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….