"Gay and Jewish"

My wife Melissa sent this out to a few of her friends and I just couldn't resist passing it along. Enjoy!




My wonderful son Gabriel. I just have to share…

Gabriel is in third grade and we are the “new family” at school. Please note that this elementary school is in a small village in rural Rhode Island – there are 230 kids total Kindergarten through 5th grade. Small is an understatement. We LOVE it! Both boys are thriving there. Gabriel’s class is 15 students and he’s doing very well.

A few weeks back I had the pleasure of attending the Parent/Teacher conferences for both boys. It’s such a pleasure to sit there and have the teachers gush over how well they are doing, adjusting, making friends, etc. I sit there and just beam with ultimate pride. When I got to Gabriel’s conference, the teacher Ms. P (yes she’s pregnant but that’s not what the “P” is for…) started off with all the usual – Gabriel is so wonderful to have in class, blah, blah, blah… I sat there with the biggest smile plastered on my face. Then I heard the dreaded words, “I need to talk to you about something…” What? What on Earth could be wrong? She continued that Gabriel had shared with her something he wrote in his journal and she didn’t know how to respond to it. She then retrieved the journal so that she “wouldn’t misquote him.” She then showed me that he had been writing about Hanukkah and then showed me: “We are having Hanukkah at my house. That’s where we celebrate the GAYS! They are free from slavery because they went north!” She just looked at me and didn’t know what to say. After a moment, I told her that I think he’s got a few concepts mixed together and is excited about the holiday. I told her that our family is extremely open and supportive of Gay Rights and Gay Marriage and I think the slavery thing has to do with the story of Passover… She smiled and said that she’s so happy that we are at the school and that we provide “diversity.” Please tell me you are laughing at this point! Us – diversity…? Well, for rural Rhode Island we are as diverse as they come. I’m truly thankful for that.

That night after the kids were in bed I told Alex about Gabriel’s journal entry and we both had a good giggle. The next night (4th night of Hanukkah) we asked Gabriel with Hanukkah is all about and he just shrugged and said, “I dunno.” So, Alex told him about the Scottish Jews – the Maccabees – and how magically the oil lasted for eight nights. (Okay, he offered way more detail – I promise Dad.)

So, two nights after Hanukkah, Gabriel and I went to the store together in the evening. We are loving New England, but one thing to note – sunset is at 4:00 p.m. during the winter months. It’s truly lovely here and everyone decorates their homes to the hilt. Lots of Christmas lights, decorations, etc. Gabriel and I were driving home after sundown and really enjoying all the amazing lights. With both of us looking out the windshield, Gabriel says to me, “Mommy, we don’t decorate for Christmas do we?” I told him that yes we do, but Hanukkah just ended and our budget is tight right now. Then he said, “No, it’s because we are gay and Jewish!” I said, “Gabriel, what does being gay mean?” He then says, “Gay means you love EVERYBODY.” Can you feel the amazing smile that crept up my face? I said, “Gabriel, remember your friend Katie who has two mommies, and your friends Liam and Natalie who have two daddies? Gay means you love who you love. YOU have a mommy and a daddy, but some kids have two mommies and two daddies...” Gabriel stopped me right there and said: “That’s right, Mommy, it means you love EVERYBODY.” To that I just sat back and said, “Yes, Gabriel. We are gay and Jewish.”

Happy Holidays!

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The new shit

Success! I’ve done it again! Who’s going to be the first to congratulate me? I have once again successfully succeeded in confusing every doctor within a one hundred mile radius! None of them can tell me what happened to me! Ha Ha Ha! Take THAT motherfuckers!!! Don’t mess with the man! The myth! The most famous guy typing on this laptop right now! Ungh! Yeah!

And I am celebrating now because…?

So the other night I had an “event”. I call it an “event” in quotation marks because that’s how all the doctors seem to be referring to it. Basically without getting into too much detail, I took my medicine, had a super bad hot flash, chest pain, dizziness, sat down, drank some water, couldn’t speak, limped to the edge of the bathtub, almost passed out, turned pale, blue lips, generally freaked out my wife, thought I was dying, called the paramedics and went to the hospital. All this among some other more disgusting happenings which will not be discussed in front of the children.

Now this could have been a relapse of my M.S. in the form of a seizure, and it could have been an uncommon but accepted side effect of the medicine I take to prevent my M.S. from getting worse. Of course there is no way to determine which it was, so that’s a bag full of fun right there. The good thing is the doctors could find no permanent damage, other than to my psyche of course.

The paramedics, a surprisingly jaunty and friendly bunch took me to the hospital in my very first ambulance ride. Just to give you a glimpse of my ten months here in New England, I have seen one beach, I have not been to Massachusetts, I do not know the names of more than five streets in the town where we live, but I have seen the inside of four hospitals. Oh yeah! And I got to go on one ambulance ride too! (Though it’s not as fun as you might think when you see them screaming by on your way to McDonalds.) Success! A sight seeing dream!

Of course this particular hospital was a teaching hospital. It was a lot like the show E.R. but with far less glamorous looking doctors. The nurses were about the same to tell you the truth. The best part I guess was the lack of commercials. The first doctor came to check on me and ran down a litany of questions that took close to half an hour to get through. I certainly don’t mind being thorough in that particular situation, but keep in mind this was a teaching hospital. Apparently that meant I had to teach the following twelve doctors who came to see me in rapid succession after the first one left my bedside.

All of them asked the exact same questions in the exact same order. They even started to sound alike. I couldn’t tell the girls apart from the boys after a while. And they were girls and boys. I think one of them had just nicked himself shaving for the first time and lazy Uncle Jimbo hadn’t gotten around to teaching him to be more careful with a razor when it crosses over the top of a fresh pimple.

The greatest moment came when I was being transferred by one doctor to a gurney taking me to have an EEG. He was reciting the same list of questions as another doctor came up and began to repeat the exact same questions to my wife. They were almost in stereo. It felt like I was listening to Pink Floyd while watching The Wizard of Oz! Then a third doctor with freckles and wearing a pair of what looked like Transformers glasses came up and stood there taping his foot impatiently waiting for his turn to begin the questioning. As he cleared his throat, my gurney doctor turned to him, flailing his arms like the Scarecrow and told him to wait until I had returned from my test. They almost came to blows. I actually clicked my heels three times. It was awesome!

I don’t mind teaching hospitals. I really don’t. Most important medical discoveries are made there. Many of the best physicians in the world teach and help create the next generation of great medicinal practices in those facilities. That’s where all the good new shit comes from. I do have one question though… Why am I always the new shit?

It’s great to be cutting edge and all. I like that I get to be there for all of my friends and experience a lot of these procedures and tests while I’m still at a relatively young age so I can give advice to you guys who aren’t going to need this stuff for a few years. Need to have this blood screen or that MRI? Been there. Done that. Don’t eat a cheeseburger first. Trust me. Just stay away from the chili fries for a day or two beforehand.

I would just like to say that enough is enough already. Somebody please use that expensive diploma from Harvard or Yale or USC even and figure a few of these things out ok? The dance of the seven veils is sexy because it keeps the mystery. It’s fun to try to figure out if it was Professor Plumb in the kitchen with a cocktail napkin or Miss Scarlet in the boudoir with a dildo. Just for once it would be nice to have a little bit of the mystery taken out of things for me. Just once have a doctor say he knows what the problem is and this is the way to fix it.

That would be real success in my book. And something worth a real celebration.

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The First Ten Years...

The first ten years…

As of this Thursday my oldest son Jonah is now ten years old. A whole decade! I used to get tired of my parents and older relatives warning me to “Watch out! It goes by so fast!” But they were right. It feels like I blinked and all of a sudden he turned from this ghost-like blob on the sonogram into this blond haired, brown eyed fourth grader almost as tall as his mother surfing the internet and even in the ocean too!

If you know me, or have read this blog before, you might remember that Jonah has autism. As challenging and daunting as that has been for us, it truly has been balanced out by how wonderful and amazing a person he is. Sure he has trouble communicating with language, but so do most “typical” people I’ve met. And that’s including me as well! It’s amazing how with just a small shift of his head’s position or a raised eyebrow, he can let everyone know if he’s happy or sad.

I could go on more about the difficulties of raising special needs children, but I’d rather speak to the beauty of the life that they give me. Both of my boys are the bright spots of my world. They are happy, friendly and incredibly genuine. I wish I could take credit for that, but I have to give it where it is due, their Mom.

When Jonah was little we began to notice how he would rather play by himself than with other people. The only one he would allow to join him or actually try to play with sometimes was his little brother Gabriel. In a way, this was a great thing for us. As parents we have always wanted our boys to be close, and they really are. As Gabriel grew old enough to recognize his older brother was a little different than most other folks, he started looking out for Jonah and protecting him. I saw him do it on the playground once and was completely blown away. A few bigger kids were starting to pick on Jonah because he wouldn’t answer or even react when they yelled at him. I was about to go step in when this my little six year old red headed kid walks over and says, “Hey! That’s my brother. Leave him alone or you’ll be in trouble!” They all looked shocked for a moment, then started laughing and brought both Jonah and Gabey into their game. We didn’t ask him to do that. He just loves his brother.

Jonah loves to watch videos. It’s his favorite thing in the world! Youtube is his Nirvana. He knows how to navigate through that site at light speed to find what he wants to watch. He loves Disney movies and Star Wars, but his all time fave is the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I sing him to sleep at night with “Pure Imagination” and “I’ve Got a Golden Ticket”. Believe me when I tell you that singing these two boys to sleep is the greatest thing I get to do every single day.

A few years ago Jonah had climbed into our bed at some point in the middle of the night. Come morning time I had gotten up already, but he and Melissa were still asleep. The alarm went off and Melissa turned over to wake up Jonah when he opened his eyes and said, “And now our feature presentation!” Honestly, can you really think of a better phrase to start the day?

Since the move to New England, Jonah has been doing great at school. All the kids in his class love him. This week they put on their annual Harvest Festival where the fifth graders play Pilgrims and the fourth graders play Indians. Since Jonah’s class is the Indians, they all got to choose their Indian names for the festival. At the end of the selection process, they all started shouting to their teacher, “What about Jonah? He needs a name too!” So she asked the class what they thought his name should be. Now at the end of every day the class sits or lay down on the rug to read and wind down a little bit. Apparently when they do this, Jonah rolls around tickling everyone’s feet and laughing up a storm! Sometimes Melissa will put gel in his hair and spike it up before he goes to school, and all the kids love that too. So they gave him his Indian name. Jonah is now known as Playful Porcupine.

I meet a lot of new people with kids who tell me, “We don’t know how you do it. It must be so hard.” To be honest, sometimes it is hard. But I don’t know anything else. Raising typical kids looks harder to me. All that really matters is that these are my kids and I love them no matter what. Every day I learn more about patience and clarity. Not that I am the most patient person in the world, nor the most clear all the time, but practice makes perfect right?

The first ten years with him have had their ups and downs, much like any parent and child I would imagine. Our life really isn’t too far removed from a “typical” family. We’re pretty “typical” too actually. I hear stories from friends and relatives with kids and their day to day struggles. They may be about slightly different things, but they are all really the same. Just trying to give as much love and support as possible and help them to have the happiest and most productive life that’s possible. Jonah is a loving, affectionate and happy kid. I am so fortunate that I get to spend the rest of my life watching him grow into a loving, affectionate and happy man.

When I was younger I had rock star dreams and ambitions to fame and fortune. I say, “I love you Jonah” and he looks back at me and with a smile on his face says, “So much!” I know that am as famous as I’ll ever need to be.

Happy 10th Birthday Jonah! Here’s to the next ten!

( Here's a link to download a song that I wrote for my big guy's 10th!!! http://www.megaupload.com/?d=CYDR2O1M Hope you enjoy it.)

-a

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A different kind of Odysey

Last night was Halloween. A night for lost spirits and ghosts to try to find their way back home. A fitting night to listen to “Penelope”, the new album by Sarah Kirkland Snider. Co-written by playwright Ellen McLaughlin, this haunting song cycle tells the story of a man coming home from an unnamed war after twenty years to find his wife still waiting for him. He is a shell of his former self with no memory of life before his traumas other than the structure of his old house.

With beautiful and disturbing instrumentation providing the background, Penelope, gorgeously voiced by Shara Worden from My Brightest Diamond, reads the text of Homer’s “The Odyssey” in an attempt to bring her “Odysseus” back to her. It is a heart wrenching story that unfortunately is very fitting with the times we live in today.

Brad Lubman conducts the fantastic modern chamber ensemble Signal from New York who performs the score. With semi-traditional strings and harp aided by guitars, electric bass, drums and computer programming “Penelope” is rich with challenging texture that evolves and from eerie whispers to rushes of tidal wave like explosions. Worden’s voice drifts gently over the top of this brewing storm much like Odysseus’ ship lost at sea.

After the trick or treaters had long gone to bed last night, I lay in bed with headphones on and eyes closed lost inside of Snider’s melancholy world. Strange dreams of creaky old Victorian houses and faded white dressing gowns whipping through storm blown windows slowly crept along the inside of my eyelids as I listened. I was struck by the raw emotions brought to the surface in this music’s plaintive beauty.

“Penelope” is not something I would consider listening to every day, but it is important and vital listening. It is a powerful story told in a unique and thoughtful manner that pulls no emotional punches. Taking a fresh turn on Homer’s enduring story, the core of the tale is the strength and unflinching resolve of true love. That willingness to fight through whatever horrors cut and scar and let love persevere and triumph. Though it may not leave you unchanged, it is indeed a beautiful thing.

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Beethoven Takes 'Em Down In The Third!

An apology…

So I stared a blog. I decided that I was going to write every day and share the ups and downs of being “me” with anyone who wanted to take a moment and read. Well, it’s tough to write every day when one of your hands decides to jog to the left when you ask it to go right. When you want to punch the “H” key your finger hovers over the “K” key and shakes for five minutes. Then when you finally get your hand to calm down and start typing, your left eye can see the screen in front of you but your right eye is focused on the USC coffee mug filled with pens sitting just to the side of your laptop. I’m trying not to make my M.S. an excuse. But it does indeed get in the way of productive living from time to time.

So I will post on this blog as often as I am able, and as an excuse to keep my hands and mind working on something. Hopefully it will continue to be interesting to read. Thus I have apologized for not posting in such a long time. I will put more effort into a more regularly scheduled appearance on this site. Thanks for reading and for taking some time to spend with my neurosis!

-a

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Yesterday I went to a performance of Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” in Providence. Granted it was in the middle of Sunday afternoon during prime football time, but I do love me some Beethoven. Little did I know it was to become one of the more dangerous choir performances I have ever seen!

Now I have been involved with music for the majority of my life. I played in orchestras in high school and in college, and I have seen many performances over the years. I enjoy all kinds of music from J.S. Bach to Arvo Part. I was lucky in the my father had extremely eclectic musical tastes that he truly enjoyed sharing with me as I was growing up. He calls his tastes “Catholic”, though I’m not really sure why. Anyway, he was the first person to play me Simon and Garfunkel, Philip Glass, Gilbert and Sullivan and of course good old Ludwig.

I remember the first time he played me the Fifth Symphony. I was about four years old and we were driving in his orange Opel GT when it came on the radio. He stopped talking and looked right at me with his eyes as wide as grapefruits, “Do you hear that?” He said almost in a whisper. “That’s Beethoven. This is some of the greatest music ever written!”

We drove around Chicago and listened to the entire performance. I don’t know what orchestra it was, but my dad was conducting right there from the driver’s seat. His arms were waving around and he was singing along, “Bum bum bum buuuuuuuuh! Bum bum bum buuuuuuuh!” I loved it. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing, but it sure was exciting. He told me that the Allied Forces used to play Beethoven’s Fifth over the radio during World War Two to piss off the Germans. Apparently the famous rhythm is also morse code for “V” which stood for “Victory”. This was a double fold insult to the Nazi’s because the American’s were stealing their favorite son’s music to promote their eventual downfall. As a four year old, this made the music even more mysterious and powerful!

I was a little bit bummed that I wasn’t going to get to watch any football yesterday, but my Bears’ game wasn’t being broadcast out here on the east coast anyway. Spending an afternoon listening to some Beethoven wasn’t the worst thing in the world in my book anyway. Now for those of you who aren’t too familiar with Beethoven, as beautiful and lush as his music might be, he was not familiar with a concept we call “brevity”. His pieces are often pretty long and intense. Once might say that calling them robust is an understatement. The “Missa Solemnis” is most definitely an example that fits in the “lengthy” category.

Not only is it about an hour and a half long, it is intensely difficult for the choir to sing. It is a piece that doesn’t get performed very often due to it’s challenging nature for the vocalists. It was written to coincide with Beethoven’s patron Archduke Rudolph’s installation to the position of Archbishop of Olmutz in 1820. The work became so complex and difficult to complete, that it was not finished until 1823 and not even performed for a full year after that.

Now you might be asking, “How could a nice Jewish boy enjoy spending his afternoon listening to a frustrating and really long piece of music singing about Jesus?” Well I can give you two reasons. The first is that the music transcends all religion in its passion and veracity. It is lush and vital and gorgeous. Secondly it was at this very concert yesterday afternoon that after hundreds, if not thousands of concerts, I witnessed my very first choir injury!

Toward the end of the third movement I noticed a movement to the top right of the stage. One of the microphones above the choir was shaking wildly. Every member of the Alto section was looking down eyes and mouths agape and stretched wide with fear. A few of the women in the front row were beginning to jump down to the base of the mic stand and started waving off to the side of the stage for help. We in the audience really couldn’t see much of the goings on as it was all hidden behind the bass and cello sections of the orchestra.

A few seconds later the movement ended and the conductor stepped to the side of the podium. All was silent in the hall. It felt like we were holding our breath for hours. The hushed creaking of a stage door broke through like shattering glass. By now every member of the orchestra had turned to see what was happening as well. The stage hand walked swiftly out, bent down and helped the woman to her feet. He held her arm and walked her off the stage through the open door as we all began to applaud. Then the door shut and almost immediately the conductor took to his podium, raised his baton and the orchestra began playing the fourth movement.

It… was… awesome! Beethoven had taken her OUT! Ludy made her sing so hard she collapsed! I was almost ready for a t.v. timeout! I was waiting for Pam Oliver to be standing backstage giving us the details of the injury report and whether or not the Alto would be able to return for the remainder of the performance! Sadly she did not get back to the game, but I hear through the grapevine that she has a slight bump on her head and will indeed be able to return for next months performance of Handel’s “Messiah”.

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Pincushion

July 29, 2010

Hermetic. Anesthetic. Clean. Sterile. So far that’s what I have discovered about Rhode Island. Not very appealing adjectives when you are looking at the sights and sounds of your new home. Pretty good though if it’s how you might describe the inside of its hospitals. Being that those are mostly what I have been able to see since I’ve been here, I can’t really use any other words.

Yes, I was in the hospital once again last night. Fortunately they didn’t need to keep me over night, but Melissa and I spent the better part of five hours in the emergency room. FUN!!!

Since we moved here I haven’t had a new cardiologist, so we made an appointment for yesterday afternoon. We filled out all the paperwork and then headed back into the examination room which was surprisingly warm and comfortable, not the cold and uninviting I have grown accustomed to. The nurse tried for about five minutes to attach the leads to my chest and abdomen for the standard EKG test while shooting small talk back and forth with Melissa. Eventually she had to acquiesce and shave some patches of hair in order to get the proper connections made. Apparently I was the first patient she had ever needed to shave, so I was feeling pretty proud of myself if not a bit frustrated. Why is it that I can grow hair all over my chest and stomach, but not on the top of my head? Oh well!

After all the fuss and struggle, the EKG took all of thirty seconds to complete. A few minutes later the doctor came in with a very concerned look on her face. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you. You should be in the hospital.”

Not really the first words you want to hear from your new doctor.

My heart had fallen back into an irregular rhythm and was beating at close to 180 beats per minute as well. If I was doing wind sprints or catching the winning fifty yard touchdown pass, it might not have been such a problem. But lying down on the table and being at rest, not so good.

So for the second time in a few months, I found myself in the hospital.

The first thing I always tell the nurse when I get there is that I have deep veins that like to hide. I don’t say this trying to tell them how to do their job or anything. It’s just that the least amount of time I can spend as a pin cushion, the better in my opinion. Some of them actually listen and try valiantly to put the IV in on the first stick. Mostly they brush me off and start poking away.

Can you guess what happened last night? Yup. Just call me Pokey. Or I could use the inside joke “Pinboy’! She tried my forearm, she tried my wrist, she tried my left hand, and she tried my right. Finally she realized she wasn’t going to be able to get a good vein. The doctor came over and sarcastically blew out the comment, “We don’t have an IV set up on him yet? Let me do it.”

Then another, I assume more experienced nurse came over and started to argue with her saying that she would do it. Back and forth they went for a few minutes while I sat there holding cotton pads down on my five new blood escape hatches. Eventually the doctor threw up her hands and walked off while the new nurse stomped up to me, tightened the tourniquet around my right forearm and jabbed the needle into the back of my hand.

I could describe the searing pain of a needle piercing the skin and fumbling around the inside of my hand looking for purchase. I could describe how angry I was that here I was again being subjected to endless torture while trying to bring my heart rate down. I could, but at least she got it on the first try. So I decided to be generous and just say thanks.

To be continued…

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My first holiday in a small town

I spent my very first holiday in a small town yesterday. A lot of people where I am from don’t really even consider Memorial Day to be a real holiday. Maybe that’s why yesterday was so special to me.

For most of my life we would have the typical backyard parties with a barbeque and maybe some fireworks on Memorial Day. If we ever wanted to go to a real festival or concert it cost a lot of money and we had to deal with traffic and grumpy crowds of people. Most of the time we never went too far from home. Other than a few short stories about how my Great Uncle Herb fought in World War Two, there was never much talk in town about remembrance or honoring those in uniform. I’m not saying people were disrespectful or that there were no memorials occurring, I just have no memory of them.

Yesterday we went to the local parade which took place in the center of down town. Keep in mind, down town here consists of the local library which is an old one room school house from the 1800’s, three homes, the volunteer fire house, the police station for all five officers, the city council office (a one room building) and three roads that intersect where the parade stops. Pretty much the entire town was there. Folks were waving flags and wearing all sorts of patriotic outfits showing off their red, white and blue pride. Taking the one word description from my wife, it was very “sweet”.

We were standing at the bottom of the library driveway when the parade started coming towards us from up the road. The local VFW came through first. A group of fourteen men all carrying heavily used rifles on their shoulders and a deep sadness in their eyes. I could see that they were all very proud as we spectators applauded them walking by, but there was a hint of resignation on their faces as well. As if they were happy to be there, but when they looked at each other there was something else communicated between them that I would never be able to understand as a civilian.

Fire engines and water tanks from all the surrounding towns came through giving out little flags and candy for all the kids. I kept looking for a Dalmatian sitting proudly in the passenger seat of one of the trucks, but that was the only missing piece to the Rockwellian portrait. Then the boy scouts and cub scouts came marching proudly in step right before a group of early twentieth century automobiles sputtering and coughing their way down the street on their hard rubber and wooden wheels.

The out of sync drums of the high school and junior high school marching bands rumbled through a herky-jerked cadence as they marched by to cheers and applause from their families and friends lining the road. Wearing their white tuxedo shirts I could see some of the upperclassmen looking around almost embarrassed, most likely wishing they were someplace else doing something cooler. I knew how they felt having been there my self. At least they didn’t have to follow a group of horses in the parade having to manage carrying a set of heavy drums and dodging landmines as they went.

The parade ended at the city council building’s flag pole and memorial stone which sits at the edge of the street to be seen whenever you come through town. A few local dignitaries gave short speeches and the high school band played a couple of slightly out of tune songs. Then the chair of the city council spoke and she read the lyrics to the song “Taps”. I had never known there were lyrics to this music and had certainly not heard them before, but they seemed very fitting for the event.

"Fading light dims the sight,
And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright.
From afar drawing nigh -- Falls the night.
Day is done, gone the sun,
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky;
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
Then good night, peaceful night,
Till the light of the dawn shineth bright;
God is near, do not fear -- Friend, good night."
-Unknown

One lone bugle played the mournful tones of the song when she finished. Before the melody faded another horn played from far off behind one of the buildings. Almost as if in echo, the song was being sung back to us from all of those we have lost over the years. It was serenely haunting and one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard in my entire life.

My son grabbed my hand and squeezed as I realized I was fighting back tears. I am still choked up now as I sit here at my keyboard thinking about it. I don’t know if it’s really a matter of small town versus big city but I don’t think I will ever look at Memorial Day the same way again. It’s not that I didn’t have respect and admiration for our soldiers. I have always been grateful to everyone who has ever sacrificed to keep our way of life alive. It just seems more real to me now. It seems more personal.

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Deep in the drummer's cups

The first memory I have of Bill Foreman is helping my friend Jack to record the “Hey Rumba Head, Its Bill & Pete!” album. I was in a band with Jack at the he was going to record his friend Bill’s band over the course of a weekend or two. So I stopped by not knowing what to expect and subsequently had my head completely blown off by how groovy they were.

Bill & Pete were nothing at all akin to anything else I was used to at the time. Being a “professional” (I hate that term) musician, I was accustomed to playing with formally trained players for the most part. Unfortunately that meant they were usually pretty stiff and unwilling to take risks. In other words they were the complete polar opposite of Bill Foreman.

After the sessions, in which they gleefully allowed me to play tambourine, I asked Jack to make me copies of everything he had with Bill’s playing on it. The thing that blew my mind the most was that not only did Bill play amazing drums; he wrote some of the best songs I had ever heard. To this day I still play “The Little Band That Could” disk I have at least once a week.

I had written music while I was in college, but mostly Jazz and Orchestral pieces. So I understood the challenges and prejudices that needed to be overcome to be a drummer who composed music as well. At the time I was just beginning to write rock songs for my band on the guitar and Bill was definitely my biggest influence. I would write a song and then listen to “Trace of a Cat’s Eye” or “Can’t Wait To Be Free” and send myself back to the drawing board. I held him up to as high a standard as Dylan or Lennon and McCartney. His songs were that heavy to me.

Over time he would come and see us play shows, we would go to see him perform and eventually I was lucky enough to get to play a few shows with Bill. I remember feeling intimidated and elated at the time to be sitting behind the kit while he played guitar and sang. We had a lot of great talks about music and philosophy over a few beers and maybe some whiskey. Nothing like getting a couple of drummers deep into their cups and getting them started on the merits of Art Blakey.

Bill is a very modest guy. He does not take compliments about his playing very well. But having been around a lot of musicians in my day, he really is one of the best drummers I have ever heard. He mentioned that one of his biggest influences is Elvin Jones and I can definitely hear that in his playing. He has a tremendously deep pocket that propels you naturally where he wants you to go. Not many drummers can do that effectively. Bill does it instinctively.

If you’re looking for “perfection” buy a drum machine. He plays the instrument the way it should be played. He plays the drums like a musical instrument and not like a metronome. All of the bands that let him go obviously didn’t get it. They obviously did not have the capacity to swing along with him. They probably couldn’t even swing from a rope in a hurricane.

Think about all of the music that you love. The music that makes you move and shake. If James Brown played along to a metronome it would be stiff and the Godfather would have no soul. The Levee would have never broken for Led Zeppelin. Revolver would have stopped spinning for the Beatles. This is what we are talking about here. Feel. Groove. Soul. They are all one and the same. Bill Foreman has them all in spades.

Over the years we have maybe seen each other a handful of times, but I am always in awe of what a kind and generous soul he has. This most definitely comes through in his musicianship. You can take lessons for decades and study every pedagogical philosophy ever created for your chosen instrument. You can work in all the top sessions with all the top name players and even go on tour with the biggest names in the business and still not have the one quality that Bill has in everything musical that he does. Love.

Bill means every note that he plays and every word that he sings. He means it with every single cell in his being and every last ounce of soul that he has. Bill truly loves making music and he plays straight from his heart. That may mean that he doesn’t live up to the standards of musical perfection that rule today’s airwaves, but so be it!

His music may not be heard by the huddled masses of Lady Ga Ga and Maroon 5 fans, but they wouldn’t get it anyway. They don’t have open enough hearts and ears to hear it. But his music is there for those of us that are open. His music is there to reach down and pull us up from the dirt when we need it. I for one am grateful every day for that.

Please go to http://www.generalludd.com and take a listen to some wonderful music. He even gives all his albums away for free so you have no excuse! Enjoy!

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he went that-a-way

I can feel the landmass that is America pulling its gravity to the wrong side of me. I spent over thirty years with the ocean to the West and the rest of my country on the opposite side. I can’t even tell which way North is anymore. It’s a mental disorientation as well as an emotional one.

As difficult events occur in life, there is always some comfort that can be provided by the knowledge of ones location. I always knew where the beach was. I could tell you where the Santa Ana Mountains were with my eyes closed. I could be on any freeway and point directly to where the house I grew up in was located. It was reassuring. It was soothing.

Now I even get confused by where the sun rises and sets. Don’t get me wrong, Rhode Island is beautiful. I loved the snow when it was here. So far everyone tells me that’s just because I’m lucky enough to not have to drive in it. The spring has provided lush trees with a deep green hue that my eyes have ever before witnessed. I literally just have no idea where I am.

My wife and children are here, and I know that is what’s really important. But my loss of magnetic North still digs at me. It reminds me of getting off of a plane on vacation. You walk through the tunnel and step out into a strange terminal. You follow the helpful arrows down to baggage claim, and hail a cab to get to your hotel. You follow the rising and falling of the strange landscapes as you move down the unfamiliar roads to your destination. Then hesitantly peek out your hotel room window trying to figure out where the hell you’ve just ended up.

Even after a few days or even a week of sightseeing and traveling around your host city, the only landmarks that stand out as familiar are your hotel and if your lucky, some other random buildings or other bright and flashy touristy novelty destinations. Then, you fly home and instantly walking down the tunnel to get off of the plane you know where you are. You don’t even need to glance at the arrows pointing you towards your bags. You walk straight to the lot where you left your car without even blinking. The familiar if not inviting roads steer you to your doorstep without even the need for a first thought, let alone a second.

I remember my Dad always had a compass on the dashboard of his car when we were growing up. It fascinated me how this little magnet with markings on it could tell us where we were going just by spinning around in its little water filled dome. I never really understood why he had it though. I knew where East was. I could feel the pull downward of South and the warmth of West from deep inside my gut.

Maybe that was it. He wasn’t from L.A. He grew up in Chicago. So maybe he needed the compass to reassure him like I need the one my wife just gave me. L.A. eventually became his home, but he would never feel the instinctive pull of direction that Chicago would greet him with every time he went back for a visit. He would never be able to tell which way North was just by the color of light in the sky. Or he did in fact grow that spinning arrow shaped limb inside of his mind over time. Perhaps the compass became a redundancy that he eventually just didn’t need any more. I’ll ask him the next time he refers to the GPS system that came pre-installed in his Prius.

I want to feel comfortable here. I really do. Maybe it’s because I don’t drive these days that I am so easily lost. I am beginning to recognize a few of the streets and turns we take when we head out to one of my son’s baseball games. Little league is different around here too! They don’t just play in one location. Nope. There are three different fields we have to go to depending on the day, time and opponents that they face. And trust me the trio of locations are gorgeous. With lush towering trees surrounding the fields and playgrounds for the siblings not on the teams, it’s very relaxing. Relaxing if you can tell what direction center field is facing that is!

Some might say that I need to lighten up and roll with the changes here. Honestly, I wish that I could. I wish I could hop into the passenger seat and simply not care that I have no idea where we are going. The forests rolling by on one side with pristinely manicured farms on the other. Sure it’s beautiful to watch. But I can’t enjoy it. My insides are churning around and I feel tightness like I am just about to walk into a sweaty old basketball gym and sit down for my SAT’s!

I have never been one of those guys who will refuse to pull over and ask for directions mind you. There is almost nothing I hate more than being lost. (Being late trumps it by a little bit.) I simply need to know in which direction I am headed. Perhaps that is why the stereotype of not asking for directions exists. Men could be so deeply in need of knowing where they are at all times, that they will pretend to not be lost even when they are. It might not even be a gender thing. I’ll have to look into that one.

Since that stereotype has been around for so long, I don’t think that I am the only one who feels this way. If I was, there would be no market for GPS systems. There would be no tiny plastic compasses tacked to dashboards with strips of double sided tape. There would be no angry couples arguing at highway rest stops around the globe about turning left at Exit 23 instead of veering right onto Maple Highway sixteen miles ago. We just knew it had to be a shortcut right fellas?

I just want to feel at home again. That’s what I am talking about I guess. Maybe one day this beautiful countryside will provide the comfort and the security I have been missing since we got here. I want to be able to close my eyes, and point to where Providence is. If you blindfold me and spin me around three times I would love to be able to tell you that Boston is over there. New York is that way. Turn left to get into downtown Scituate. Heck, the beach (or “ocean” as they refer to it out here) is just over that ridge. Hopefully that will all come in time. For now, I’ll refer to the GPS on my phone and my shiny new trusty compass! Spin arrow spin! I’ll call when we get there.

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one of my favorite hours

Back in the mid-late 1990’s I was working at a record label in Hollywood. I won’t say the name, but the offices were in a giant round building that looked like a stack of records. I really liked working there at first because I got a lot of free records and I naively thought I was making connections for my band.

Stuck in the finance department, most my days turned out to be not very exciting. Occasionally some famous people did make there way through the building though. The basement held two of the most famous recording studios in Los Angeles, so they were always busy making records down there. I rode the elevator with Dave Navarro one time. Another ride was with Art Alexakis. Both seemed to be very polite and genuine guys. Better than the average day gig moments for me for sure.

Mostly though, it was a grind. Tons of paperwork and errand boy shit. A lot of the people were pretty cool, and I did learn quite a bit about the record business, but I didn’t enjoy the job all that much. I really wanted to be making the music myself and not crunching numbers for the big machine and their roster of other artists.

One day I had an especially bad row with my boss. I guess I messed up something and she was pretty pissed. Looking back on it I’m sure it was my fault, but at the time I felt attacked and unappreciated. So I went down to the lunch room on the second floor to grab a coffee and smoke a cigarette on the patio. You know, cool myself off a little bit before I went back to my desk.

After a couple of smokes I headed back inside and asked for a refill. There were only a few people in the lunchroom milling around and looking at the snack selection. It was around eleven so the real lunch rush was still an hour or so away. I noticed a small, dark haired guy sitting at one of the back tables drinking some tea by himself. A flash of recognition ran through my head as I turned back to thank the lunch lady for my coffee. I knew who that guy was! I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but I just had to introduce myself.

I walked over to his table and sheepishly cleared my throat. “Um…Hi.” I said.

“Hello.” He looked up from his magazine and smiled quizzically.

“I don’t want to bother you, but I’m a huge fan.” I shuffled my feet glad for the styrofoam coffee cup in my hands. I wouldn’t have known what to do with them otherwise.

“Oh, thanks man.” He smiled and seemed truly grateful.

“Are you in one of the studios downstairs?”

“Yeah. We’re working on the new record in A.” He said.

“Cool.” Of course I couldn’t come up with anything more impressive to say.

“Have a seat.” Three more impactful words had never been spoken to me. Well maybe my girlfriend sating “I love you” was pretty close, but this was AWESOME!

“Wow. Thanks!” The chair squeaked on the linoleum as I pulled it out and sat down.

I didn’t care that I was going to get into more trouble with my boss for being away from my desk for so long. I didn’t care that I might even get fired. I was going to hang out as long as I could. We talked for close to an hour and it was one of the best conversations of my life.

He was very grateful that at least one person at the label connected with his music. He felt at odds with the whole major label corporate thing and was worried he was going to get lost in the shuffle. I was worried for him too, but I chose not to tell him and make him regret his decision to sign with the label even more than he already did.

I mentioned before that I have been extremely fortunate to meet a number of my “heroes”. This was perhaps one of the most fortunate of those encounters I have ever had. He was kind and even funny despite his reputation. We didn’t only talk about music either. He was just as interested in me and what I was up to as I was in him. I kicked myself subsequently for not telling him about my band, but it felt like it would have been rude and self serving at the time.

Honestly I wish I could remember more specifics of what we talked about, but it’s all buried somewhere in my brain behind the whoosh of the adrenaline fandom rush I was in the middle of the entire time.

He mentioned that he was going to get another cup of tea when a voice came from the elevator in the hall, “Hey Elliott, we’re ready to get started again.”

“Okay.” He replied quietly and stood up. “It was really nice talking to you. You should come down to the studio and hang out for a while.”

“I would love to!” Needless to say I was blown away. But the dark shroud of responsibility reared its ugly head over me. “I should get back to work though.”

“Okay. Well, nice to meet you.” We shook hands and he headed off for the elevator down to continue recording what has since become one of my favorite albums.

Unfortunately I didn’t get down there to any of the session that day, or any over the next couple of days either. When I got back to my desk, my boss slammed her door loudly to prove a point and there was a pile of punishment work stacked up for me to finish ASAP. I didn’t mind though. I got to it and started to mow through all the paper with a smile on my face.

I never really told anyone about my cup of coffee with him that day. I kept it too myself. I guess because I selfishly thought I had made a new friend and if I told people about it I would appear to be bragging or showing off. I just got lucky. I was in the right place at the right time and had an hour that I will never forget.

A couple of years later he died and it broke my heart apart. Fortunately I can still listen to his music and be inspired by him. I don’t know if he remembered the time we spent talking that day, or if he even remembered meeting me at all. But I certainly do and it is one of the fondest memories that I have.

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stamp my gross happiness visa!

It is much harder to be happy than unhappy. Why is that? Ask anyone. Go ahead. I dare you. Ask them if they are really, truly happy. Chances are you’ll get a few people who put on a brave face, smile and tell you what they think you want to hear. Don’t let that be the end of the conversation. Push them to go deeper and tell you what’s really going on.

Most people are struggling to make ends meet, dealing with dysfunctional families, friends and/or crappy unfulfilling jobs. It seems like most everyone is just trying to make it through the day until they can get home, turn off their minds relax and float down the television stream. That’s not happiness if you ask me.

It is so much easier to allow the detritus of modern life to fall all around, building up a wall that corrals us in with our unhappiness than it is to be the wrecking ball that swings and just might let in some splinters of light through the cracks it struggles to break. Happiness requires work. Happiness only reveals itself to the vigilant and determined. Unhappiness is easy. It is lazy and requires no work ethic at all. It makes itself available to us whether we like it or not.

I try really hard to be happy. Unfortunately I don’t quite get there most of the time. Little things plant themselves in front of me and set me right off the course of having a perfectly sunshine day. I can be walking down the hall with a smile on my face singing “I Feel Good” and then my hand will slam directly into the hall closet doorknob. Maybe I’ll be watching the newborn baby goats stumbling around acting all cute like and my foot steps into a pile of dog crap. I might be right in the middle of some hard found inspiration, writing the greatest song since “Across the Universe” when all of a sudden my B string breaks and I don’t have a replacement set anywhere.

The old cliché “nothing good comes easy” is a cliché for good reason. It’s true. It may appear that some people don’t have to work as hard as others for their happiness. I don’t believe that’s true. If you equate happiness with material things, then maybe it is. But I have known quite a few “trustifarians” that have never had to work a day in their blue blooded lives because of family money and I can tell you, it’s pretty rare to find someone in that position who smiles so deeply it can change the mood of a room. Put me on stage next to an eighty five year old bluesman belting out “Crossroads” for the ten thousandth time and I’ll show you some happiness at its purest form.

There is a Buddhist retreat up the road from here that has an interesting approach to enlightenment and happiness. You hear the word “retreat” and the images that rise up are massages, cucumber slices on your eyes, steam baths and never ending piles of rich, delicious food. Not at this place. Every time I have driven by, the property has been spotlessly clean and beautiful. The lawn and shrubbery are perfectly manicured, there is not one spec of dirt or bird poop on any of the surrounding statues, and all of the hundreds of prayer flags have not faded one iota from their original bright and beautiful orange hue. Do you think that it’s the Dalai Llama that keeps the place so clean?

The path to happiness according to their philosophy is achieved through hard work. When you sign up to spend some time there, you leave all of your worldly trappings behind. No laptops, iPods-Pads-Phones, clothes and no satellite television receivers. You put on one of their beautiful orange robes and start getting it dirty. Apparently all of the stress and aggravation brought into our lives by technology, supposedly to provide the assistance to a faster and easier life, can be erased and soothed away by good old fashioned dirty knees, sweaty brows and sore muscles.

King Jigme Singye Wangchuck of the country of Bhutan was so concerned with the happiness of his people that he created the concept of Gross National Happiness. He developed it as a way to measure his countrymen’s quality of life. Imagine that. A leader so concerned that his subjects were happy and fulfilled, he actually created a system to measure the amount of happiness, contentment or sorrow of their daily lives. If they were unhappy, he and the government would actually take steps to remedy their problems. Where do I sign up for a Happiness Visa?

It seems like we here in the Western world are in love with our stoicism. In order to fit in we are not able to smile. Think about it. If you are walking down the street and someone walks toward you with a huge, shit eating grin on their face, you’re first instinct is to give them a wide birth as they pass. We are much more likely to accept someone with their head down, frown on their face quick stepping their way to their next miserable appointment with other miserable people.

We don’t want to see happy people. Maybe because it reminds us of how unhappy we might be and how much work we have in store for us if we want to raise the corners of our mouth and show those pearly off-whites.

Children laughing
Baby’s cooing
Wisps of clouds slowly swimming across an ocean blue sky
A gentle breeze caressing your skin
A hearty belly laugh that hits you so hard you see stars
Puppies
Kittens
The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies…
Other stuff that cynical me would normally roll my eyes at.

I guess these are some little things that may counteract the slammed doorknob hand or dog crap foot. I have to work harder in my life to remember them when I need to. I know I do. Even if we discover that reincarnation is a possibility, we only get one shot at this particular go around. If it’s going to be happy ride, it needs to be one that's worked for and earned.

So I’m going to head outside and look at the new baby goats for a minute and then play some fetch with the dogs. I’m going to smile more. I’m going to work harder.

What are you gonna do?

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Tiger Stripes: An American Spirit Unfiltered

I once I had an audition to play with a famous pop singer, who we will call for our purposes “Ms. M”. A friend of mine in the music industry found out that Ms. M was looking for some new band members and got me in the door to try out for the drum chair. I wasn’t working at the time, the money they were offering was pretty good and the exposure of touring around the world to sold out arenas wouldn’t have been too bad either so I decided to go for it.

I drove for an hour or so out to the Valley (that’s the San Fernando Valley for those of you folks not from L.A.) and waited in the parking lot until about fifteen minutes before I was supposed to show up. Grabbed my cymbal bag and headed in the door. Sitting on the couch inside was my competition for the gig. Let me tell you, they were a crew right out of Spinal Tap. There was enough spandex and hair gel on that couch to provide enough jet fuel to the moon if I lit a match the wrong way.

“’Sup?” Tiger Stripped Bandana Wearing Contestant #1 nodded his head and said in my direction as I walked by.

“Hi.” I smiled and put my bag down against the wall.

“So, who you been on the road with guy?” Tiger Stripes leaned back into the cushions spreading his arms out on the back rest and crossing his legs. I don’t think he noticed the remnants of white powdery courage left on his nostrils. Or the half empty bullet not quite shoved all the way into the front pocket of his leather jacket.

“Nobody special” I lied to get him to shut up and pretended to text someone very important on my cell phone. He rambled on seemingly not caring if I or anyone else was paying attention about metal bands from the 1980’s that he played with and something about a crazy tour of the Philippines that his band just got back from a few months ago. Fortunately the door opened and his name was called next.

While he whisked his ponytail back and went to set up his gear, I stepped outside for a smoke. I lit my Marlboro Light and squinted up into the sun allowing myself to relax. A man with blond spiked hair who was as tall as an NBA center came through the door shortly after me. He was a little out of breath and seemed a bit nonplussed that someone else was already outside before him. He glowered at me and I nodded in the universal guy sign language that apparently means “Hey.”

He took out a pack of unfiltered American Spirits and lit one up. As if he were breathing for the very first time, he took the longest drag of a cigarette I had ever seen, held it in for close to ten seconds and exhaled through the words, “You here for the auditions?”

“Yeah.” I said. “I am.”

“Drummer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shit. Here we go again.” Still lit and smoking, he threw his American Spirit towards the trash can as he spun toward the door and went back inside. I had no idea who he was, but needless to say it kinda got under my skin. As if the pressure of an audition for an international tour and the possibility of recording an album or two with a major label artist wasn’t enough.

I ground out my cigarette and now somewhat reluctantly, went back inside. The tall asshole wasn’t there and I could hear the muffled sounds of music coming through the door of the partially sound proofed rehearsal room. There were only two other guys left waiting to go before me, so I wouldn’t have to wait this uncomfortably for much longer. Soon I would be at home in the comfort of a drum throne letting my hands and feet soothe and relax my troubles away. At least that was the plan anyway.

Torn and Coffee Stained Iggy Pop T-Shirt Wearing guy with the jeans tucked into his faux alligator skin boots was called in next as Tiger Stripes cockily swayed out of the room and out of our lives. All that remained now were me and Mr. Wearing a Black Wife Beater Two Sizes Too Small to show off his three hour a day workout at Gold’s Gym physique.

A few minutes into Coffee Stain’s audition I went back out for another smoke and some quiet. About half way through my Marlboro the door opened and a short guy with blonde dreadlocks walked Coffee Stain to his car. On his way back in he came over to me a asked if he could bum a cigarette. I gave him one and lit it.

As it turns out he was Ms. M’s keyboard player. We got on pretty well talking about music and how much of a pain in the ass auditions were. I think he was even about to ask my name when they called him back for Wife Beater’s turn. He waved and headed back in to the fray. I almost felt as if I had an ally at that point. I may have found someone who was rooting for me to get the gig.

With my spirits higher and my confidence a little bit stronger, I grabbed my gear and went to get set up as soon as Wife Beater’s turn was through. I guess the band had decided it was time for lunch just then because other than the instruments, the room was barren of any live souls. It was so quiet that I felt rude and intrusive every time a screw squeaked when I was mounting my cymbals. I thought the ceiling was falling in on me, but it was only my stick bag leaning back against the floor tom.

One by one they all started to come back into the room. First dreadlocks took his spot behind the rack of keyboards talking on his cell phone. Then the guitarist slowly walked in the room, refusing to make any eye contact with me while he strapped on his Les Paul and tuned it up. The tour manager came in next. He was younger than I’d expected, but just as sweaty and nervous. I had to wipe my hands after shaking his moist palms so that my sticks wouldn’t go flying all over the place.

Everyone seemed to be in place and we were about to get ready to go when Mr. Shit. Here We Go Again ran into the room and grabbed up his bass. He didn’t even look my way or check to see if anyone else was ready. He didn’t even call out the name of the tune. “One… Two… Three… Four…”

Fortunately for me I was pretty familiar with all of the tunes already, so I caught on to what we were playing within a few bars. Dreadlocks looked over at me and smiled a little. Even the guitar player turned his torso in my direction and nodded.

We went through a few tunes like that without any major train wrecks and then they pulled out one of the hits. Keep in mind that we were playing all of these sans vocals. Ms. M was not there and none of the band members was singing either. While we were playing I was singing along in my head and I noticed that the keyboard player went to the bridge when we should have gone back to the verse. Not knowing if they changed the arrangement for the live show, or if he simply made a mistake, I followed him.

As soon as the song was finished Mr. Shit was shaking his head slowly while his eyes burned a hole to the back of my head. “You can go now.” He grumbled. “Shit.”

“Sorry?” I replied.

“You fucked it all up man.” He striped off his bass and all but threw it to the floor. “You went to the bridge instead of the fuckin’ second verse!”

“Yeah, I know.” I started to get a little defensive at this point. “I was just following the keyboard player.” I pointed towards Dreadlock who waved his hands in an innocent signal of protection as if to say, “Not Me!”

“Look dude, you fucked it up okay? Just get the fuck out of here and stop wasting our time!” With that Mr. Shit stormed out of the rehearsal room along with my hopes of getting the gig nestled comfortably inside of his unstable and misdirected temper.

Maybe I should have played the tune as I was singing it in my head instead of following the keyboards. Maybe I should have been a dick right back to Mr. Shit when I had the chance. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it bother me when I saw Ms. M performing on a late night national television show a few months later with Wife Beater playing drums and exchanging smiles with Mr. Shit.

Some people just don’t like you and there is nothing you can do about it. No matter how friendly you are, not matter how good you are at what you do they just don’t like you. It could be the way you look or the way you talk or even the way you smell. Something sets them dead against you and your future together is hopeless. I don’t remember doing anything to Mr. Shit to have him dislike me so much. Maybe it was the fact that I smoked Marlboro Lights. Or maybe I just plain screwed up the audition. I don’t know why it still bothers me, but it does.

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Ode to the Immortality Jellyfishes

“you say i have to believe in everything you say
and if i don't breathe just as you tell me to
then all of these pains that keep coming over me
are brought down my my ignorance and strengthened from my disbelief in you

so if i start to believe that what you say is true
then what does it mean? is all my searching through?
will all of your contradictions keep pounding me
or will i just forget about the reasons why i disbelieve in you?

well i don't believe in all the things you say
i guess that i can leave some things up as blank
and all of these small resentments i feel for you
are shadowed by hypocrisy which strengthens all my disbelief in you

don't tell me what to do"

-“a small resentment” - amk

Scientists at the Smithsonian Tropical Marine Institute found a jellyfish called the Turritopsis Nutricula that can replicate all of its own cells an infinite amount of times rendering it basically immortal. Yup, I said it. Freakin’ IMMORTAL!!! Now granted, spending eternity as a jellyfish may be a cruel joke played by Mother Nature, but DUDE! I would expect that the next twenty to thirty years will bring lots of research papers and dollars spent on figuring out how to translate this genetic oddity’s lucky stumble into the great eternal unknown and somehow jumble it up with human code so the rich and powerful can stay just as they are for centuries to come.

What exactly does this mean? It means that I for one do not want to live forever! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t look forward to dying. But I’m not afraid of it anymore either. I think most people are afraid of death because they are terrified of losing themselves into the unknown. And I can’t say that I blame them either. All I have ever known is being me, so I kinda like it.

Everyone has their own opinion about what happens after we die. Some say we go to Heaven and hang out partying in the clouds with all of our loved ones who came before us and other folks who believed in the same things. Did you know that you needed a belief ticket to get into the afterlife? I must have missed that meeting. Apparently if we don’t have that exact same belief ticket, death holds a completely different scenario for us. (Read up on your Dante if you need a more descriptive take on it.)

Some folks believe that we are reincarnated and keep coming back for another shot at life until we get it right. Of course we don’t come back as ourselves, we get shipped back as a Larry King or maybe even a jellyfish. Probably not a Turritopsis Nutricula though. Unless that’s the reward for getting it right!

What do I think happens to us after we die you ask? I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone who has ever died and come back to tell me what happened to them. For most scenarios to exist, you have to believe that they exist. You have to have faith. I think faith can be a beautiful thing sometimes. It can also be terrifying when manipulated by corrupt viewpoints in positions of power. That might be why I don’t personally subscribe to any organized version of it.

I would like to think that we as individuals go back into the collective unconsciousness. There, we share the experiences of our life and try to use that information to make the universe a better place. I could be wrong though. I have never thought that anyone’s beliefs on the subject of the afterlife were wrong. If it gets them up and adaming out of bed every day and it helps them to treat other people better as opposed to worse, why would I have a problem with them?

A lot of other people seem to have a problem with me though. I have never forced my beliefs (or lack thereof) on someone else. I remember riding on the bus in high school and this girl was reading her Bible. A bunch of kids started talking about it and I politely stayed out of the conversation. At least I tried to anyway. She eventually turned towards me, being the only senior year kid there, making me the oldest and asked “Are you right with the Lord?”

My answer, being a snarky young teenager was, “Probably not.”

Can of worms…OPEN!

She dove right in on that one. Apparently I was going to hell and there was nothing I could do about it. If I didn’t read her Bible and interpret it the exact same way that she did, I was a lost cause. I was done for.

“So even if I do good unto others in the same way you do, and I follow all of the same rules that you do, if I don’t read the same book and go to the same kind of church I am going to hell?” I asked when I was finally able to squeak a word in edgewise.

She slowed her breathing, I remember this very clearly, placed the Bible on her lap and leaned across the aisle toward me and answered, “Yes.”

I would love to say that this experience was the result of youthful exuberance and the adults I have encountered in my days have acted with more generosity and open mindedness. But alas, that way of thinking has popped up in front of me more often than not.

Now maybe it’s because my people have a strictly No Recruitment policy. You are either born one of us, or maybe you marry into the clan. I have never kept very close tabs on the subject. But I have never even considered telling another person that they were signed up for an eternity of pain and suffering because they don’t read the same books as me. By the way, I actually have read the same book as bus girl and I couldn’t find a statement in it anywhere that gives license to treat people that way.

Is it arrogance? Is it fear? Is it ignorance? I have had friends from many different backgrounds and we have had wonderful conversations about belief and faith. Never once was there any judgment. Maybe it’s because we were all still searching. Is that the key? To keep searching until the clock runs out and when we close our eyes the answers will finally be given? Or maybe they won’t be. That’s the scary part for a lot of people I guess. The not knowing drives them crazy.

Wow! Where did all this philosophical mumbo jumbo come from? Oh yeah, our new friend the immortal Turritopsis Nutricula. Maybe he’s got it right after all. He gets to go on year after year, decade after decade and not have to worry about arguing his way in and out of the loopholes of the unknown. He just bobs up and down swimming there looking for food. Forever. Or at least until us pesky humans figure out that he tastes good on a rainbow roll…

http://green.yahoo.com/blog/guest_bloggers/26/the-world-s-only-immortal-animal.html

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i found them in the smush

Howard Zinn

Alex Chilton

Mark Linkous

Ed Thigpen

J.D. Salinger

Some names you may be familiar with. Some you may not. All five of these people played a large part in aiding my development as an artist, a critical thinker and a person as a whole. Unfortunately they have all been taken from us in the last few months and the voids they have left behind will never completely be filled.

When people close to you die the world’s orbit seems to shift a little bit. Little things in life mean a lot more. Hugs, smiles, laughs, birthdays and even brushing your teeth can gain new meaning. In some inexplicable way it can gain a new importance. I may not have met any of the people above personally, but their passing has effected me deeply none the less.

All of them came from drastically different backgrounds and for the most part worked in different fields. They all however created works of art and educational treatises that were extremely influential to me and many others. Though they may not have been household names as some of their peers were, their impact can be felt and heard and learned around the world and will be for a long time to come.

Of course losing some of my “heroes” turned the spotlight back to focus on my own ego and what kind of impact I am going to leave on the world. Will I be just another guy who raises a family, cashes some checks and then fades into obscurity? Will I do something extraordinary that reverses the revolving of the world and explodes everything that has come before me into dust? If I had the answer to those questions I most likely would not be writing this right now. I would hire a ghost writer to do it and then claim all the credit for myself!

I have been very fortunate in that I have been able to meet a number of my “heroes” in person. And other than a small handful of them, they have all been very humble, kind and generous people. I think that has been more important to me over time than their various talents or reasons for their fame. Once the initial shock and Oh my GAWD!!! I cannot believe who I’m talking to! faded into background noise in my head, they were really interesting people to talk to. So when you get right down to it all these famous folks seem to be just like you and me.

I don’t plan on being famous anymore like I did when I was seventeen. I don’t dream at night of sharing the stage with U2 and Peter Gabriel like I used to. Even though those were some pretty cool dreams, and every time I hear “Solsbury Hill” or “Where The Streets Have No Name” I still picture myself up there playing drums in front of a crowd of thousands, my aspirations are somewhat more personal now. I want to be a good dad. I want to be a good husband. I want to be a good friend. I want to be a good man. In Yiddish, I want to be a “Mensch”.

That may not seem as sexy an aspiration as rock star. It might not even be as great of a conversation starter as being a culturally defining history professor. But it is my dream. It is the goal that I strive for each day. I may not always achieve it, and I don’t always expect to but I try.

For those of you who don’t have children, it is the hardest thing you could ever do if you try to do it well. It is also the most rewarding and inspiring endeavor as well. I am by no means the first person to realize this, nor will I be the last you hear it from.

People told me when we first got pregnant that I wouldn’t really understand until the kids were born. I of course thought they were crazy. Then my son showed up. They were right. I didn’t really understand until I cut the umbilical chord and said his name for the first time. At the sound of my voice, he stopped crying. His tiny arms reached up for me and he took my fingers in his hands. I understood it then.

My wife and I have been married for almost ten years now. It hasn’t been easy and on more than a few occasions we almost didn’t make it. I wasn’t always a good husband to her and I am incredibly fortunate that she stuck around anyway. We did not get handed the life we had always pictured that we would have. Circumstances rolled in like waves trying to wash us apart and break the frame around our dream of a perfect life. Lucky for me she loves the ocean and as we let the frame break we swam as hard as we could and found new pictures. This time we found them together.

It’s hard for both of us to let go of those old pictures sometimes. But there is no resisting and there is not much choice in the matter. So every day we watch the colors change, follow the brushstrokes and see what takes shape. I guess the trick isn’t to put life inside a picture frame at all. You can’t box it up like that and expect it to be real. Life needs to roll around and splash down on top of the water color you just finished painting. Somewhere in the smush that remains is what’s real.

Maybe that’s what Messrs Zinn, Chilton, Linkous, Thigpen and Salinger were getting at in their work. None of them seemed to care about the picture frame. They all painted outside of the lines. That might have been why they weren’t as famous or popular as other people. But it also may be why their work resonates so much with me. I found them in the smush.


Howard Zinn: www.howardzinn.org

Alex Chilton: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alex_Chilton

Mark Linkous: www.sparklehorse.com/

Ed Thigpen: www.myspace.com/edthigpen

J.D. Salinger www.salinger.org

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Infinity on It’s Side

I just tucked my seven year old in to bed for the last time. Tomorrow he will be eight. The BIG Eight. Infinity on it’s side. Earlier this evening we had all gone as a family to a fourteen year olds birthday party and it has never been more apparent to me how a few short years can make such a huge difference in my “coolness” factor.

Tonight I was definitely not cool. The adults gathered were all very nice people, and we had a really nice time. However, other than for securing their slice of cake, the teens could not have spent any less time inside the house with us.

It’s not that I blame them, because I don’t. When I was a teenager my folks were nothing short of embarrassing to me too. It’s a rite of passage I guess. It’s strange to me to look back though and realize they were close to the age I am now back then. That is most assuredly un-cool!

But tomorrow I get to be Dad to the Birthday Boy! I get to act stupid and tell fart jokes and make funny noises with my mouth. I get to act like the Pirate King and make sure all the kids eat their oranges so they don’t get scurvy. I get to grab my son and hug and kiss and tickle him and nobody will think I am strange. I get to be cool. Probably the coolest I will ever get to be in my whole life.

I want to bottle up the day before it even happens. I want to walk into the bedroom where my kids are asleep and press the giant pause button to keep them both this way for as long as possible. To turn infinity on its side and hold on to things the way they are. When I still know everything. When I am still funny. When I am still Cool.

A few weeks ago I went to lunch at school with my son. It was a “Bring Someone Special to Lunch Day” so I was honored that he asked me to go. We sat at the table with some of his classmates and their fathers or grandfathers eating cafeteria food and talking about their class. One of the dads and I even struck up a conversation as he asked me where I was from.

“Did you know my Dad is a Rock Star?” my son puffed up his chest and proudly exclaimed. “He used to play guitar and drums on records and stuff back home in L.A.” A few people glanced my way and I nodded red facedly in the affirmative. “Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

You could say with those four words he made my entire life.

And you would be correct in saying so.

I really don’t want to keep them kids forever. At least part of me doesn’t anyway. I know there will be amazing events and conversations and first loves and sports and vacations and so much more to come. I just selfishly want to stay this “cool”. They won’t always want to impress me or do what I tell them too just because I say so. They won’t always want to do fun stuff together. I won’t always be their “Someone Special” to bring to the cafeteria for hamburgers and apple slices.

My father always tells me that being a dad is eternally practicing the art of “letting go”. As he says this he folds his arms across his chest and slowly opens them as wide as they can go. And I believe he is correct. But letting go isn’t easy at all. I have yet to come close to perfecting it, and neither has he (sorry Dad!)

It’s a tight balancing act between teaching them to be the people they want to be and smothering the crap out of them! There really is only so much in the world we can protect them from until they shove us out of their way and take off on their own. I know I did when I was a kid. You probably did too. That’s why we call it “growing up” and not “growing down”. The former not only relates to physical size, but to gaining knowledge and hopefully some wisdom as well. The latter would shove the kid back into the embryo and keeping them hidden from the world forever. And we can’t do that no matter how hard we try.

I must say at this point that I had an extremely lucky childhood. I had two parents that stayed together because they actually loved each other, not just for the sake of their children. They didn’t split up like most of my friend’s families did. My older sister and I butted heads a lot, but we had a better relationship growing up than a lot of siblings I know. Yes, my folks were protective. They were involved with our schools. My Mom even became an assistant teacher at our elementary school because she was there so much. My Dad coached my first few soccer teams even though at the time he knew nothing about the game at all. He learned it as we did.

It saddens me today to know that most people who hear those things now might find them to have been over protective. I think they just loved us and wanted to be involved in our lives. Spend time with us. Now after we became teenagers we weren’t so pleased with their involvement of course, but by that point all the other kids in the neighborhood knew our folks. They even called them Mom and Dad! They would come over sometimes to ask my parent’s advice before talking to their own parents. Sometimes they even got dating advice or help with their homework.

I don’t know about you, but I think that’s pretty damn cool. I can see myself trying to be that cool. Maybe by practicing the art of letting go, we open ourselves up to letting other people in who need us. That way we don’t really lose our eight year olds and get stuck with fourteen year olds. We keep our own loved ones close by expanding our family to bring in those that our children have chosen to be their family. Their friends.

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Dude... you just won the genetic lottery!

My doctor told me a few years ago that I had an irregular heartbeat. It was caused by a thyroid problem that runs in my family (we’ll get to THAT one later). We thought it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, but because it had been there for several years he recommended I go see a Cardiologist to make sure it wasn’t something we needed to be worried about.

According to the cardiologist we should have been plenty worried.

As it turns out, what I had was called Dilated Cardiomyopathy. Because of the extended period of time spent in the irregular rhythm my heart muscle had swollen and was only pumping about 15% of the amount of blood I really needed. That's barely enough blood for an eighty year old. Did I mention that I was only thirty-seven? The doctors and nurses were all surprised that I was walking around upright let alone not tired and sleeping all the time. Guess I’m lucky drummers like syncopated rhythms!

The doctor told us that the disease was treatable with medications and minor surgery. So we were sort of relieved. Wait a minute… is there such a thing as “minor” heart surgery? Yeah right. Then he told us the bad news. Even if the treatments we were discussing worked, I would most likely need a heart transplant within a couple of years.

Mushroom clouds anyone?

A HEART TRANSPLANT? Me? Wasn’t that something that happened to someone’s grandfather? Or to some dying lover in sad sappy romance movies? Other than profanity and a tremendous amount of fear there wasn’t really room for much else in my head.

Was this all my fault? I mean, I had lived a pretty fun life. I ate junk food most of the time, for a few years back in the day I smoked cigarettes and of course I loved the bourbon. Admittedly I did my fair share of recreational pharmaceuticals, but I stayed away from the really hard scary stuff(…mostly anyway). I certainly wasn’t an addict or junkie or anything like that. I was overweight, but my heart should be pretty healthy right? There had to be people out there treating their bodies worse than me who would go first right? Isn't Keith Richards still walking around with his Telecaster?

All seemed to be valid arguments. But as one of my closest friends would tell me a few years and several diagnoses later, “Kids with autism, thyroid problem, M.S. and heart disease? Dude, I guess you just won the Genetic Lottery!”

I remember distinctly laying in bed that night next to my wife and all of a sudden my face felt damp. It was like an out of body experience. I didn’t feel like I was crying, but I was. I remember hearing a voice say, “I don’t want to die.” Of course that voice was mine, and my wife was there holding me and comforting me until I eventually fell asleep.


A few months and many arguments with my insurance company later, we headed to the hospital for the big day. I felt strangely calm. Probably because at this point it was completely out of my hands and there was nothing I could do except lay there. I trusted that my cardiologist knew what he was doing and he had put together a great team for the grand event. If you were to ask my wife, I guarantee that she was feeling a bit different that I was that day. I can only imagine that it was much harder for her than it was for me.

They wheeled me into the operating room and I shifted into position on to the table. My anesthesiologist was very funny although I don’t really remember what he said. I think we talked about music for a while until…

According to my wife I am apparently not the nicest person when waking up from anesthetics. I tore the entire recovery staff of the cardio thoracic surgery department at that hospital a collective new one! See I had to lie still for four hours after the surgery to make sure the sutures held. Apparently I wasn’t so pleased with that and the profanity stream now permanently etched into the walls of my room remain there forever as a testament to that fact.

Believe it or not, the worst part of the recovery was not my heart. Thankfully, that had gone surprisingly well in a fashion. When they perform an Electronic Ablation they cut small incisions into the groin area and send small cameras and tools attached to the ends of long cables up into the heart via the femoral arteries. In order to prevent any damage on the way up and to make sure the heart is protected during the procedure, they have to strap your body down to the table securely so you cannot move.

Apparently as I lay there at some point in the first or second hour, my arm supports gave way and fell backwards and just hung there beneath me. The doctors could not risk moving them back into place for fear of the damage that might be done to my heart by shifting and jarring my body around. If it had been just my arms alone I would have been sore, but I probably would have been okay. Unfortunately I was laid out in a cross-type pose strapped to segments of metal table. For close to nine or ten hours my arms were hanging behind my back, supporting their own weight in addition to that of the metal supports that were supposed to be holding them up.

While I should have been experiencing chest pains as my heart recovered, my arms hurt so bad from the tears in my muscle tissue I didn’t even notice my heart. For about six months after I went home, I could barely raise my hands up to my stomach. I will say that the pain medications they put me on were AWESOME! When we could actually get them that is.

My doctor prescribed me some heavy pharmaceuticals and he recommended I be very careful as to not become addicted. He also said, “Use as needed.” Um… Okay? I was in a lot of pain most of the time, and I took quite a few of the pills. Not beyond a reasonable dosage, but we ran out of them a little bit earlier than expected.

My wife called in to the pharmacy to re-up the prescription and of course they said it was too soon. She called the doctor and he wasn’t in so she left a message for him to call back as soon as possible. He didn’t get back to her until about 10:30 that night when the pharmacy was closed and she was in bed anyway, so there really was nothing we could do that night. I would just have to tough it out and try to sleep through it somehow. Not likely.

The next morning I had finally passed out from exhaustion so my wife let me sleep and went to work. Can I just say how much fun that day was? It was awesome. Sweat drenched and screaming, unable to move and yet unable to find a comfortable position. Did I mention the cable went out around lunch time too? I was not a happy guy by the time my wife called later that evening. It turns out she had been playing phone tag with the doctor all day and had yet to speak with him directly about what was going on.

On her way home she went to the pharmacy and told them our situation. They would love to help of course, but the medicines I was prescribed were narcotics and they could not by law give them out without direct approval by the doctor himself. She finally talked to him a little while after getting home and he agreed to call in the orders. Guess what? By then the pharmacy was closed again!

Say it with me now, “And there was much rejoicing!”

We knew of a twenty-four hour pharmacy near by and decided to have the doctor call it in there as well. So by then it was after midnight, she was exhausted by taking care of two young cranky kids who did not want to bathe or go to sleep, her husband who was a complete pool of screaming inconsolable gelatin on the couch, and she had worked a full nine hour day with lawyers who treated her like the lowest form of pond scum that had just splashed into their caramel macchiato. Even with all that going on, she was going to make sure I was taken care of. Somehow. She piled herself into the car and drove to the twenty four hour place. They got the call from the doctor but unfortunately did not have any of the medicines we needed in stock.

That was when I believe that she Lost IT!

Bloodshot eyes, hair flying everywhere, pajamas and slippers… the lady behind the counter told her they wouldn’t give the medicine to “drug seekers” anyway. Wrong thing to say and wrong time to say it. After a screaming match that would have sold more pay-per-view tickets than Mike Tyson vs. Muhammad Ali, she finally got the manager to come out and speak with her.

I don’t know how she did it, but she convinced the manager to call another twenty four hour location and have the orders transferred over to them. By then it was close to three a.m. and my wife could not have looked more like a junkie. So when she walked into what we have since lovingly dubbed the “Heroin Pharmacy”, I am sure the employees were more than just a little hesitant to perform their duties.

When she got home she threw the little white bag full of goodness on to my lap, kissed me on the forehead and the stomped up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. I don’t know if there had been a time when I ever loved that woman more.

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