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…