Christmas Cards Away

The Weekly Journal



Did you get your cards out in time this year?


December 24, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rsw

Happy Hannukah

The Weekly Journal



I dug this out of the scrap book. They used to call me Bob in those days, but the guitar still came out of the case on occasion.


December 18, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday Surprise

The Weekly Journal



You'll have to take my word that this is Brent and I at the first Cherry Hill East Folk Festival back in 1976. I also produced the show. It became an annual tradition for over a decade.


December 11, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Holidays everyone.





Here's the guitar that arrived over the weekend -- she's a beauty and sounds great.

Eyes Down the Drain

Reading glasses are now stationed in essential areas of the house...


December 4, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm, I think.

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

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

He smirks.

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

No response.

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

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

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

“Minimal,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are you?

1975 - I was a senior in high school and waited in line a week for tickets.


November 27, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turkey Day

November 20, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, it's dusty in here…

Shays

Chris Shays is a good man, but this year he should have been voted out of office. It didn't happen. Because the democrats won big, no one is asking why...


November 13, 2006

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


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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

Kids still die in Iraq.

The Suit

This Armani suit cost over a thousand bucks twelve years ago -- at that price, the damn thing should never go out of date.


November 6, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old is that?" Mark asked.

It was over ten, but I said eight.

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

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

I asked it we could tailor my existing suits, update them. There were a few options, he said, but nothing could be done with the buttons.

Mark asked what the suits were for. I need at least one for interviews, but the clothing depends on the job I seek. Problem is, I haven't figured that out. I’m still hoping that someone will pick-up my novel. There are more freelance writing opportunities to explore. If I can hold off formal interviewing until the post-Christmas sales, I could save a bundle.

We decided I should try on that old Armani to see if there was anything the tailor could do. I was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and casual shoes. Mark gave me a white oxford shirt and a pair of dress shoes, to make sure I had a good fit. I came out of the dressing room with that shirt draped over the trousers.

"Tuck in the shirt," he said.

I laughed. "I haven't tucked a shirt in for almost eight years."

"You're like the college grads that come in here. I've got to tell them what to do."

And there you have it: at forty-eight and still mistaken for an irresponsible college kid.

I could get depressed over this, but maybe it indicates there's still hope for me as a writer….

Happy Birthday Nana

My Nana turns 96 on Halloween. This photo with my grandfather and mom was taken in 1949.


October 30, 2006

The leaves are falling, daylight savings is over, there's an early morning frost on the dormant grass. Soon puddles will ice over and I'll be wearing gloves. Earlier this week I was actually sitting at the computer with a jacket and scarf. For three days I froze, it felt like an ice box in my house.

I grew depressed not understanding how it had turned so quickly. Then I realized my heater was broken. I was just so busy, working on that Poets & Writers article, the studio was booked almost every day too. I knew something was odd, me and the cats huddled up at night, our teeth chattering.

The boiler conked out when I got a delivery on Monday. Here in the northeast it's oil heat. I've got a five-hundred gallon tank. The fresh oil stirs up the sediment in the tank and on occasion that clogs the system and it shuts down. I didn't realize until Thursday.

To top it off, I got the season's first heating bill -- over five hundred and sixty-three bucks. I'm fixed at $2.66 a gallon. Last year it was $2.16, the year before that: $1.69; it was 85 cents back in 1995. It's enough to make me sick, or at least wear two sweaters and throw an extra blanket on the bed.

I just bought a glass door for my fireplace. Once the fire goes out, the flue sucks out the warm air, and in the morning I come downstairs to a freezing living room and kitchen. This year I'll be able to close it off when I go to bed and keep the heat in.

I thought about getting a pellet stove, but it uses over five-hundred dollars in pellets a season, the stove costs two grand. I'd hate to give up my fireplace. There's nothing like the crackle of oak, the smell of mesquite wafting up through the house on a cold winter day. A half-a-cord of wood only runs a hundred-and-ten bucks.



My Nana, over in England, turns 96 on Halloween. She was born in 1910, the year of Halley's Comet. She's lived through two world wars, the invention of radio, TV, the Internet too. When she was a kid the only food in existence was organic food. Nobody paid a premium for free range chickens or eggs, that's just the way it was. It's hard for me to imagine what she feels like, given what she's seen. Happy Birthday Nana!



Thankfully, the election is coming to an end. Here in Connecticut the republicans ran an ad saying that Diane Farrell had befriended the Taliban. I mean really, Diane Farrell is no saint, but a friend of the Taliban, please, I doubt she could pick out Afghanistan on a map, let alone be in cahoots with terrorists. It made Shays look like an idiot, which to his credit, he admitted.

Catch any political ad nowadays and one can only conclude that all politicians must think that we the electorate are schmucks. Mudslinging has become a high art form. But since 9/11 there's an even more diabolical strategy: keep an eye on the terror alert color scheme this week. Also, look for gas prices to rise post election.

Mississippi Bound?

Barry Hannah in his library, Oxford, Mississippi.


October 23, 2006

You can’t imagine the looks I get from friends when I tell them I’m thinking about moving to Mississippi. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. A lot has to happen before this becomes a reality; my three-day trip to Oxford was a first step. Before applying to the Ole Miss MFA program, I needed to see what the place was like, to make sure I could live there.

Oxford is a small university town. Courthouse Square is the hub with stately southern, well preserved buildings. Two-story wood structures with clapboard porches, house independent bookstores, quality restaurants, student haunts, antique shops, and a handful of bars featuring live music.

The University has excellent facilities, the campus looks great, there are modern buildings and well-maintained old ones too. Its spread out across a wooded campus and rolling hills. Football is king, but literature is a close second.

Mississippi is the poorest state in the union, but it’s steeped in a deep, rich literary tradition. Some say the country’s greatest writers were born here. The list is impressive: Faulkner, Welty, Williams, Brown, Ford, Spencer, Bass, and of course Barry Hannah, one of America’s great living writers.

The opportunity to apprentice with Barry is unique. We met this summer at Sewanee. Until I’d met Barry, it had never crossed my mind to get an MFA. I was unaware that some places offer full scholarships as well as living expenses. John Grisham sponsors several fellowships at Ole Miss.

Naturally, it’s competitive. Barry can’t guarantee a slot, there’s a committee, an application process, I'd have to take the GRE. That might kill it right there, I can't add or subtract without a calculator. I don't remember algebra or geometry. It cost $130 to take the test nowadays. But it’s quite an honor to have someone like Barry encouraging me to apply.

Some highlights of the trip -- visiting Faulkner's house. Having lunch with Barry and his wife. Sitting in on a class. Seeing Barry's home, his library, the place where he writes. I also visited Memphis, an hour to the north. I made a pilgrimage to Graceland and Sun Records, the birthplace of rock and roll.

Oxford, Mississippi, it's a great place to visit, it might also be a wonderful place to hang my hat and pen. Last night I went on-line and ordered an application...

Politics, books and Mississippi

October 16, 2006

Amazon has created a way to present my favorite books and CDs to visitors on my site. From time to time I'll feature friends and teachers, or something that has taken my breath away. If you want to buy something, Amazon will sell it to you. I'm the filter. It's a cool way to introduce you to the artists that have most influenced my work.

Speaking of which, this week I'm off to Oxford, Mississippi to spend a few days with Barry Hannah. I met Barry this summer at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. One day I took a ride off the mountain with him and his dog, Nell, to a nearby Wal Mart. I wrote about that a few months back. Barry and I have stayed in contact. I'm going to Ole Miss to check out the literary scene and talk about my writing.

While I'm there, I'll be meeting another esteemed writer, Tom Franklin. He wrote a critically acclaimed short story collection called Poachers. His most recent novel, Hell at the Breech, is about an Alabama gang of vigilante/criminals in the late 1800's. The book has received rave reviews. I was hooked from the opening page. I'm a big Larry McMurtry fan, this is in that tradition.

On the Connecticut political front, Shays and Farrell duked it out in their first of eleven debates for US Congress. Shays said in one interaction that this isn't a national election, it's about what we can do for the district. In a different time, I would have agreed, but not this year. Farrell retorted: everyone knows that this is a national election. She's right.

The Nobel Peace prize was awarded to one of the founders of third-world micro-finance. The concept is simple enough. Lend poor people fifty bucks, give them training, hold them accountable for the loan. I've seen this in Haiti -- women given cash to buy a few chickens, seed, or flour. They sell products at markets, they earn profit, they payback the loan; sometimes they borrow more to expand. In the process they develop self-sufficiency, they learn marketable skills, they gain self-esteem.

I'm working on a piece about a Haitian woman that was lent fifty dollars. I will detail what she bought, sold, and how it changed her life. When its done, I'll post it here.

Time to pack, I'm heading south...

rsw

Song and Love

October 9, 2006

Since the dawn of rock and roll teenagers have learned to play guitar to attract the opposite sex. In eighth grade I went out with a ninth-grade girl. No way a boy does that without a cherry-red Harmony electric. A guitar overcomes a lot of personality quirks, but it doesn’t trump a senior with a car. I was devastated when Christine broke up with me, but my first song came out of that heartbreak and it helped with the healing. Although my newly found status as a songwriter was no threat to a guy with a driver's license, it did put me ahead of mere guitar players.

Performing in coffee houses kept the social life active through college, but writing also allowed me to explore feelings, I got to know myself better. Soon after graduation I was married. Tragically, it was time to grow up, get a job, put my guitar in the closet.

Twenty years later I was a vice president for a division of a major record company, wishing I'd never stopped playing. I bought a couple of classic, vintage guitars, dusted off my old Martin too. I rediscovered songwriting. I took guitar lessons, attended workshops, I wrote my wife a couple of sappy love songs. She said that’s nice, then bought me a pair of headphones. We’re divorced now, but the issue was much larger than me and those guitars.

Now that I’m single again, writing songs takes on a new dimension. It’s not the means to score women it was in my misspent youth, rather an additional way to express myself. Recently I studied with Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. They taught me how to dig deep for inspiration, find serendipity. I learned the nuts and bolts too.

Marshall McLuhan said the medium is the message. Songs are potent vehicles, but they are subject to misinterpretation. Sometimes when you write a song for someone, the result isn’t as you expect. I learned this lesson the hard way back in high school.

In tenth grade I had the hots for Donna Duclose, but she was going out with Alex Savage, an eleventh grader with a Camaro. One night Donna and I hung out behind the gym and started kissing. I wrote What Do You Do?. I made her a cassette copy:

What do you do
When your mind is confused
You don’t know what’s going on
But you know you’re the fuse

Savage got a hold of the tape. He drove over in that fast car with a buddy. They burned a couple of wheelies in front of my parent’s house. They jumped out of the Camaro and beat me up. That was the end of me and Donna.

Almost thirty years later, with several years of so-called serious songwriting under my belt, I put my new found craft to work. My marriage was on the rocks and I wrote Going for a Ride: in an attempt to get things back on track:

I want to feel like I did that time we met
When the wind blew through our hair
We drove all day with the top rolled down
Like new found millionaires

My wife never heard it because she left me for another guy before I could play it for her. No song was going to get us back from that.

The divorce wasn’t pretty, but it provided a great source of material for writing. My first few dates after two decades worth of marriage were a disaster, but eventually I met someone that was worthy of a song. Gail and I had similar tastes in music and during the holidays I gave her a recording of a tune she inspired. The song wasn’t for her, but that was a subtle distinction she failed to grasp despite my awkward explanation. She heard it once and fell in love. I blame that damn song for ruining what was a good situation. We both knew it was too soon for me to get into something deep, but I should’ve known better than to write that song.

I’ve written several others for women since, but I’m more cautious about sharing. Maybe She Loves Me was about Nadine, my yoga instructor. I really liked her and I thought she dug me too, but she refused to go out, saying she didn't date students. We had great chemistry, a real connection, so I wrote this:

Maybe she loves me
But she don't know it
Maybe she loves me
Just can't show it -- maybe that's it
Maybe she loves me
But she can't risk a lot
Maybe she loves me
Maybe not

I never played it for Nadine because I valued our friendship, I loved her class. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that. Today we're still good friends. Looking back on how things were, it’s clear that if she'd heard that song, the answer would've been: Not.

Cool Things Down was about a fiery relationship last year. Jules and I burned like a fourth of July sparkler, it was hot, passionate, short-lived. This was inspired by our first fight:

And when you hear the sound of thunder
Don’t run away
Baby, give it one more day
Cause when it rains
It will cool things down

Nothing could have cooled down that affair, Jules ran at the first crack of thunder.

Last week I wrote I Can’t Fall. It was inspired by Sara, a beautiful songwriter I met this summer at a workshop. She's smart, funny, warm, she has an angelic voice and plays a great honky-tonk guitar. We have so much in common that it scared me, but it also gave me an idea for a song. I took a gamble and sent an mp3 to her via email (she doesn’t live locally).

I Can't Fall is about the fear of exposing the heart, that feeling of vulnerability when you’re unsure if the other person is feeling the same. I probably shouldn’t have sent this, the love pundits would say it’s too soon. And yet I know Sara likes me, but this could cause her to put on the breaks. Oh well, it’s too late now:



I Can’t Fall

She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
She’s a sports car with a rag top
She’s the sound of a mountain stream
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…

I’m a forest after the fire
I’m the eye of a hurricane
And I have walked a thousand miles
To avoid love’s pain
Cause I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…

There’s a second chance
For broken hearts that still believe
It’s a simple dance
Anyone can learn this dance of love

She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
And she’d be worth it, of that I’m certain
She’d be a star on any team
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
If I let her in
I’ll fall in love


The song was supposed to let Sara know I thought she was terrific, that despite my baggage, I still believed 'Love' was possible. She liked it, but had a few melodic suggestions (that’s the dynamic of going out with a fellow songwriter). They were good ideas and I took them on board. But things felt different between us. She called less frequently, and when we did talk, she seemed preoccupied. Long distance relationships are never easy. I thought the song would boost her confidence to take a chance, but she pulled back. Did the song accelerate the inevitable? Maybe.


Some people believe getting a girl is a lot like fishing -- you’ve got to know how to handle that reel: bring ‘em in too fast or too slow and you’ll lose the catch. When I was a kid, love songs were an essential tool in my bait-and-tackle box. We talked of catching women the way Hemingway would write about the chase for marlin off the coast of Cuba.

There’s no doubt that writing love songs requires that same deft hand of a fisherman, but nowadays for me, getting a girl isn’t sport, it's certainly no game. And yet all too often it feels as if it is. I get sucked into playing with no idea what the rules are. But I’m not alone, I don’t think anyone knows. This engagement between two people is haphazard, with undetermined boundaries, the playing field is littered with causalities, and both sides all too often walk away losers.

I might not have a clue on how to catch fish, or play this game of love, but at least the songwriting provides an outlet, a means to cope with the joy and heartache of relationships.

Home - finally

October 2, 2006

This is the first time since mid-July that I’m home for more than five days in a row. It takes about a week to find my feet, to get back into a routine. When I worked full-time, I was on the road a lot – Tokyo, London, Sydney. I once commuted to Toronto every week from Westport, leaving the house on a Monday at 5 AM, returning Friday around 9 PM. I don’t miss that.

I took a yoga class each day this week, sometimes two. Although my ability to hold postures was far short of where I was prior to this travel, I’m far enough along in my practice to know that’s okay. I now have the strength to retreat into child’s pose when necessary. Last year I hurt my back pushing instead of listening to my body.

I didn’t get a lot of writing done this week. A few years ago that would have caused panic, but I went with it. I did a lot of cleaning instead. Buried in file cabinets were pages of early drafts and notes on songs, short stories and novels. I saved eight years worth of work, even illegible scribble. None saw the light of day since it was filed, so I tossed it all, over five-thousand pages.

I also found articles on writing, notes from conferences, snippets from song classes, things that I’m sure are very useful, but I’ve never looked at a single page, so out they went. Six large garbage bags were delivered to the Westport dump on Friday.

This week my songs were posted on the 615 Music site down in Nashville. They are part of a song catalog aimed at the film/tv market. 615 has been in that business for over twenty years. They wrote a theme song for NBC’s Today Show.

I’ve spent my whole life hanging out with great musicians so I’ve hooked up lots of my friends and acquaintances. It’s unlikely that we’ll get rich on this deal, but a little cash, a little exposure, it never hurts. It’s one of many things an artist can do to get ahead. If you, or anyone you know, has great original music with vocals, shoot me an email, I’m in need of all types of music.

Also this week:

Poets and Writers Magazine hired me to write an article about the three most important writers conferences – Squaw Valley, Sewanee, and Bread Loaf.

I’d pitched them on a handful of ideas over the years, all were politely rejected, but last month they did print a letter I wrote about an article they’d run on web sites. On Friday they contacted me about writing this piece on the big three writers’ conferences. It just goes to show that persistence does pay off.

Haiti Part II

The village road committee takes a breather under an acacia tree. I'm on the right in the safari gear.


September 25, 2005

I worked on my Haiti story while in Nashville and Chapel Hill, North Carolina this week.

Drove through the smoky mountains and had lunch in the funky arts town of Ashville. David Wilcox, one of my favorite songwriters hails from this part of the world –Asheville Hardware is a great CD, the titled track is about super-sized corporate retailers like Lowes, putting the local guy out of business. I didn’t find the hardware store, probably not enough people heeded David’s advice to shop local. Ashville had gentrified.

I was mostly writing this week, hanging out in Chapel Hill. I did catch up with friends who teach at UNC: Randall Kenan, an amazing fiction writer, and Alan Shapiro, an incredibly talented poet. Randall and Alan also teach at Bread Loaf and Sewanee. That’s where we met. Check out their work – its thought provoking and entertaining.

I also hooked up with Steve Gilbert, a buddy who I’d met at Sewanee. He's a Desert Storm vet and lots of folks were seeking his view on this war at the conference. Steve is about to quit his job to write full-time. It takes courage to make such a leap and I applaud his commitment. Unless you’re independently wealthy, no sane person would quit their job to do this. It’s nearly impossible to make a living. Most writers are attached to a university to provide a base salary and benefits. But Steve’s wife supports the move, he’s got some savings. I’m rooting for him. He’s talented, focused, and a hard worker.

On a political note:

This Sunday a report came out stating that the Iraq war had created a new generation of terrorists. Contrary to what the administration claims, this conflict hasn’t made us safer. I don’t know how anyone could have thought otherwise. The republican response was clever: if it wasn’t the Iraq war, it would be something else that would generate more terrorists (John McCain said it). He’s right -- you can never totally eliminate terror. However, this war has increased the breadth and speed of the breeding ground by a margin too large to calculate. That’s something McCain failed to say.

How about Bill Clinton on Fox News Sunday morning?