulated, humans would not have emerged.

Of course, from the planet’s perspective, that would have been a good thing – and yet, the world would not have had Mozart, Picasso, Crème Brulee, but of course, we also gave it WW I and II, American Idol and TMZ.

The daffodils are popping out of the ground. When they die, the hostas will take over until winter reappears. If I kept out of the yard this season, and let the hedges, the plants, the trees, the unauthorized floral too (the things we call weeds), to all run wild, one species would dominate various sectors of my yard, many species would suffer, some would die.

There would be no concept of fairness here even though there’s enough sunshine, real estate, and water to go around for everyone. Nature is designed for domination. There’s no middle ground, hesitation, or concern for one species view or another’s.

I realized as I cleaned the yard that what drives activity around my house is what’s at the root of the world’s political and economic problems. Whether you believe God invented this system or not, the DNA in all living beings, is the DNA at the core of our issues as a civilization from Africa to Afghanistan.

On Sunday, I spent hours cutting away the ivy that worked its way up various trees over the year. The ivy is pleasant to look at, it remains green throughout the cold months, it evokes a sense of tradition, perhaps entitlement. But the ivy is also tenacious, aggressive, a type A sort of chap. Ivy has no sense of satisfaction. It will cover an area, climb up anything from a fence, to a stump, to a tree, and it will smother or strangle its host until it dies.

The Ivy reminds me of the steel and oil barons of the last century, Carnegies and Rockefellers, the ones who exploited labor, dominated in a way that makes Microsoft look meek.

It was warm in the sun this weekend, but as night neared, things cooled quickly. In the chill of twilight I was thinking about the political debate on how to keep America safe from the terrorists – here’s what I think:

A free market without an independent government with a mandate to set boundaries that ensures fairness, safety, and a vision for the long-haul, is a market destined to create a world of haves and have-nots. Unless the haves are willing to say, we need to figure out how to help the have-nots, there will be a backlash that will ultimately create a disconnect. All solutions that don’t address this fundamental issue are simply short-term fixes. A Band-Aid cannot heal the rot in the heart of the human race.

The Dark Ages descended upon civilization despite the artistic and scientific advances of Greece and Rome. When I see the images of the mountain villages where the Taliban live, their shouts of death to America, I see the dawn of a new Dark Age.

Winston Churchill said, “Democracy is the worst government in the world…

…except all the others.”

It is my responsibility throughout the summer months, to keep the plants and trees in my garden at an equilibrium, to allow all to flourish, and I realized this weekend that it is all of our responsibility this political season to elect leaders with a similar agenda for the United States and the world.

March 31, 2008

I was riding the train into the city and this ad campaign for the Westport Country Playhouse caught my attention.

The ad speaks to the spectacle and social aspects of high society -- to be seen is the reason one should attend a Playhouse production. Or is it – dress-up to feel good about yourself – here’s a reason to dress-up. Either way, this tack doesn’t speak to me, in fact, it makes me cringe.

This ad is aimed at a population focused on making money and kitchen remodels; perhaps that’s a bit harsh, it could also be focused on seniors, where dressing up for social occasions was expected.

The Westport Country Playhouse has a deep and wonderful tradition, dating back to 1930’s. It is currently under the direction of Joanne Woodward. Her husband, Paul Newman, is directing a play later this year. Many stars, old and new, have appeared here, and recently, Woodward spearheaded a fundraising effort that overhauled the facility.

The Playhouse blossomed out of an artistic community that sought the tranquility of a quiet New England town, far enough to escape the glare of the New York City spotlight, but not too far. F. Scott Fitzgerald spent a drunken summer here with Zelda. Rod Serling wrote all of the Twilight Zone episodes from his Westport home.

Today the town is filled with bankers and developers. It’s not a place that nurtures emerging artists due to the cost of housing. It’s not even accessible to folks that live here. I’ve tried to get an audition with the Westport Arts Center for four years. I’m still waiting.

But the town retains much of the charm that attracted artists over the years, despite the increased traffic and the continued plague of McMansions (they show remarkable virility even in this sub-prime meltdown).

Here are the four reasons I would be enticed to attend the Westport Playhouse:

1) The productions are world-class, as good as anything on Broadway
2) I can be home five minutes after the show
3) Theater is a unique experience: entertaining and enlightening – a treat for the soul
4) The cost of an evening – dinner/travel/parking/babysitter is at least half the cost of a ‘night out on the town’

According to the Playhouse website, their mission is to transform lives through the power of theatre. That spoke to me, and it makes their ad strategy all the more perplexing. Perhaps the economic reality facing all art, from theater to music, is to appeal to the head and ego, hook them in anyway you can; once you’ve got them, then you can touch their hearts.

The problem is, folks will be too damn busy comparing the size of their diamond rings, their designer dresses, suits, and eyewear, to even notice the show.

March 24, 2008

Anyone that thinks we don’t have a race issue in the United States is delusional. But it isn’t just color, its religion, its politics, its even sports. A Yankee fan in the wrong place, at the wrong time, could get his ass kicked. A black man, driving late at night in Westport, where I live, could get arrested for just driving through.

Finally, a politician acknowledged the proverbial white elephant in the room.

Obama’s speech made me think about how race and other issues that divide this country affect my life. I have a few black friends, mostly through music, but I don’t hang regularly with anyone of color.

I once wrote a short-story, called Coming Home, about a black girl who worked at a supermarket in a white neighborhood. It was inspired by what I saw at my local Stop and Shop (90% of the cashiers are black), and an African-American woman I used to work with.

Al Young, California’s poet laureate (the first African-American to hold that post), helped me with that story back in ’94, when I attended the Squaw Valley Writers Conference. I’d sent Al the piece ahead of time. When we met, he said, “I expected you to be black.” I couldn’t have hoped for a better compliment.

I’m more tuned in than the average white guy, but I recognize that I have no idea what it’s really like to be black in America. In addressing his pastor’s comments, Obama claimed we all say things amongst our own that we’d never share with the general populace. That’s as true about race, as it is for religion, politics, even regional groups – eg: Us Yankees believe Southerners to be of simple mind…

Whereas it’s nearly impossible for a white person to infiltrate that private world amongst blacks, or a guy, the world of women, a Jew without a Jewish name, sometimes can be mistaken for a gentile, as I have been. On a few occasions, I’ve heard friends and colleagues say: they’re fucking Jews, what did you expect. The rest of the group would roll their eyes in a conspiratorial consensus: they are fucking Jews.

In the novel, My Year as a Clown, I explore how men act when a woman is present versus male-only, locker-room chat. I also looked at how the conversational dynamic shifts with religion. My novel is told in the first person, by Chuck Morgan, a former music exec who is struggling to write a story about his grandfather. Pop Pop escaped from the Russians as a child, and then the Nazis, as a young adult. One of Chuck’s issues is – what does it really mean to be Jewish? Here’s an excerpt:

Once I was interested in signing a hot punk band called Moses on Ludes, four kids from Brooklyn. I took my boss, Carl, and a couple of other Stella execs, to see them at CBGBs. After the show, we hit an all-night diner. Carl said something about the difficulty of doing a deal with a bunch of fucking Jews. Carl wasn’t a racist per se, but the comment bothered me. He didn’t know I was Jewish -- my last name was Morgan, my hair was dyed blonde. I wanted to say: Hey, what the fuck does that mean? Or: You should be more careful, fuckwad, a big chunk of the music industry is Jewish. I said nothing. What did it matter? Nobody’s life was on the line as it had been for Pop Pop’s family. I didn’t have the guts to confront Carl, but I still thought that if I’d been in Pop Pop’s shoes at the turn of the last century, I would’ve had the courage to stand-up to the Cossacks. Who was I kidding?

Here’s something to try at home: Pretend you’ve joined the opposite political camp. Seek out your new found kindred spirits. You’ll be amazed at what you hear. Opinions are much stronger within the tribe, words are emphatic, clear-cut and delivered with an unwavering conviction. The Iraq war has made us safer (or vice-versa, if you are a republican masquerading as a democrat). One quickly sees how firmly each camp’s positions are held. Is it possible that within the comfort of our own group, we lose sight of how entrenched our views and assumptions have become?

I have no idea how to close the racial, gender, political or religious divides, but I do know that Barack Obama’s attempt to acknowledge the white elephant that stands amongnst us, is an important first step.

Only time will tell if ‘we’ the people, can rise to the occasion, not in fear, but with understanding and compassion, to acknowledge not only our differences, but the common ground that all of us share – nobody wants to see people starve or go without healthcare. Nobody wants the extreme poverty across our planet to continue, or for global warming to run unabated.

The time is now to reach across the aisle, to extend a hand, to take a moment to really listen to an opposing view. Now is the time for all of us to acknowledge that elephant.

March 17, 2008

I flipped, I flopped, now I don’t know who I want – but I’m not concerned that a prolonged campaign will destroy the Democratic Party – that’s media hype.

The press require headlines to generate viewers, to sell ads, to meet quarterly profit targets – PBS doesn’t sell ads, but they're almost as bad; they still need to attract eyeballs to get funded. They rely on media superstars like The New York Times’ David Brooks, and syndicated columnist, Mark Shields, to create a draw.

Let Hilary and Barack duke it out, no one will care come September, what is said now – think back six months – McCain was dead in the water, Hilary was the democratic heir apparent, Fred Thompson was going to heat up the Republican race, Mitt Romney had an unbeatable war chest; Huckebee Who?

Speaking of hype, ka ching for the media this week – The Spitzer Sex Scandal – but we, the people, are just as guilty, and I will admit, I visited Kristen’s MySpace page – so-called friends posted heartfelt messages to K, hoping that the press would contact them – everyone wants to cash in.

The losers -- Silda and the children

The winner -- K

Hear K on the radio, see K in film, gawk at K in Playboy, watch K on Donald Trump’s new program 'Shits and Sluts' Apprentice.

The RSW strawpoll:

Every woman I spoke to this week, including my mother, said: that’s just what men do…

Do all women believe that men are cheaters?

Will all men at some point, put everything at risk for a piece of fresh, young ass?

Speaking as someone who was faithful for 21 years and ultimately cheated on, I was surprised at this response. I don’t believe it, but I understand why many do.

I explored some of this in the novel I’m working on – My Year as a Clown. After three years on this theme, I am no closer to answers than when I started, but I belive cheating isn’t just a guy thing.

You don’t need me to tell you that relationships are complicated. It’s easy to blame one side, but it’s never that black and white, it certainly wasn't in my marriage.

Finally:

How bad is the economy?

Gasoline hit 3.49 here. And have you noticed groceries going up?

I have two cats, and last week the sale price for Fancy Feast went from 39 cents a can, to 49, that’s a 26% price increase. At this rate of increase, my IRS stimulus check will have been spent 20x over by the time it arrives.

March 10, 2008

An acquaintance jumped in front of a commuter train last Saturday night. She was 39. I’d met her at the health club where I do yoga, but she dropped out last year. She’d been there for as long as I could remember (I’ve been a member since ‘92). She was always there – literally – she’d work out at least four hours a day.

My first impression of her dates back to the mid-90’s – I was still working a corporate job, travelling to four continents for a division of EMI Music, so I was only at the club on occasion to play squash. I remember this woman because she was very attractive, and yet quite different from most of the people at the club -- she had striking eyes, a beautiful figure, she was strong and sexy. She also wore funky street clothes with unique color combinations, she was Soho meets suburban Main Street; she turned the heads of men and women alike. During this time, I never spoke to her.

Once I’d become a freelancer and worked out more, I’d see her on the treadmill, then the rowing machine, then the stationary bike. I’d arrive, see her on one machine, I'd hit the changing room, do a 45-minute workout, shower, and there she was on the treadmill still warming up.

At some point her weight loss became noticeable. Soon her arms became so thin, you would have sworn she’d been in a concentration camp. It had to be obvious to anyone close to her that something was amiss.

I only talked to her a few times. I actually hit a squash ball with her once, but we never had a real conversation, but I did have a sense that something awful might have happened in her past. Sometimes it wasn’t in what she said, but in the way her eyes wouldn’t look at you, always darting about, as if keeping an eye out for a possible intruder.

When she dropped out of the club last year, her absence was noticeable. I couldn’t imagine what would cause her to leave, it was clearly such an important part of her life. I saw her only once after that, at a Christopher Shays town hall meeting here in Westport. I didn’t talk to her that day, but at question time, she spoke up – I don’t remember what she asked, but I was impressed that she was there.


This week folks at the club were talking about her. Every one thought it was so awful, and it was, but I hardly knew this woman and it was obvious to me that something was profoundly wrong in her life. The true tragedy is that amongst so many people that apparently cared about her, she could feel so alone and in such pain that the only way to find relief was to throw herself in front of a speeding train.

I wonder how many other people I know feel this alienated, this detached amongst friends and family. What this woman’s death has made me realize is that to some extent, we all feel alienation and pain despite being surrounded by loved ones. Who amongst us is slipping off the rails right now?

For as much time as we spend socializing, writing emails, texting, less is said more than ever…

March 3, 2008

Last week’s blog touched a nerve with lots of readers and several sent emails or posted responses on my various sites. Most gratifying was the contact from fellow writers, people that I admire and respect as artists – their kind words made me realize that to doubt my work is ridiculous.

Some asked why I hadn’t contacted the person who allegedly said these things – I do prefer to go direct to a source, but this would betray the confidence in which I learned of the statements; more important, the blog was about my reaction. It didn’t matter what was said, it was my response that was of interest. Others wondered if I would end the friendship – I won’t, although I will be more aware of the subtext the next time we get together.

The response got me thinking about what artistic success really means to me. It brought to mind last month when I was at Cafe DaVinci in Deland, Florida, a small college town just outside of Daytona Beach. I was visiting my folks for the holidays. Because they go to bed early, I was at the open mic.

Cafe DaVinci has a good reputation. The open mic is on the outdoor courtyard stage, but that week, a Canadian front blew south causing a citrus freeze alert. The open mic was moved indoors for the thirty or so brave souls that had ventured out; but I still had to wrap my arms around myself, keeping my jean jacket on.

Open mics are a mixed bag, but I had high hopes given what I’d read on the web about this place, and it being a college town. The first act went on at nine; I was slated for 11:30. It was a polite crowd; most talked amongst themselves, waiting their turn. Perhaps because school was still out, most of the acts that night were rough and raw. Several kids popped into the courtyard, hovering by the gas heater to smoke cigarettes. I was too cold to move.

At 10:30, a guy with a goatee and wool cap took the stage. He had a smooth rap, there was a gleam in his blue eyes, he looked promising with that Fender Telecaster strapped across his shoulders. But he screeched through four epics, each over six minutes.

I’m a Harvard Business School graduate, my classmates run huge corporations, one’s a bloody ambassador, and there I was, freezing my ass off, alone, twenty years older than anyone else in the joint, wondering what the hell I had done with my life.

I considered leaving, but I was frozen in place. I sat until my name was called, taking the stage a few minutes to midnight. I blew warm air into my hands and saw my breath hit the mic as I spoke into it.

Half way through the second song the people in front had quieted and the kids outside came back in. By my third song, even the folks at the bar had stopped talking. I didn't feel so cold anymore.

I did six songs that night and when I finished, people shook my hand, they asked who I was. Someone bought me a beer. The woman at the bar who booked the shows gave me her card.

I sold one CD that night for ten bucks, but I hung out till closing, talking music. That night as I drove home, I felt like a million dollars.

February 25, 2008

The other day a good friend told me in confidence something that another good friend had said about me. Since I’m amongst friends here, I’ll share – it was allegedly said that I was a wannabe writer, that I was more into saying I was a writer, than being one…

My face turned sallow. I was unsure what was more surprising, what I’d just heard, or that my inner feelings could be so betrayed by an outward appearance.

It bugged the hell out of me that a friend could say this, but what bothered me more was that it mattered.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said:

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

My reaction was defacto consent. This person has only read bits of my work, never read my novels, heard my recent songs, or seen me play live. The assumption was: I’ve been at this ten years, the novel hasn’t been published -- either I don’t work at it, or I don’t have talent; probably both.

My so-called good friend also has writing aspirations, but to date he's done nothing. By his own admission, he’s lazy and since he has money, there’s no need, but he uses that as an excuse in the way wannabes do – they think if they really applied themselves, they’d get published.

The flaw in this logic is the assumption that getting published equals talent. We've all read books, or watched a film, or heard a song on the radio and wondered how anyone thought that piece of crap was worth producing.

The vicarious nature of the book business leaves many talented writers on the sidelines. I know this better than anybody, but these words by a friend still hurt.

I’m angry, but mostly at myself. My heart knows I’m a writer, but my head needs recognition, validation, proof. This friend’s opinion is a reflection of my ego telling me that I’m not good enough.

In its purest state, writing is about satisfying a yearning inside to explore emotional truths, it’s not about success or ego gratification.

Unfortunately, I haven't reached that state of purity. I still want to prove that I haven’t frittered away this time, and yet I know that people's opinions often have more to do with them than me.

Nobody knows what sacrifices I’ve made, or how many hours I’ve put in. Nobody knows what joy I’ve gotten from wrestling with words, or the frustrations. I’ve gained greater insights into myself in the last ten years than I had in the first forty of my life. If I hadn’t embraced writing in such a way, I never would have had these experiences.

What's said, or how I act, the next time I see this friend, is unclear; but one thing is certain, I won't be giving my consent.

---
Since this posting, I've received several emails. Thanks so much for the support!

Here's one:

What other friends think of you:

You are a fiercely dedicated, admirably industrious, ruthlessly self-critical, significantly talented, totally real, and realistically aspirational WRITER!!!!!

Not only that, in case you need reminding (I guess you do), you are a PUBLISHED AUTHOR of business books and feature articles and literary short stories and pop songs and a blog that is read faithfully by quite a few folks. Just 'cause your novel hasn't cut through the static and competition doesn't mean you're not a writer. My friend Meredith was a pretty widely published poet before she committed to fiction, and she's been reworking her novel ms, including enrolling last year in a non-residential MFA program to get certain kinds of peer review, for seven years. Well, you've hear lots of such anecdotes.

As for your 'friend', I commend to him the Buddhist doctrine on "Right Speech"...perhaps someone should administer an enforced reading of some dharma talks accompanied by blows of a tire iron (oops, the devil made me type it).

Hang in there, pal. As you note clearly in your blog, it is the resonance with our own self-contempt that makes such idiocies sting, so we must start there.

My advice to you is, learn how to use the fucking semicolon!

affectionate regards
CRJR

February 18, 2008

Random Rants: Things that got up my nose this week...

While the Iraq war continues, Kenyan’s die, Pakistani’s vote, and Putin solidifies his power base, our government summons Major League Baseball to the table. Even if we need to send a message to our kids that cheating has consequences, that drugs are dangerous, how is it possible that congress is divided by party lines on whether Clemens is lying or not?

It’s not about steroids, or perjury, it’s about politics and power. Last week’s charade may have made compelling television, but now that the writer’s strike is over, can government get back to the business at hand...

While on the subject of politics -- A friend said the campaign reminded him of American Idol. That made me think: Let’s get Paula, Randy and Simon to judge the next Democratic Debate. America, text in your vote -- if enough participate, we’ll cancel the rest of the primaries as well as the super delegate process; fast-forward to the convention.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when Bill Clinton calls a delegate. There are no easy answers for an African-American politician. Many owe the Clintons for where they are today.

I don’t believe politicians will make the choice based on a prior relationship, or for the historical significance Barack represents -- it comes down to old-fashioned self-interest. If you throw yourself behind the wrong candidate, you’ll be lucky to get tickets to tour the White House, pick the right one and you’ve got a great position in the new administration.

Speaking of loyalty, have you been tempted to leave your cable or phone company because of those great offers to bundle? Combine phone, cell, TV and internet and you’ll save a ton.

Trouble is, it takes someone with the brain of Stephen Hawking to decipher the fine print. And it takes a cryptologist to translate the damn bill. I know because I broke up with Cablevision to bundle with AT&T, but the last three bills added up to more than what I spent in a year with all services combined.

Why is it costing so much to save money?

After several calls and lots of waiting, I was told that there were taxes, fees, activation charges, and pro-rated monthly assessments, as well as added features that were not included in the promotional offer. Worse, because the bundle is charged to one bill, when you have questions, you’ve got to talk to each company separately.

When the landline person says: you’ll have to speak to the wireless folks about that; and then you call the wireless people, and they say: since you’re bundled, you’ll have to speak to the landline folks – I want to tell AT&T where to put their bundle.

One place that bundle could go, is up Joe Lieberman’s ass. Why is he always standing behind John McCain? Isn’t he supposed to be representing my home state, Connecticut? Oh yeah, I forgot, he represents the State of Joe.


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

February 10, 2008

Last week the publicity machine kicked in for first-time novelist, Charles Bock, whose book “Beautiful Children,” was released Tuesday. Random House has big plans for this title. Bock was featured in “The New York Times Magazine” as well as papers across the country; his web site is polished and well financed; for my tastes, a tad over-produced. I haven't had a chance to read this book, but it looks intriguing.

Hailed as an early candidate for ‘great 21st century American novel,’ this work of fiction was eleven years in the making. According to Bock, while some of his friends achieved success, he got rejected. At parties he felt like a fraud saying he was a writer. Nearing forty with no marketable skills, he was embarrassed and downtrodden, scraping by with odd jobs. Despite the hardships and ignominy, he never stopped writing.

I read Bock’s story with awe and hope. He attended conferences and retreats, similar to the ones I’ve attended. Folks thought it was just a matter of time for him, but nothing happened.

I’m approaching my tenth year of writing with only minor success. Friends got deals too. I’ve been close a couple of times. Last year an agent at the prestigious Squaw Valley writers' conference, the place where Amy Tan, Michael Chabon and Alice Sebold were discovered, told me she believed I’d breakthrough because I’m relentless. Still, she rejected my novel.

I know how Bock felt about party chit-chat. The anticipation before a social gathering sours my stomach. I dodge the ‘what do you do’ like a skilled politician. But sometimes late at night when I can't sleep because I wonder if I've frittered away the past decade, I look myself in the mirror and say what have I done?

If Bock has learned one thing on his eleven year odyssey, it’s that no matter what people say about his work, he trudges on. You’re rarely as good or as bad as people say.

It must be amazing to ride the surge of publicity that Bock is on, but he knows what all aspiring writers know, it takes hard work, perseverance, and a lot of luck. I don’t know Charles Bock, but I can bet he knows lots of gifted writers that toil in obscurity. Kudos to Bock for climbing out of the shadow into the limelight. If he’d given up in year ten, he'd still be waiting tables.

Regardless of how his book is ultimately received, as long as he keeps writing, he can’t lose. Since I saw that agent in Squaw Valley, I revamped my novel. As long as I keep writing, I won’t lose either.

February 3, 2008

For over a year we heard the 24/7 ebb and flow of what was on the mind of Iowa and New Hampshire voters. Those results are ancient history. Looking back now, was all of that attention and analysis worth it?

Iowa certainly legitimized Obama’s candidacy, but McCain was road kill four months ago according to the pundits. The media convinced us that it was worth tuning in each night for the latest poll and commentary. And immediately following Iowa, the media rushed to crown prince Obama. After New Hampshire they snuck into his room to steal the crown for Hilary.

Jon Stewart ran a sequence campaign hyperbole last week on the Daily Show -- Bill Clinton lashes out – Mitt Romney scoffs – Barack rebukes -- Stewart ran clips of the actual action with the subsequent report, in each case, reporters used an active, aggressive verb to describe what in reality was a non-event.

Breaking News: Bill Clinton answers a reporter’s question…

Or:

Bill Clinton lashes out at a reporter.


With Connecticut voting on Super Tuesday, it’s time for me to hit the polls. I lean toward Hillary because of her experience. Despite the Kennedy endorsements, Barack lacks seasoning. Yes, he is Kennedyesque, but if JFK hadn’t been assassinated, his legacy might have been different. He sent the first troops to Vietnam. He was responsible for the Bay of Pigs. If JFK had campaigned today, he’d never have gotten elected; he would have made Bill Clinton seem like a eunuch.

The media says Obama has the better shot against McCain, they say the republicans would love to go against the Clintons. That’s made me think Obama would make the better candidate, but I still believe Clinton makes the better president.

The extremes in the Republican Party won’t vote for either, so it’s about who will get the most votes from moderates and independents. I have no idea which candidate has the best chance of doing that, but tonight I can channel surf across the major news program to find an expert that will tell me today’s answer, tomorrow, that answer will change depending on the polls and the wind.

January 28, 2008

Last April I hurt my foot hiking. Eight months later, I still have pain. I went to orthopedic specialists. They took X-rays, but saw no broken bones. They said it was probably muscle. Take an anti-inflammatory, rest, if it doesn’t get better in a month or two, come back, we’ll do an MRI, give you a cortisone shot, worst case, we’ll operate.

One doctor said, “You’re nearing fifty, you better just get used to the aches and pains.”

As an independent writer, my insurance covers little, so I toughed it out. But I couldn’t walk fifty yards without severe pain.

A friend told me about a Chinese doctor, a seventh generation acupressure practitioner. My friend said it would be the most painful hour of my life, but it will be worth it.

How painful could it be, I thought. I had nothing to lose, so I made an appointment.

The waiting room was a tea shop and Chinese herb dispensary. Glass apothecary jars lined the wall behind the register filled with various natural remedies. Teapots and other Chinese knick-knacks crammed shelves along the opposite wall.

Dr. Wong came out in a white smock. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a warm smile. He was a squat man with a crew cut, his fingers were thick and muscular. He spoke little English. He led me to a room with low lighting and bamboo like wallpaper. I told his Chinese assistant, a thin, reed like woman, my situation. Dr. Wong nodded.

He took my pulse and asked me to stick my tongue out. He muttered something to the translator. She told me my body had blockages that prevented my foot healing. I wondered if she told that to every patient.

I was instructed to lie face down on the massage table. Dr. Wong elbowed up and down my spine. It was deep and penetrating, but it didn’t hurt as much as I expected. I figured my friend was a wus. Then Doctor Wong leaned into me and suddenly I felt as if he was going to unhinge a vertebrae, the shearing pain was so intense, I thought I would never arise from this table.

Just when I thought I could take it no longer, he’d back off and give the area a gentle swirl of his hand. After fifteen minutes of this torture, he moved to my bad foot. He massaged the inflicted area. He pressed and pushed and probed to pinpoint ground zero. When I screamed, we both knew.

Finally he said, “Your muscle is stuck on the bone and that’s why it hasn’t healed.”

“I thought you didn’t speak English,” I said, wincing from his pressure.

He smiled, pushing and pressing.

He rolled me over and moved to my neck and forehead. The tips of his fingers were like hammer heads, each point of pressure activated energy channels to allow my body to heal.

Then I was wrapped in a blanket and left to lie quietly for twenty minutes. When he returned, he did a little more pressing on my neck and head. “Relax,” he said, “relax, relax, relax, and your foot will get better.”

I wasn’t sure it felt any different that afternoon, nor the next day, but I did feel for the first time that someone got to the source of my pain. The other doctors had never touched my foot, they saw X-rays, they watched me walk, they dispensed pills.

I decided to visit Dr. Wong again. He gave me a similar treatment which was equally painful, but that afternoon I felt genuine relief. I returned for one more visit.

My foot isn’t better, but it has made noticeable progress. Whether I make a full recovery remains to be seen, but I feel optimistic. It’s too bad my insurance won’t cover these visits. It covers little anyway, but you’d think they’d want to provide coverage for something that actually works.

January 21, 2008

This week I’m putting the final touches on my novel before sending it out to agents.

One of the themes in My Year as a Clown is loyalty. I chronicle the 2003 Philadelphia Eagle season, drawing a parallel to Chuck Morgan’s life. That year the Eagles got off to an awful start, but they turned it around and ended up in the NFC Championship game for the third consecutive year, only to lose again for a record third time. Chuck’s fortunes take a similar turn to this Eagle season.

The novel opens on the first day of the season. Chuck has just learned his wife of 20 years is leaving for another man. Despite the news, he’s watching the rematch of last year’s disaster NFC championship – Eagles – Bucs.

In the third quarter, the Eagles still show nothing. They look like a high school team, and it’s embarrassing after last year's defeat by these Buccaneers, but it’s something Eagle fans expect -- bearing the cross of failure is part of the job.

Claudia disliked sports and didn’t understand why I stuck with them. “I don’t know anything about your American football,” she said once, “but I do know they will lose. Why don't you just support another team?"

I tried to explain it wasn't that easy. I’ve followed Philly teams for thirty plus years. The Eagles have never won a Super Bowl, but I remain faithful.

This week the NY Giants are in the NFC Championship game against the Green Bay Packers. By the time you read this, the game will be over. Giant fans have two super bowl victories – Eagle fans zero. But only four weeks ago, despite the play-off spot, Giant fans were calling for their quarterback’s head after a poor showing in Buffalo. That’s something Eagle fans love to do too, beat up on their stars when they’re down.

But being a fan means you stick with the team for the highs and lows. Jumping on the bandwagon has its advantages, but that sort of fan can never experience the true joy of the championship victory, of course they don’t suffer through the lean years either.

My novel chronicles the actual ’03 Eagle season. Bill Parcells took over Dallas that year, but the Eagles were favored in their first meeting despite that awful start.

At the start of the fourth quarter Dallas is ahead by three. I'm still confident, but the Eagles blow a late chance and lose. I’m gutted as if I’d been out on the field with those guys. Claudia thought it pathetic that I took Eagle losses this seriously. And look at me, my head hangs low, my eyes are bloodshot and puffy, I’m aggravated and annoyed. This is the biggest Dallas victory in years, and no argument can convince me that it doesn’t matter. Claudia is right, I am pathetic.


It’s been interesting revising as another Eagle season ends in disappointment. Most of the torture Chuck faces, continues. This year the Giants destroyed the Eagles in their first meeting. The second game was much closer, in fact, a last second field goal hit the goal post which would have tied the game. The Eagles lost several other close games this year out of stupidity, and yet at times, they looked like a championship squad – they were the first to show New England’s vulnerabilities, they destroyed Dallas in Dallas. If not for one or two mistakes, the Eagles could have been in this championship game, but ‘if – schmiff,’ the Eagles have been out for over a month. The Giants are still playing.

For me and the protagonist in my book, Chuck Morgan, it’s the familiar cry of wait until next year…

January 14, 2008

We’ve been at war since 2003, but I rarely see anyone in uniform around town. The only military guys I come across are at Grand Central. They typically travel in threes, walking around with armored helmets strapped to their belts, led by a big, beautiful German shepherd. These men and women tote automatic weapons in one hand, a Starbucks coffee in the other.

Last week as I made a flight connection through the Atlanta airport, I saw a battalion milling about, waiting for planes home. I hadn't seen this many army guys in one place since I bought pot from a colonel stationed at Fort Ord back in the 70’s.

These men and women had arrived in a jumbo jet from Germany, all had been in Iraq. All were on a one-week, holiday break; most would head back to the war.

It was odd to see them in line at McDonalds or at a newsstand in Terminal E. I wondered if they felt strange too, patrolling the streets of Bagdad one day, standing in line with me, ordering a Big Mac the next.

Most civilians acted as if they were like any other stranger at the airport, someone to simply look through, or to sneak a peek at like a carnival freak. Few people engaged them in conversation.

But they aren’t like other strangers. They represent our country, fighting overseas. Everyday their lives are in danger.

They wore desert fatigues, a light dusty brown sprinkled with a sandy green. The pattern was more pointillist than paisley, the fabric looked like cotton, hopefully it was breathable, but I doubted it was one of those high-tech fibers most of the people I know wear at the gym, the sort that wicks away sweat before you even perspire. At least it wasn’t as thick or dense as the canvas like fabric I recall from those officers I got high with back in the old days.

Atlanta has installed new HD screens at the gates. The NFL playoffs aired while I waited for my flight to New York. I sat next to two guys heading to Virginia, watching Pittsburg versus Jacksonville. We had a brief chat. We kept an eye on the game as we talked. I kept it strictly to travel plans – How long are you here? When are you going back? How long were you there?

But I was dying to ask: How insane is it over there? What should we really do? Why the hell did you join the military?

On the flight to New York there was another serviceman on board. I wanted to say something to him but didn’t. At the baggage carousel I saw him again. While waiting for my suitcase I said hi. I thanked him for what he was doing. To be honest, I’m not sure why I did that. He nodded and looked at his shoes. He was probably wondering why I was talking to him too. Then I asked, “Looking forward to going home?”

He rolled his eyes and shrugged, looked down again at his polished boots. We exchanged no further words.

I gathered my bag and wondered what it's like to be more at ease patrolling the streets of Bagdad than going home.

January, 7, 2008

While the rest of the northeast was buried by an Arctic freeze, I was chilled to the bone down in Florida. My New York friends had no sympathy, but when you don’t have the clothes for 30 degrees, its damn cold. Last week Florida had the lowest temperatures in a decade.

I was in town a few days and on the day I left, it finally warmed up. I woke at six am for a brisk sunrise beach walk, then caught a cab to the airport. We got on the plane at 9 o’clock. I looked out at blue sky over the tarmac and wished I’d had a few more hours here in Daytona.

At 11, we were still on the ground. The plane rolled back to the gate – engine trouble.

The Daytona airport is tiny, you can get in and out fast, but they don’t have mechanics or back- up planes. When the pilot gave us the option to deplane, I figured it was bad news. Since I’d already missed my connection, I headed straight to the ticket counter outside of security. I rebooked an evening flight, hoping to get that one nice day on the beach.

But I still needed my bag because the keys to my mom’s apartment were in it. Twenty minutes later, with no bag in sight, the rest of the folks from my plane trudged down the escalators to line up at the ticket counter. Good thing I'd moved fast.

It was a madhouse. A smallish woman with oval glasses waved her arm around and cussed the baggage man. “I need to get to Orlando to catch a flight home,” she screamed.

All I needed was my bags and it was sunshine for me, but it took another 45 minutes to get them, but it could have been worse. Some folks waited three hours to simply secure a new reservation.

I was back at my mom’s at 12:45. Unfortunatley, by then it had turned overcast, but at least it was warm. I changed into shorts and sandals and headed for the beach.

When my bare feet touched sand, the clouds turned black, but at least there was no wind. Earlier in the week, the wind was so strong, the waves hit the shore sideways. Still, despite the threatening clouds I was strolling along the Atlantic coast.

I headed toward the pier. A group of four pelicans zoomed by. A flock of gulls poked peaks into the foamy waves. Then the clouds grew heavy, and soon the rain fell. By the time I made it back to the condo, I was soaked and chilled to the bone.

I changed into dry clothes and headed to café.

Despite these mishaps, I got a lot of writing done. I also played a small set at the Caffe DaVinci in Deland, Florida. Because the weather was so bad I sought other indoor activities. A new yoga place, Yoga Bala opened near my mom. I took morning and evening classes there every day.

The Daytona area has grown a lot since my mom moved there ten years ago. There are a few nature reserves and inlets to visit. The wildlife is spectacular, but if Florida doesn’t put in a master plan to slow and control this growth, the eco-system will collapse and nobody will be able to live here.

Still, some growth is good, and clearly without it, Yoga Bala would not have opened. But it is still the south here. Besides NASCAR, there are lots of things in this area that you just don’t see in New York.

At a traffic light a red Ford pickup pulled up next to me – on it’s sides were large white vinyl letters: Church for Men 800-879-6352. I wanted to honk my horn, wink, and ask if I should bring the oil, but I doubt the old guy driving would’ve found that funny.

In the local paper I found a section entitled:
Smoking Permitted -- A public service to those who still smoke

The section listed bars and restaurants where smokers were welcomed.

I also saw an ad for:

Fast Lane Tobacco

Daytona’s only drive thru tobacco shop

When we finally took off for Atlanta, I was next to a Jeff Foxworthy type, a hulking sort, with big biceps, decked out in a Georgia Bull Dog shirt and cap. He was reading Cycle World. I peaked over his shoulder to look at the lead article – Revelations – What would Jesus Ride?

All in all, it was interesting way to start the New Year. Hope yours was a good one too…

December 31, 2007

This time last year I was finishing my novel – My Year as a Clown. As ’07 comes to a close, its déjà vu all over again – I’m rewriting Clown.

I was certain that Clown would sell this year, but it didn’t. I generated lots of interest, I got lots of rejection too. One agent’s assistant fell in love with the story, as did several other readers, but by May, I realized as written, it wasn’t going to fly.

I workshopped the opening at Squaw Valley, the writers conference that discovered Amy Tan, Alice Sebold and Michael Chabon. An English professor used my first draft and the most recent version of the opening for a classroom assignment. Then I hired Joy Johannessen, the super-editor, who has worked with numerous authors, to get me over the hump. Joy doesn’t work with just anyone, so I was fortunate to get her input.

For the past two months, I’ve been rewriting whenever I get a moment – sometimes on the train into the city, sometimes early in the morning before the sunrises, sometimes late into the night when only the cats are up.

This year I also dusted off my first novel, The Sound of Money. It’s about a struggling songwriter that gets mixed up with the mob. I spent six years writing that before I gave up. It sat for three years in a drawer. Rereading it was a pleasant surprise. It was much better than I remembered, but I also saw how in three years, my writing had improved. I spent four months this year overhauling Money. I’ll take another stab at a rewrite once I put Clown to bed.

I also rewrote several short stories and finished a new one, The Del Monte Fizz, about a bartender that’s feeling his age. But I didn’t enter many contests or send out stories as I have in past years.

The rejection started to weigh on me. Many of the journals that publish short stories are read by so few people, and yet they get thousands of submissions a month. The process is depressing. But in ’08 I pledge to send stuff out anyway.

This year I posted over fifty essays on my website and myspace.

A lot happened in ’07 on the music front. NPR played the ‘Jersey Cowboy’ on Car Talk. I gigged more than ever and saw a noticeable improvement in my on-stage playing. I appeared live on the local PBS station with a trio. I played several times at the very hip lower east side venue, the Rockwood Music Hall.

However, I still failed to get the Westport Arts Center to return my calls – they swore that they’d let me audition, but four years later, still no call back.

This year I co-produced Jeep Rosenberg’s CD, 'Silver Bluff Estates' – he’s on the road garnering fav reviews. Most recently, I had the privilege of working with a thirteen year old singer/songwriter who I have no doubt, you’ll hear on the radio some day.

All in all, it was a great year, certainly my best since the spectacular breakup of my marriage four years ago. Most important, I can look back on ‘07 and see marked improvement on all creative fronts. As long as I see more progress by next December -- 2008 will be great too.

Happy New Year and all the best to you and your family in ’08.

December 27

I saw Benazir Bhutto speak in 1988 at my graduation at Harvard. She was an eloquent speaker and quite beautiful. She was a powerful human being, a charismatic leader, a visionary. Odds were, she was also a criminal and corrupt.

Anyone following the run-up to these Pakistani elections can not be surprised at what happened today, least of all, Benazir. Perhaps she realized it was her death that stood the best chance of pushing her agenda forward -- as bizarre as that sounds, she had to have known it was only a matter of time.

Tonight I light a candle for Benazir and for all the people of Pakistan.

While most folks were preoccupied with holiday gifts and travel this week, I took care of a few things I’d put off all year. For instance, it was time to come into the 21st century and get a PDA, that nifty device that does email on the fly.

Bundling phone service, Internet, and TV gets the best rate, but I had no idea if the phone company or the cable company was better. I went with AT&T because I watched the Dolans, the family who owns Cablevision, ruin the New York Knicks and the brown goods retailer, the Wiz.
I ended my fifteen year cable TV relationship, but breaking up was hard to do.

I went to the Cablevision web site to shoot them a quick email. To be fair, no company makes it easy to send an email. One must wade through countless menus, pages, and questions before getting an email address. When you finally hit the mother lode, it’s not even an address, but a form that requires more questions before you can press send. But in the of case terminating service at Cablevision, there was no email option.

Calling a company in 2007 is just as infuriating. Cracking the numeric combination that gets a human being is a lot harder nowadays. Zero stopped working ages ago, in fact, most companies force you to provide account information before you can even get to a menu.

To better assist you, Cablevision needs to ask a few questions…

To better serve me, just get a person on the damn line.

Twenty minutes of blah, blah, blah, finally got me to a human being. In the process, I’d been forced to reveal my name, address, and account number, plus be pummeled by a loop of Cablevision adverts.

Of course the first question out of the customer service rep’s mouth was: What’s your name and account number, please?

“I just told the computer, don’t you have that information in front of you?”

“I’m sorry, sir, our system is down today. Can I have your name and account number?”

“I just want to terminate service.”

“I’m sorry to hear that sir, why would you want to do that?”

I told them I’ve bundled and it’s too late to change.

“I see, sir. Well, I’ll have to pass you over to the department that handles that. One moment.”

Before I could say just terminate me, they’re gone and I’m back on hold, listening to another loop of Cablevision adverts.

It took fifteen more minutes for a human to return, and the first question they asked was: What is your name and account number?

And you needed to know why I’m terminating service.

Ten minutes later this guy told me that Cablevision will beat AT&T’s price. They’ll cover the charges for the penalties to cancel with AT&T, and as an added bonus, I’ll get a free year of HBO.

Thanks very much,” I said, “but it’s too late. We’re breaking up; this relationship is over.”

Whew…my divorce was easier, well, not really.
---

A few random notes: Eleven days until Iowa and New Hampshire -- it's anyone's game at this point.

This is the fifth Christmas US troops are in Iraq -- has the surge really worked? We've already seen a sea-change in the election talk -- Iraq has slipped off the radar screen...

Thanks for stopping by. Have a safe and merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho. Happy holidays.

rsw

December 17, 2007

I often hang out at a café with the laptop to work on my novel. I sip espresso, nibble dark chocolate, I write. While a single voice will grate and annoy, the cacophony of a crowd energizes me.

I rarely talk to anyone, but I do notice faces. When a bookish woman with librarian-styled glasses approached me the other day, I knew she came here often. She scribbled on manuscripts with a red marker, always holding a large coffee drink topped with whipped cream.

"Are you a novelist?" she had asked.

"Yup."

She told me that she worked with lots of writers, names I recognized. Imagine my luck, to meet someone with such contacts.

"So you're an editor?" I asked.

"Not really, more like a professional trainer. I help writers reach their potential."

Interesting, I thought. "So you're a professor."

"Not exactly. I provide performance enhancing supplements to increase concentration, focus vocabulary, sharpen sentences; these pink pills are guaranteed to bulk up your prose, give it punch."

"You're kidding, right?"

“Scan the New York Times Best Seller list, over 50% use ‘em.” She winked. “Nowadays everyone needs a competitive edge.” She pulled a brown envelope out of her Prada handbag. “I’ve watched you laboring over that manuscript for months. You look like a nice guy who deserves a break. Try these for a week, see what happens.”


I'd worked my butt off for years, knowing that the odds were stacked against me, not realizing that those I'd read and admired took illegal short cuts.

"What do you have to lose?" she added, seeing the concern on my face. "They don't ask writers to take a drug test."

I looked toward the register where the carousel kiosk displayed both books and CDs. All I had to do was take the envelope and everything I'd dreamt about since high school would come true.

I asked myself, where would rock and roll be today if record companies had refused to sign acts that took drugs? And hadn't Absinth, the Czech spirit that's still illegal in the US, give birth to the Impressionistic period?

Didn't I deserve success? Everyone else was doing it, well, most.

I slipped the envelope into my briefcase.

At home I poured a glass of water and held those pink pills in my palm. I took a deep breath, put one in my mouth, and slipped it between my teeth. I twirled it about with my tongue and closed my eyes, trying to visualize fame and fortune, but I just couldn't swallow.

For the next several weeks I wondered what I'd say when I saw that woman at the cafe, but our paths never crossed. Then I read in the paper that she'd been busted. No authors were named, but a pending investigation could change that.

I sighed, hit enter on my laptop and started the next chapter in my novel.

December 10, 2007

No news isn’t bad news, but I often assume it is.

When I launched my CD into obscurity last year, I sent out hundreds of promos to newspapers and radio stations. Few responded.

I realize that reviewers typically get hundreds of unsolicited CDs every week. Similar numbers apply to magazine editors reviewing short stories. My work is probably still sitting in a pile in an empty office.

But I'd given up on my CD, believing that it was awful because I got so few reponses -- note: I did get some positive reviews from fans and a handful of magazines and DJs -- evidently not enough to keep the negativity at bay.

Then I got a call from a friend who said she’d heard one of my songs on NPR while in LA. Turned out ‘Car Talk’ had liked ‘Jersey Cowboy,’ and played it on three-hundred stations coast to coast.

From then on, I saw my work differently, which is just as dumb as thinking my work sucked because few reviewers responded.

A few weeks ago, I ran a songwriting class at the Westport Library. I’m pretty sure everyone enjoyed themselves and got a lot out of the experience, but I heard nothing from the program director. When I reached out for post-feedback I got no response. Call me old fashioned, but when you do something for free, you at least expect the director to get back with a thanks.

I’ve been trying to get a gig at the Westport Arts Center for the past four years, but no such luck. I once convinced them to allow me to audition at lunch for the staff (but they canceled at the last minute). I’d be okay if they said: thanks, but no thanks; but I simply get no response.


Nobody wants to tell someone that they aren’t going to publish their story, air their music, or put them on as an opener for a national act, but any serious artist understands that rejection is part of the game. I'd much rather hear 'no' than nothing.

When I was 19, I was responsible for booking all the concerts and films at San Diego State. I did everything from ballet to punk rock. I promised the manager of Ron Carter, a famous jazz bass player, that I’d get approval for his show. I had a board of student directors. Typically they green lighted anything I put in front of them, but this was the one show that got turned down.

Every time Ron’s manager called, I told the secretary that I wasn’t in. I never called him back because I didn’t know what to say; I was a coward. Eventually the manager tracked me down. He gave me an earful. I felt like a bum. He said, “I’ve been holding this date thinking we had a deal. All you had to do was say you couldn’t do it and we could have gone elsewhere.”

Ever since, when I have bad news to deliver, I remind myself that there’s one thing worse than telling someone 'no,' it’s leaving them hanging. If only I knew how to get that message out to artistic gatekeepers.

----

I'm down in Florida this week visiting my mom and step dad. I'm also tending to some business. It's 80 degrees and I can hear the crash of the surf as I type this...

Thanks for stopping by and Happy Holidays.

December 3, 2007

This week 50,000 Facebook users signed a petition in protest of the posting of their Internet purchases via news alerts. This ticker tape of electronic activity appears on the profile page of connected friends. Did Mark Zuckerberg, the 23-year old Harvard wiz kid, who sold a measly 1.6% of his company to Microsoft for $240 million, go too far?

User tracking takes place behind the scenes at every web site. Google didn’t zoom into the dominant web position because of its search engine, it dominates because it monetizes user searches, matching key words to appropriate advertisers. Google tracks everything.

Facebook simply took this to a more public level. What better endorsement for a product, than to learn that one of your friends shops at Overstock.com or just purchased “The Kite Runner.”

The Facebook value of 15 billion is based on monetizing the information users post on their profile page.

Newsflash for Dummies: those that seek privacy shouldn’t post themselves on a social networking site.

Duh….

A few weeks ago I flagged the issue of MySpace targeting ads based on profiles -- if your page states that you’re into the Beatles, related ads will soon appear, but much more can be done with personal information, and it must if MySpace is to survive the war against Facebook.

To date, most people are unwilling to pay for web-based content and services. Over a thousand uniques (that’s silicon speak for visitors to the site) read my blog each week, but on average, I earn less than a dollar for that effort. Companies sell ads and the information they gather to cover costs and payback investors. I would too if I could figure out how.

Last week I wrote about having to take other work to keep afloat. I got an email from someone asking why I don’t do more with 'The Connecticut Philadelphian' and 'On the Mat,' two other blogs I started. I’d love to, but I can only allocate so many hours to activities that generate no income.

This week I added merchandise to the shop: tee-shirts, mugs, key chains and magnets in hopes of generating a bit of additional revenue. But I will write regardless. I started this blog not thinking anyone would ever read an essay, I did it to complete something weekly. Four years later I have a small, but loyal audience that visits from near and far – as the Visa commercial states: that’s priceless.

Commerical break: A key chain or mug makes a great Xmas gift. Visit the Shop.

Back to the blog...

People aren’t so bothered by the use of information behind the scenes -- perhaps ignorance truly is bliss; but over time, as the Internet becomes an increasingly larger component of our lives, Big Brother will know everything.

When cash disappears, which I predict will happen in the next thirty years, there will be nowhere to hide. And when the next domestic terrorist attack occurs, protest songs on MySpace could very well be taken off the site. Perhaps anti-government songs will warrant worse repercussions; look what happened to the Dixie Chicks.

Can't happen, you say...both Yahoo and Google handed over user information to the Chinese government for a political dissident trial earlier this year.

What info lurks on the web that could be used against you?

If only those 50,000 Facebook users would have said something when Google and Yahoo capitulated to the Chinese, maybe those companies might have done the right thing. What if the 50,000 wrote their congressman about the war or health care? And I wonder...how many of them actually voted last month?

The cost of a free web service is the information you give them. Assume anything you do on the web can and will be used by someone. If you’ve got a problem with that, then don't use the site.

If Timothy Leary were alive today, perhaps he'd advise this:

Log off. Shut down. Read a book.

November 26, 2007

This week I attended several holiday parties and when the question "What do you do?" came up, I was unsure how to respond because: a) I wear various hats; b) I still feel awkward saying I’m a writer.

My angst comes from the fact that I don’t earn enough money to do it full-time. I need to get over that, but when is it safe for a writer to publicly declare such status?

Even though I handle various projects through my company Against the Grain, I still write everyday. Does that make me a writer? I think so, and yet when I say that I’m a writer, inevitably, someone asks, would I know your name? Who do you write for?

I’ve had enough published to drop a few names, but until I sell a novel, I feel like a wannabe. I know this is ridiculous and it goes against positive thinking, the power of visualization, and that movie, the Secret, but often, that’s the way it is in my head.

What’s interesting about writing is that everyone does it in some form, and so there’s an assumption that if one was serious about a novel, they could simply sit down and write it. To some, there's no explaining that after nine years and three novels, I still haven’t gotten one published.

It is one thing to be twenty-five and struggling, quite another to be forty-nine and wandering around in the dark. Okay, I’m not clueless, but there are days when I do feel like it. I remind myself that I work with an editor that did the bestseller, ‘The Lovely Bones;’ you just can’t hire someone of that caliber. But I don’t need anyone to make a remark at a party; I’m quite capable of beating myself up without anyone else’s help.

And yet embarrassment actually helps me write. I won’t stop because someone thinks I’m a loser, on the contrary, it makes me work harder.

The truth of the matter is, I might very well suck, but then again sucking and selling have very little to do with one another. I have two words to sum this thought up – Paris Hilton.

It is mind boggling how little value society places on my fiction. The words I create in a press release have very different value. In one afternoon I can generate a thousand words that will make more money than the two million or so I’ve written over the past decade on my novels.

I have the utmost respect