Train Writer

Why The Clash were the best fucking band in the world

2012-01-16T19:27:00.001-08:00

I wrote a few blogs on REM. Little is mentioned on this blog regarding perhaps my all time favorite band, The Clash. Back in 1978 Tom Snyder had them on, they played sold out shows at Bonds, and the NYFD shut down some of their concerts due to overcrowding. I remember wondering who was this band who made the news in NY, the fans seems like outcasts and radicals. It was as if a riot was erupting since they could not get into the show. On Snyder’s stage were temporarily fiberglass walls. A graffiti artist used them for his work and I remember feeling this is my favorite band. They played Radio Clash. Paul Simenon on bass was a bad ass as he slapped his low strung beast. A family friend went to Asbury Park to see them and said he met Joe on the boardwalk. My walls were plastered with their pictures. I bought everything I could and they made their record cheap for the kids to afford their music. Who does this anymore? The first and only time I saw The Clash live was back in 1982 when they opened up for The Who at Shea Stadium. The weekend before they were on Saturday Night Live, and played Straight to Hell and I recall Should I Stay or Should I Go. The Who concerts were supposed the signify the passing of the baton from The Who, veterans of arena rock to The Clash, the radical punks who were making a commercialized name for themselves on the AM radio with Rock the Kasbah. I came back home from a Boy Scout trip from the Delaware River and told the truck full of good God fearing lads who they were. At Shea heard they played Train in Vain, London Calling and more. I was packed with others in the outfield. Strummer wore glasses and the band sounded loose, not really what I expected. MTV later played a live version of Should I Stay or Should I go, but that was recorded from the previous night. Someone corrected me at school when I went around declaring I was in the audience. Being a Clash fan was a radical declaration that I was a punk. I was a rebel with a fuck you attitude. I did not want to conform. The only option to Regannomics was anarchy. John Wayne was dead and so is America was a statement I would write in my social studies class. Anger can be power don’t you know that you can use it. Was a line from their song Clampdown off London Calling, my English teacher read the back of my test where I wrote the line and read it out loud to the class; I was not sure if I was in trouble or he appreciated the blunt statement. If I recall he was going through a divorce at the time, and maybe the sentiment triggered a deeper hatred. I spray painted buildings in the VA in Northport with The Clash sign, the same large font which was used off their first album. There were different versions of their record, the import with a black background and the domestic olive green. Mick and Joe and Paul stood in a stairwell and looked blankly into the future. I was given London Calling for my 16th birthday a couple of years after it came out. Uncle Bob Runyan my 11th grade social studies teacher brought an article he found in Mother Jones’s on them and was impressed with their support of the Sandinista movement. In fact we worked on having a spokesman from the movement come to our school. Soon I became consumed with every Clash record. The band ended with a fizzle. It’s a shame Joe kicked out Mick Jones and they released, This is London which I am sure I have still in the wrapper. They toured the US but the life was sucked out of them. This is London is a shitty song and when they played a local venue Hofstra University, I refused to see them since this was not the band. I still go back to the songs from time to time. Meeting Joe Strummer was lifelong dreams come true. In fact I met him twice. Years after I saw The Clash and saw him perform at The Palladium for his – I will give it three stars - Earthquake Weather album. He only played a few shows in the US and for years went sort of underground. When I learned he was playing in town I was invited to a pre-show event. Strummer was playing Irving Plaza. My sister’s boyfriend Dennis worked at KRock and he was known in town as being Joey Ramone’s favorite DJ on the radio. Dennis said he had passes for the VIP and invited me to have dinner with Joey and Tim from Rancid and some other friends. I think Jesse Malin was there. I sat next to Joey and didn’t have a dime to get anything to eat nor did I add my input to the conversations. There was little I could say except when it became obvious this outsider was sitting at their table, he looked at me, asked casually, “And who are you?” I explained who I was and who brought me; he nodded and shook his head. He was a gentleman. Tim was quiet, sitting across from us, barely audible above the clamor in the place. From what Dennis explained Strummer was on his label, Black Cat records, Tim was a millionaire. Not bad for a tattooed punk from California, I think they were from California, I remember one of their songs I saw on MTV. One of them spat into the camera, but they appeared too professional. California has a way to make sweat appear glossy. I’m getting away from the first time I met Strummer. Up in the VIP section at Irving Plaza, Matt Dillon was there, Jim Jarmuch the director, Joe was in some of his movies. There were other artists and actors. Strummer did a shout out to Joey Ramone, and he also yelled out to the house manager shut off the air conditioning. Soon the place was sweltering. “I got something for you,” he said dripping in sweat and belted out the open power chords to London Calling and the place flew into a riot. Heads rose up and rejoiced, falling back into the crowd, their arms flung and twisted, hundreds of bodies were sporadically lurching to get closer to the man. He also played something he rarely played Rock the Kasbah as a shout out to Topper Headon. After the show we walked through the village with Matt Dillon who had three girls on him over to Jesse’s bar. We had the downstairs VIP to ourselves. Matt was standoffish, a dick for the most part, had a stuck up Hollywood attitude. Maybe it was my drunken state? Then Strummer came down and Dennis came over to me and said, “I got’s someone who wants to meet you.” He brought me over to Strummer and we shook hands and another DJ took our picture together, Joe leaned his sweaty head into mine and I wish I had that picture. Joe signed my concert ticket and we were off to cause drunken destruction in Queens. The second time I met Strummer, his last release received critical acclaim and he seemed to back in the game. The show was at the St. Anne’s Warehouse in Brooklyn. He played six shows and was his last in New York. Rudy Can’t Fail was sung and the crowd sang along with him. He looked somewhat overweight, his black shirt stuck to his sweaty skin. The concert was incredible and he played a good chunk of his new material. I thought the night was over, but we walked down to a bar from the club to have a nightcap. Strummer walked in with a cheer. He wore a light blue jacket and I approached him asking if he would sign my poster. He was a nut job for the most part, pretended to speak to someone who had their back turned to him, just to throw me off. It didn’t stop me. “Can you please sign my poster?” He did and we shook hands. As always I have a question, “What was it like playing with The Pogues?” “They’re all a bunch of drunks.” Later I cornered him in the basement of the bar, a drunken Asian woman begged him to sign her breasts but he wouldn’t. I nudged her off and had one more request, this was the one song I never heard and wanted to hear, even just a few lines. My sister was with me and I leaned in. “Joe can you sing me a couple of lines from Broadway?” He said, “No Michael….Nope…No…” I thought I lost. Then he leaned over and sung into my ear. “It ain’t my fault it’s six o’clock in the morning.” We drove home (Green Lights…drive) I had a fixed smile and one of those memories that never fade away…

Get In The Van by Henry Rollins

2011-12-31T18:50:00.000-08:00

This year my goal was to read as many books by Henry Rollins as possible. I couldn’t finish them all. There are some reviews in previous postings. His books are mainly his journals depicting his global travels and the assorted characters he meets. There is some heart wrenching moments when he meets a young - terminal cancer patient. I read this before my wife was diagnosed with cancer and to this day - the images of the boy in the sterile hospital room in Australia haunts me. I respect Rollins as being blunt and true to his convictions. He is sober and a workaholic who has little regard for the drunks he encounters while touring with the band or on one of his sojourns. For the record, after finishing some of his books,” The Black Coffee Blues” series which are interviews as well as journals was more bang for the buck. You get the real deal when he writes. But there are minimal physical details of his surroundings since his interest is more in what internal battles are waged in his mind. He suffers from depression but battles the illness with an insatiable appetite for travel and work. After reading as many books of his that I could, I’m ending the year by finishing his most popular Get in the Van which depicted his years with Black Flag, actually the last years of the band’s existence. Rollins was their third singer and Greg Ginn was the last original member of the band. Like Spinal Tap with their series of drummers, no one was safe in Black Flag except for Ginn. This book, published in 1994 put Rollins on the map since he won a Grammy for the spoken word version of the book. What is interesting is how he developed as a performer, not just a singer in a band but also a spoken word performer and with reluctance he becomes a celebrity. The band asked him to audition, he left his job as a manager at a Hagen Daaz store, sleeping in his VW Beetle and cleaning up in the store’s sink, but working and gaining a reputation as a singer with the DC punk bands. While he toured with Flag he was abused by his fans to such a degree that most would quit than deal with the ordeal of the hardships of travel. Cups of urine, beer are splashed on him. People spat on his and called him a faggot or a pussy. The appeal for Rollins was the road was the escape to his depression and self inflicted isolation which he writes about, he lives in a shed in the back yard of Greg Ginn’s mother’s house in LA. His insight into the band and their diverse personalities is worth the time to read and trudge through the constant themes such as lack of sleep, pain from either self inflicted wounds, body aches like his right knee or the pain from getting smacked in the face by a guitar or a fist into his face. The other common theme is the skin heads who are the enemy to the punk movement since they inflicted violence on those who were weaker and always travelled in a pack. The book is filled with pictures of the band and their live shows as well as behind the stage. I have to say with some reluctance I will ask Rollins to sign my copy of this book as well as the others I read. I will be one of those people who get his autograph and say something inconsequential like, Henry Miller is the shit man, don’t you think?

Fire Destroys a house in Port Jefferson Station

2011-12-29T06:50:00.000-08:00

The red lights swirling in the room woke me up in a panic. Smoke hung in the air. Our house was on fire, where did it start? I got up and looked outside, ready to see firemen running around our house. A truck with its lights on was stationed in front of my neighbors to my left. Was the fire at that house? Across the street, flames crept up from the back of the large house where college students live. A thick spray of water drifted to our house, hoses showered the house in waves of water. Did they make it out alive? I stepped outside and asked if everyone got out. I was told they escaped. Wind ripped the icy air; I shivered as I watched the volunteers, heavy with rain coats and equipment extinguishing the fire. There were a few on the lower roof. Flames flared up where they were. Another team climbed inside, breaking up the wall to see if the fire was contained inside the walls. There were fire departments from Terryville, Setauket, Port Jefferson and Selden. This morning I spoke to an arson inspector and asked if he knew where it started, he said they were still trying to determine that. My neighbor had one of the tenants from the burned house inside his home. From what Vito said, one of the kids who lived on the second floor saw a small flame on the carpet that spread quickly. They called 911 from Vito’s house. It took some time for the first responders to arrive, and by the time they did, the back of the house, where the fire started was engulfed in flames.

Cheap Trick at The Paramount Huntington, NY 12 8 11

2011-12-11T18:39:00.000-08:00

12/9/11 sometime in the morning on the rush hour train out of Port Jefferson.

It’s Friday morning and I’m on the train. We’re pulling into St. James. There are the usual commuters mingling about, slowly moving into the train. So last night was the last event for the week. Cheap Trick played at the Paramount in Huntington. It’s a new venue for Long Island which has brought some headliners. The building used to house the IMAC theatre, which had some concerts, like some new age artist you’d hear on NPR’s Echoes on Sunday nights. I saw Stanley Jordan the jazz guitarist at IMAC and a few friends and I saw Tragically Hip what ten years ago. The theatre was cool, since there were old seats and ornate moldings on the ceiling. At one time it was a vaudeville theatre. When I lived in Huntington about 20 years ago, I worked in the theatre, fixing some of the molding as best I could which later needed a professional. So, I was curious to see the changes since I heard it’s as if Long Island now has its own city club. The lobby was more open and on either side was steps that led to a bad, a large window in the back looked over New York Avenue. MTS and I walked up a slight slope which led out to the floor. One either side a large bar was set against the wall. The beers were expensive for the small plastic cup they served it in, but the bartenders as well as the folks working at the venue were friendly. The ceiling had a rustic appearance, stripped bare, the concrete roof with ceiled cracks and steel support beams appeared in tact and sound. There was a balcony on both sides which had seats and in the back were more rows of seats. From the way the place was decorated the designers were creeping close to Hard Rock Café or a House of Blues theme with flames and sheet metal, scripted flare. Inside the bathroom appeared original graffiti which the artist actually signed his name to in the corner I was too busy to notice what the painting was. If you had seats, the tickets were more money than the GA we paid, but both Mike and I prefer the floor, getting closer to band. Elvis Costello played the first event at The Paramount, BB King and I’m trying to remember who else. Willie Nelson…how can I forget? Can’t really think of any more at this time, I’m exhausted. I got to bed at 12:30ish and woke up five hours later, but really who gives a shit about my lack of sleep. Cheap Trick was amazing, I was a little reluctant to shell out that much for a band that I liked but was never a huge fan. Not to say I didn’t like them. Since I bought the tickets I took out some CD’s of the from the library, they released a live album that I think was recorded somewhere in Illinois, I will get the title, but the recording was tight, they had some appearances from the likes of Billy Cochran from The Smashing Pumpkins. Like last night, the band barley let up; if there was a second or a pause they ripped into another song, played The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour as if they owned it. She’s Tight which brought back images of the video from thirty years ago. The Dream Police which I would say in my favorite, and I Want You to Want Me. Rickie Nilsson kept flipping guitar picks out into the audience and like a kid I wanted to get one. I have one of his from when I saw them perform at LeMore Brooklyn. I have a metal First Aid box that looks like it came from the Korean War which contains my childhood mementos, and inside with some baseball cards and a Suzanne B Anthony Dollar is that white guitar pick. Rickie tossed a handful out at the end of the show and both Mike and I grabbed one. I have to write about the opening band, Mike Leigh or Matt Lee or whoever they were - sucked the fuck- out- of- Lee. The lead singer/guitarist rock star posing drunk played like shit. They played some copies like Jimi Hendrix Manic Depression which was barely recognizable, drunk fuck rubbed his guitar against the stand, the mic fell and he looked like an idiot. There was the rock star salute he sung about living in New York and wanted the crowd to sing a long, he took his mic and shoved it into some faces that yelled or hummed. If he shoved it in my face, I would have told him to hang it up shit head and get off the stage. Odd how Cheap Trick didn’t mention them when they came on the stage or at their encore.

Turns out it was Joey Ramone’s younger brother Mickey Leigh. If Joey was in the audience he would have kicked the shit out of this little brother. I wrote this review of the performance for his web site, but I can guarantee it will never see the light of day:

I was at last night’s show. Didn’t know who I was watching since there was nothing on the drum kit. or on the keyboard, or even the back drop to tell us who was on the stage. I called The Paramount, who was that? They sucked!
It’s a shame, since it’s the first time I saw Mickey perform – he appeared drunk. Their rendition of Hendrix’ Manic Depression was horrible. The band was lame. He posed like a rock star, rubbing his guitar on the mic stand. Are you serious? I haven’t that shit since 1979. The theatrics were an obvious replacement for the “musician.” Mickey mentioned wearing out his welcome last night before he tripped off the stage. Please note, if you come on stage and act like an idiot there will be little appreciation from any crowd. Cheap Trick kicked ass and schooled you, besides they didn’t mention the shit show Yorkesta once while they were on the stage.

A Prairie Home Companion show at Town Hall 12/3/11

2011-12-05T18:06:00.000-08:00

A Prairie Home Companion show at Town Hall has been a live production I’ve wanted to see for years. In the past, the shows have sold out quickly, so I was excited when I bought a ticket. For myself. For Christmas. It was a present I gave myself. Going to a show by oneself is odd. Some would say it’s pathetic. So is masturbating. I know these things, but I still had to go…and do. I came into the city by myself. I am writing this on the train on the way home. I am alone. But I will write more details about the train in a little while. There are not a lot of fans of the show that I know of. Listening to the show has been a secret over the years. I am divulging this fact only to you. I can hear the shit from my brother and sisters, you listen to what? When? OK, on some Saturday nights I Iisten to the radio. Garrison Keillor appears to be a tortured artist, there are no two ways about it and I’m intrigued to learn more about him. He came on the stage wearing a long red tie, red sneakers, tight red socks and a black baggy suit. His thin hair was messy at times, strands flew in the air in different directions. Small thick glasses dangled on the bridge of his small nose. I brought one of his books hoping for the chance to get it signed. It didn’t happen. I had to leave to catch the train instead of hanging out after the show like some groupie. My seat was in the loge area, the seats were closer than I expected. Since I bought one seat, I was able to get close as possible. From past events when I would go by myself I have been spoiled. I had a great seat at Radio City to see the Dali Llama, Betty Carter at the Bottom Line, and now this. I still paid $75 which included the service fees. Before I review the show I have to describe where I’m sitting at this moment. As I mentioned, I am on the train. Sitting inches from me a couple who appear to be a few years older than me and who behave half lit. “I think we have enough left at home to make some martinis.” There is one punk who did something foolish as the train pulled into the station, the conductor asked as he looked out from an open window “Are you serious?” The droll punk hunched his rebellious shoulders, “Yeah.” Fair to say, I didn’t see what the punk did. Two adolescent girls who are deep into their teen years, spill out conversations from their seats, everything is so dramatic. I’m losing space for my review of the show and I apologize. Town Hall was sold out, which is normal for this short run production. The show comes to New York once a year, each time at this time each year, but I heard or read that Mr. Keillor was cancelling his show after this season, so there was an impulse to buy the tickets. I know Mr. Keillor is very busy in his own artistic pursuits from writing novels to editing poetry. He also has solo performances which after seeing tonight’s show I would like to see and compare it to A Prairie Home Companion. Here is the odd thing which dawned on me; his shows are clean which contradicts my usual humor. I prefer more of the insanity of Robin Williams or even my cousin Jason Gillearn. There is a hard edge in their humor. What is it about A Prairie Home? Looking at the audience which is older than me, we grasp onto an innocent ideal which is too remote in today’s world. Face it we are too connected for our own good, so listening to tales of Lake Wobegon is a little like sharing rumors of the town we would like to live in. Tonight’s fable or tale as it’s referred to in the show was about the reverend who conducts miracle healings. I loved how Keillor wove the tale, but I asked myself from my seat, how did he weave it, was it off the top of his head? Did he formulate something so unique in from of all of us, sharing it with the radio audience who were shallow breaths in the distance? It had the immediate impact, but it must have been practiced, the players knew when his story was winding down, they appeared from the sides of the stage. And the tale was over. So how does he do it? I think Mr. Keillor has the unique gift to tell a story. The musicians in The Guy’s All Star Band were incredible, they played some songs before the show began, and the crowd was worked up and out walked the casual story teller with the long red tie. It’s Saturday night…I was there in Town Hall, right there from the Lodge, stage left and so close I could see his facial expressions as well as the each of the players on the stage. It’s Saturday night. I would like to see if the show can continue without Mr. Keillor. Can it? The show began it seems as a goof when GK was in his mid thirties. He’s slowing down. He can’t stop, can he? Royal Academy of Radio Actors were hysterical, and for me was the real thrill to watch them perform, making back-ground music, small talk, the first skit with Heather Massie as a pseudo hippie psychic poet (was that Patty Smith) was a classic as an upset stomach rose to life out into the audience but it cut short by some professional editing just before it heaved. Heather I assume is a regular on the show and had such poise. Nellie McCay is stunning. What a spirit she has, her rendition of The Flamingos I Only Have Eyes for You was…different as her sax player cried out like as baby and Nellie strolled around the stage pretending to ease the “baby in her arms” and yet it was comical. She belted out The Beatles, I’m So Tired which was stripped and raw, smacking us on the side of the head, with a fair warning, take her seriously. “I give you all I got for a little piece of mind.” If you have not heard the show, take some time and listen to real players and souls on the radio. If you have the chance to see the show: GO! Sit back watch a play of words and emotions that only a true story teller can conjure from the Midwest or Minnesota or somewhere hovering over across the West.

meditation

2011-11-27T11:41:00.000-08:00

11/27/11 13:57
I’m sitting on the deck with a long sleeve shirt, not that I changed after church, instead I will wear the same clothes and just may change into some sweats. There is always work to do, earlier I gave Amanda a driving lesson I want her to lose her fear of driving; we drove in the parking lot at the train station and on the street which was quiet. Last night Amanda wanted to talk to Ali so I went to bed with Bella. Our sleeping patterns have changed since she came home from the hospital. The event was traumatic and something we never want to experience again. One of my worst fears came true that day, I never wanted to see anyone have a seizure, the fact they are not in control and appear possessed…Bella is fine, since she takes Keppra regularly. The neurologist said her epilepsy will go away as she ages, most likely in a couple of years she will not have any more seizures. They occur when she is sleeping and this is the reason why either Ali or myself sleeps with her. Most nights Ali falls asleep, taking her to bed so she is in the darkened bedroom by 9:30. There is no TV. When they were younger I would slowly rub their eyebrows till they would fall asleep and last night proved the same. The problem occurs when Ali or myself, come into the bed, there is not enough room in our queen for all of us. Last night I woke up a few times and finally at 3:30, came down to the living room for a few more hours of sleep. It was a broken sleep, interspersed with dreams which I don’t recall, one was a nightmare which I thought would make a good Stephen King novel, but it’s lost in my memories. Around seven I got out of the bed and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I went outside, the air was foggy like my mind, the ground was moist and cool, I picked up the paper and went back in, not that any of my neighbors saw me, but I took in the sparse winter trees, the thick fog and heard a faint bird. Sunday mornings are somewhat hectic, today Emma was reading the first of advent services and will be reading at each consecutive Sunday, what does advent mean? The fact Jesus is coming. Our morning message was by Reverend Elaine and it was powerful, how we can call out for God and we’re not sure if he is there, how we get caught up in the busy holiday season and lose that inner voice that still is seeking…I was struck with when she referred to a theologian, whose name I don’t recall, that is was good to mourn, that if we don’t mourn we project a bitterness and hatred on the world. After the service I walked through the woods, smelled the sweet warm leaves and headed to the beach. It was mild enough for a stroll, a young couple with a black lab walked up from the woods and we greeted each other, the dog sniffed in my direction without a care assuming correctly I was not a threat. I took some pictures and appreciated the silence of the water. The wind was light and I meditated for close to twenty minutes, I sat in a lotus position on a washed up tree, the water barely broke into the shore, the tide crept into the grass carrying small fish and a light milky froth. My intention was to call out to God, why does my wife have to battle cancer? Why does my youngest daughter have epilepsy, instead I used my breath, let those thoughts pass and breathed in with my tongue on the roof of my mouth. What journey are we on? When will I learn some of the answers? Ali is going to chemo tomorrow. I hope to take the train and get to work on-time. I’m planning to go to Pennsylvania on Wednesday and hope to make it there…the last time I attempted a trip Bella was taken by an ambulance to the hospital.
“Our life is an endless journey; it is like a broad highway that extends infinitely into the distance. The practice of meditation provides a vehicle to travel on that road. Our journey consists of constant ups and downs, hope and fear, but it is a good journey. The practice of mediation allows us to experience all the textures of the roadway, which is what the journey is all about. Through the practice of meditation, we begin to find that, within ourselves, there is no fundamental complaint about anything or anyone at all.” Discovering Basic Goodness by Chogyam Trungpa

We Were Promised Jetpacks Webster Hall 10 30 11 set list

2011-10-31T19:09:00.000-07:00

10/31/11 Happy Halloween you bastards
Yesterday afternoon Amanda was checking the site for We Were Promised Jetpacks, which is her favorite band. She knew for the past few weeks they were playing in New York. She told me they were playing at Webster Hall that night. For the record, I took Emma Tess to more concerts; the last was 30 Seconds to Mars in Boston last May. Recently I bought Emma Tess a gold ticket for 30 Seconds since the band offers their rampant fans the chance to meet them for a steep price. What a scam for a corporate band. I don’t care to divulge how much I paid a horrible arrogant actor, but when Amanda said tickets were available to We Were Promised… and they were only $20, I said I’d take her. You want to go, let’s go. She wasn’t sure if she should go, this was her nerves talking, telling her to be nervous and stay nervous and stay home. When I was her age, I dreamed of seeing a show. When Emma agreed to join us, Amanda was excited. Since it was later that night, I had time for a decent run down to the beach and back. It was an opportunity to be alone and delve into my thoughts. After a shower and an early dinner we headed into the city. We were early, so instead of going in, we walked around lower Broadway. Saw Astor haircutters where I got one short cut when attending Purchase College twenty five years ago. It was cold last night. Emma wore a skirt so we headed into Webster Hall as Bear Hands was playing. Up old cracked white marble steps and into the expansive hall which had an ornate ceiling with a balcony where the sound board was. A large pentagram dangled over the stage, goodness knows it was for Halloween. A large bar was in the back. Off to one side of the venue was a long table where you could buy a t-shirt and CD’s…on the opposite side, was another bar and a small store where I bought three pairs of ear plugs. I bought a beer and listened to Bear Hands, thought they were a strong band till they got carried away with the shit synth pop sound and they lost me. I had the same reaction with the second opening band, Royal Bang who hit the stage with a in your face kick ass, but fizzled to a Southern drawl by their last song. So much hope. I will be honest, I didn’t know what to expect when We Were Promised Jetpacks. Based on the two previous bands, they’d have a synthesizer, a guitar player and drummer…so I was surprised when the young Scots casually walked out on the stage and kicked fucking ass. Each song was like a tidal wave that crashed into the audience and then washed over any of my doubts. Their lyrics were sung back to them with intoxicated slurred words, loose limbs and exuberance. Their singer had a bashful smile, nodded and we all knew what he was thinking, “Shit, they know my words.”
Based on the play list that Emma caught after the bassist threw his list into the crowd - this is what we heard:
Circles & Squares
Quiet Little Voices
Medicine
Picture of Health
Roll up your Sleeves
Keeping Warm
Dirt and Gravel
This is my house, this is my home
Boy in the backseat
Sore Thumb
Human Error
Ships with holes will sink
Pear Tree
It’s Thunder and Lightning
We Were Promised Jet Packs can make its genuine mark on the scene, if they continue to search for their original sound. It’s a daunting task, but this band is poised to become one of the best. Keep an eye on them and see them before they charge ridiculous fees. I heard fragments of Bloc Party, U2 and another band from my generation, Big Country, since they had a large sound that thundered the walls in Webster Hall. The singer, Adam Thompson has an incredible trained voice with a perfect pitch. The way he stood back as his voice became faint sounded like a distant scream. His lyrics touched on his experiences and drew me in. I think I found the band I was searching for and for an old fart like me it feels good to discover a new sound as well as the relief to know there are bands making good music without shit synth pop or posing for the cameras. This band has what it takes, they can bridge generations....

The jayHawks at The Beacon 10/21/11

2011-10-22T15:48:00.000-07:00

10/21/11 18:07
In a little while I will be up at the local high school for the homecoming game, soon they will start the bon fire and burn the effigies of Qaddafi and Bin Laden. Not so. That was a joke. Last night I saw the JayHawks with Erik. It was the spur of the moment event. Each time I hear the band on WFUV, I’m curious if they’re coming around. So, I bought tickets. I don’t know the history of the band. I know they broke up and are back together. The original line up played the Beacon. I think that's what we saw. The opening act was Roseanne Cash which I have to report we missed. Traffic on the 59th St Bridge crawled into the city. The bridge is free, saves $9 in tolls. We found a spot on the street, saving $27. These amounts floated in my head since I shelled out $100 for the two tickets though Erik drove and he said he’d pay me back. For dinner we splurged and bought a Recession Meal ($5) at Papaya King, 2 hot dogs and Papaya juice and headed up to get into the theatre. There were scalpers outside. The show was not sold out. One was ready to give us two tickets for the price of one. Next time I may scalp. The crowd was older than I thought. The venue was ornate. The last time I was in the Beacon was to see REM on their Little America tour for their second album, Reckoning. Erick bought two beers, $17 and we went in. The band wasn’t on yet. The crowd was better dressed than us, the middle aged woman were - beautiful - in dresses, men in sports jackets and we stood there in our sweat jackets and scruffy hair. We took our seats after I bought a round for us. The stage was sparse, no back drop, just the stage lights. A drunkish gentlemen sitting next to me asked, “What’s your favorite JayHawks song?” I don’t know any. Here’s the deal, I have this fear of being put on the spot like that. Reminds me when I was in 8th grade and hanging out with Bob Pelton at the pizzeria in East Northport, MaMa Jean’s II. We don’t know where the first one was. This girl came up to me, some hippie chick who was in a grade older than me and asks, “What’s your favorite band?” I don’t know why but I wanted to impress her and I said, “Led Zeppelin.” I guess this was the answer everyone in the place was giving her so she wanted some validation - I knew what the fuck I was talking about. This brings me back to drunk fuck sitting next to me. She asked me all of these decades before, “What’s your favorite song by Zep and don’t say Stairway to Heaven.” It was the only sing I knew the title of. She pointed her finger at me as if she knew I was talking shit. I said nothing back to her. Should have asked her why she wanted to know. Why do you care? If I was 46 back then I may have: instead of getting embarrassed -when she asked me who my favorite band was. If I was honest and said, Boston and their song Don’t Look Back it would have been a closed door case. I was the ass and I was an ass last night since I fumbled out, “Ah, I don’t know any titles…I like what I hear on WFUV. I think they sound cool, sort of like Big Star.” Drunk fuck had a blank look on his face and said slowly, “I like their song, Blue.” I nodded and turned my attention back to Erik. Here’s the review for the show. Good. Most of the songs were off their new CD, which I’m listening to as I’m typing – the song Stand Out In the Rain “Where you going all alone…were you gone.” It was beautiful, since the lyrics brought me back to a distant moment when I was in the rain with an old girlfriend. They have a sort of Neal Young twist as well. They played High Water Blues with the singer removing his guitar and holding the mic and appearing so awkward, like when a teacher performs with his teachers band in front of the students at the school's variety show. He danced a little, and knew he couldn’t dance and then kept his attention on their keyboardist who would reassure him with a slight smile from her lips. It’s alright honey, just go back to the guitar. No, please don’t pump your fist…oh, there you…go. Since I’m not a huge fan and there were at least twelve huge fans in the audience, who waited after the show for some of the members to sign their CD, I felt like I was wrapped in a sort of distant quasi culture. I’m curious to learn more about the musicians. The drummer sang lead on one song and was in perfect harmony with the lead guitarist. After the show we crawled back on the 59th bridge back to Queens, and I made it home this morning like a rock star at 2:30. The college kids at corner house were holding a huge party, but I put a end to it with a call to the cops since I wasn’t going to confront fifty drunk college kids and their plastic cups filled with warm beer. The cops came and silence rose into the night for some sleep before the sun rose over our house.

X kicked ass at Irving Plaza 10/1/11

2011-10-02T16:42:00.000-07:00

Around 6 I headed into the city. I picked up some cash and Gatorade at CVS. The doors opened at Irving Plaza at 7, so I didn’t want to be too early. I bought a VIP ticket and was told I could either go upstairs and stand behind the sound board or go anywhere I wanted. After the show I could pick up my VIP poster. The movie Decline of the Western Civilization was on the screen, getting the crowd into the time frame, 1983? Ray Manzarek who produced X's first three albums and who played keyboard for The Doors actually looked young, but of course when I watched the movie (if I did back when it first came out) he was an old man. I assume he was in his forties. The movie was clips of interviews and live shows of the early X. A record executive described how the majors snubbed them, since they were not polished enough compared to Journey and The Doobie Brothers. But this was their saga, not being recognized by the main stream radio, barely mentioned as punk since they played sort of a spastic country and western, rooted rock. The radio played more Brit bands than American like The Blasters and Mats, or dare mention Black Flag, Husker Du. But we were proud of this and raised the underground banner when telling anyone what bands we were into. As the movie played, their songs Johnny Hit and Run, I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts, Lonely Wolf, were cheered. The movie was over the screen was pulled up after ten minutes and the band hit the stage. Back in the late 80’s I saw X play in Sag Harbor (Long Island) at Bay Streets, they opened for Warren Zevon. Exene was pregnant, and Billy Zoom was a memory, so I felt as if I didn’t see the whole band. Their guitarist at that time was great, but seeing the original band is like grasping history. I’ve waited to see them for a couple of years, since Billy Zoom was back. I checked their web site and was excited to see they were playing two nights in NYC. I stood upstairs in the balcony, sort of packed in and was amazed how tight they were. Exene wore a black dress, she has been ill. It looked as she lost weight. She drank a couple of beers. Her voice strained, which is normal for her at times and I would wonder what she was contemplating as she looked up at the ceiling in the venue. Is this place any different, maybe the chandeliers are a nice touch of elegance. John Doe had so much energy and actually jumped a few times and came close to the edge of the stage. Billy Zoom Stood in his spot, smiled softly and rarely looked at his fingers as he raced up and down the neck of his guitar, like a possessed child who is racing with the anticipation. He’d shake his hands as if they were either numb or cold. Both he and BJ were smiling at one another, when they came out for the encore, BJ blocked Billy from taking his spot, it was nice to see the sense of humor. I drank two beers, took off my sweatshirt. Each song was tapped by BJ and they’d hit it. Each song, tap tap tap….there was little wasted time and still so many songs could have been played. The crowd was into it, although a tweet from the band earlier that night said tickets were still available. I asked myself what the fuck? This should be sold out. What the fuck? Why not listen to X as much as possible since their music contains the harrowing emotions that kick all of the ass I need to.

I grew old with REM

2011-09-22T18:02:00.000-07:00

The Beatles broke up in 1971, we sat in the back seat without seat belts, and Ma was driving my dad’s 1969 faint yellow Chevy Nova on Jericho Turnpike in Huntington. The news broke that the band was calling it quits. Why?
Yesterday by habit, I checked Twitter and saw the NPR release after REM’s…calling it quits. I had to tell Ali and I dreaded it. It’s been a tough week, on Monday the doctors found a near fatal blood clot in her lung. She’s doing fine, had therapy today. On Tuesday night she told me this week sucked and yesterday, Wednesday, her favorite band breaks up.
The first time I saw REM was back in 1983 on MTV’s 120 minutes, the song was Radio Free Europe. It was a black and white and a rare appearance from Reverend Finster made the video mythical. In Rolling Stone there was a small piece on them, the fact they came from the same town as the B-52’s Athens GA. I walked more than ten miles to buy the IRS album, Murmur and their music changed my life. The lyrics, whatever martyr misconstrue meant and 9-9, Talk About the Passion, the album was not just one song which I heard before, it was the whole product. Eventually I saw them as one of the opening acts for The Police at Shea Stadium on August 18 that year. I remember the rain and hiding under a tarp in the outfield and clearly being one of the few in the crowd who knew the music. I grew up with the band. Eventually interviewing them for the high school radio station and seeing them perform at a local roller skating rink, the beacon, Nassau coliseum, Radio City Music Hall, Carnegie Hall, Madison Square Garden, and up in Massachusetts on their last tour. Last night Ali and I were discussing the fact we may never see the band again, but we have so many memories, of meeting the band back stage at Jones Beach and outside Carnegie Hall. I even wrote a novel using the lyrics from Mr. Richards and dedicated Killer Commute to the old dinosaurs from Athens. We passed our love of the band to our children who know their music as well as we do. We made the trip to Athens and have bought the rare and limited editions. We have a used drum head from Bill Berry from the Monster tour. We have all of these things, but the music will live on. Thank you for being together as long as you had, I can say we grew old together. I wish them the best in their own ambitions, and I hope there will be some benefit concerts in the future. There has to be more shows…right? I guess I can hope. On a personal level, the music has inspired our lives, as my wife beats cancer their song. Walk Unafraid is our anthem.

Thank you for reading this

Review of Henry Rollins Smile, You're Traveling

2011-09-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

Smile, You’re Traveling by Henry Rollins was the third installment in his Black Coffee Blues, which included Black Coffee Blues and Do I come Here Often? I feel this book was the strongest in the trio. It begins with the ending of a Rollins Band tour and Henry making plans to visit Kenya - since he has thousands of frequent flyer miles. The boldness of travelling alone is inspiring in itself, but the fact Rollins captures his intense moods, the cities, the various people, is well documented. The book captured my attention. It is one I could not put down. What’s disturbing is his realization the band is finished. The audiences are not coming out to see the band, and it’s not just in the States, but in Japan as well. Japan? In Eastern Europe he packs them in. You can read the transition and the anger growing and blowing out as the tour winds up. He is a conflict of interests. One sentence he seems not to care the crowd is minimal and the other he is hurling back beer cans and threats to the idiots. There is the sense of frustration since he is upset comparing his band and himself to the success of Beck and Oasis, poser bands…posers. Fake. They all suck! The reality is his refusal to accept the audience he could count on - moved on. The kids he despises, who should be removed from airport terminals and from experiencing African vacations, are the by- products of his aging fans. HIs fans made life decisions and moved on with their lives. Henry at 35 plus ++ strives to be alone, successful in his own terms, and to be a star in an ungrateful way. Let me be clear, Rollins is genuine and a true to man. I have more respect for him now than I had before, since beyond all of his internal bickering, he suffers from depression. He doesn’t let it stop him. His voice gives out a couple of times in the tour and he had to cancel one gig in Germany, but he feels awful to see the fans come to the venue and turn away after they learn the show was cancelled. He interviews Black Sabbath and Ozzy individually and watches them practice and thinks of his departed friend Joe Cole. Henry was genuinely excited to see Sabbath. He was also excited and had his doubts he could write the liner notes for Jane’s Addiction’s live album. But, the tragic loss of Joe really has an obvious effect on Rollins since he doesn’t want to be friends with anyone, “I don’t want to like anyone too much because it’s just another thing that could be taken away from me.”

A short review of Henry Rollin's book Solipsist

2011-08-30T18:28:00.000-07:00

This year my plan is to read most if not all of Henry Rollin's books.

I just finished Henry Rollins book Solipsist, 166 pages. I wanted to get in a few words – to share a brief review. Overall the book is solid. It is entertaining to a degree, but the sentences were boring. Almost all of the sentences began with I or me. Why not, take a look at the title, which means that the self is the only thing that can be known and verified. There were three segments I heard on some of his CD’s so they were not shocking and were different from the ego driven ejaculations on most the pages. Still, it’s a good book which drums up internal conflicts over and over again.

Henry Rollins interview - On John Coltrane

2011-08-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

Mike, hi. Here's the answers to your questions

When was the first time you heard Coltrane, who introduced you to his music?

===== My mother had Coltrane records and Miles records with Coltrane on them.

How did Coltrane influence your music and writing?

===== He didn't really. I am not a musician. I have written a lot of songs but it's just to get the words out. I always admired Coltrane for his truth and his purity. He was really going for something. He is inspiring because you can tell every moment he plays is sincere. I have never heard anything like it.

Since Coltrane wrote about his spiritual journey, can you relate to it?

======= No. I have no spiritual feelings at all.

I know you have your favorite albums that you continue to go back to. How often do you listen to Coltrane and what album do you continue to return to?

======== I listen to Coltrane often. I like the later material the best. '64 to the end. I do like the Atlantic period as well though. What I like most is the tone that he developed later on. Very distinctive.

You recorded with Rashied Ali, how did you arrange this?

========= I contacted him via Charles Gayle.

If you had to make a choice Eric Dolphy or Coltrane? Why?

====== I think Coltrane was more impressive compositionally and melodically. He was also more prolific. I think he influenced Coltrane more than the other way around. Both of them were obviously brilliant.

As a record collector, what is the rarest Coltrane album you own?

======= I don't have many rare Jazz records.

Are there any modern jazz artists you follow?

========== Not really.

thanks

Henry

A Stillness before the Hurricane

2011-08-27T09:06:00.000-07:00

8/27/11
It’s raining lightly outside, quiet except for the idling train which will make one of its last rides for the day. Stopping service on the LIRR is unprecedented. Services will be suspended at noon on MTA, Metro North and the subways are part of the plans to prepare for Hurricane Irene. Flights to and from New York and Philadelphia are cancelled. More than 2.6 million people will be affected. Most events in the area if not all events have been cancelled, including my nephew’s birthday party which was supposed to take place tomorrow. Our church sent an email to cancel service. But I’ve been trying to brush this off. Even yesterday morning on the commute into work I thought Ralph the conductor was overreacting when he said he bought a chunk of dry ice for the freezer, in case the power goes out. Then I learned Long Island is due for a direct hit. The center of the storm is supposed to strike. My mind slowly accepted the stark reality - this can be a cataclysmic event. As I type, I feel as though this could be some of the last words I share with you; since the experts are telling us this will be more severe than Hurricane Katrina. We have batteries and food. We have each other, but the idea of losing the roof or the siding is a possibility, I cannot accept losing my wife or children. I look at the trees outside and am taking before and after photographs in my mind. There are calls for mandatory evacuations in Jersey and parts of the coast of New York, including parts of the city and of course Long Island. Last night, when the president came on TV and warned us, “All indications point to this being an historic hurricane,” that's when I looked at Ali and said, "we're in for it." There has been some overreaction , The Jets cancelled their only free practice at Hofstra on Thursday, the bank was closed this morning. The county executives made robo calls on Thursday to be prepared for the hurricane. Before I started writing, there was a message from our home insurance company, warning us and to take preventive actions, bring in garbage cans – into the house or garage, and if you have to file a claim here’s the number to call. When I went to get my hair cut and planned to go to the bank, which I mentioned was closed. I passed stores that were taping their wide store front glass. One store was bordered up, a gas station ran out of gas and there are lines at the stations and the ATM machines. Get cash! Panic has settled into our summer. What will it be like after it passes? The experts agree it will hit us late tonight, so we’d be deep in sleep…maybe. Our shed outside will take a hit and I expect it will collapse and then I can see the old garage will go down. The furniture is removed off the deck, the gas tank for the grill is disconnected and in the garage and we wait. I have my beers and books. It’s quiet outside at 11:44 in the morning.

My wife has cancer

2011-08-08T03:23:00.000-07:00

My previous post was a review of Bob Mould’s book. It’s been a few weeks since I posted a real entry. My wife was diagnosed with cancer back in June, and I’ve kept a journal that may be too personal at this time to share. Ali is in a great position as per her oncologist, DR. Michael Pearl. We went into surgery with hope that it was just cancer of the uterus. Just cancer is an oxymoron, but for a woman if she is diagnosed with any cancer this is the one to have, it is highly treatable, once removed, there is no need for further treatment. But after a full hysterectomy, Dr. Peal took my mother-in-law and me into a small room, and shared what he saw.
“I don’t have good news.”
Ali had a tumor in her ovaries; the cancer broke through the wall of the uterus and grew in the ovaries; as well as another small tumor about the size of the tip of a thumb in her left pelvic area. This would categorize her cancer as a stage four. She started chemo a few weeks ago and is due for another session on Thursday. She will lose all of her hair, but she cut off most of it before our trip. Ali is also participating in a clinical trial, and we’re confident she is getting the best care and the cancer is contained and yet I’m worried. We’re receiving so much support and love from family, friends and work, but no one can really touch on the wave of emotions we are coping with.
A vacation is what was needed, a break from reality. These past two weeks have been spent in Orlando at Ali’s aunt and uncle’s house in Orlando. The house feels as if it has been dropped in the thick woods, through the trees I was able to see the lake as I sat at the pool side. I’m writing this at her Uncle Phil’s condo in Hilton Head, across the street from the Atlantic, where we spent yesterday morning. We had four days at Disney, in all of the parks and travelled to Savannah from here, to see the beautiful city. Our minivan is holding up very well on this trip. There’s been some napping and laughs, but most of all we’re together. I have seen how our kids make Ali laugh and how they have grown and developed into individuals. Bella is the youngest, but she’s the toughest. Joe is very close to Ali and has rarely left her side or site.
In a few hours we will drive up to Richmond to spend the night and to see the confederate capitol. We’ll be home tomorrow night and on Wednesday morning I will be back at work. We are doing fine and with faith we know all things are possible through God.

Review Of Bob Mould's autobiography

2011-08-06T16:26:00.000-07:00

I never saw Husker Du; I had a copy of Zen Arcade and New Day Rising. The second album is one of my favorites. I saw Bob perform a few years ago in Irving Plaza; the last time was at a benefit concert at Carnegie Hall, where performers played REM songs. He came on the stage, plugged in his guitar and kicked ass in his rendition of, “Sitting Still.” I read Bob Mould’s autobiography See a Little Light. This is one autobiography I wanted to read, so when I saw it on sale at the Borders which is closing like the others across the country, I bought it. I don’t believe I’m a fan of this form of writing, I expect the worst. There is a strange balance when reading an autobiography, between the sense the writer is self indulgent and narcissistic to perhaps sharing struggles that inspire. I’m writing this a couple of days after finishing the book, but my first thought would tip the scale towards self indulgent. Mould has many issues he is honest but cautious addressing, there is a sense he is not being too open. He is a professional and knows what buttons to push for the public, but keeps his soul.
When writing fiction one of the rules is to create a character that people will admire. When writing an autobiography the writer should consider how they come across to the reader. I didn’t labor through the almost 400 pages, but I wish Mr. Mould would elaborate more on his emotions. The book is a series of relationships, events as well as synopsis of his songs and life at the time the songs were composed. Being a fan of Husker Du there are stories of the struggling band, barely enough to eat and earning pittance. The story of their break up is chronicled in the book; it was not Grant’s addiction to heroin. The band signed a contract with Warner and that was the beginning of the end. The band became a job. Egos played and still play a part that keeps the band in the past without a hope they’ll reform. Let’s see, since money motivates. The money Husker Du earned intoxicated Mould though he gave up drinking at 25.
Mould struggled to hide his homosexuality for years till he agreed to address it in an article in Spin. He was upset for the way he was portrayed since he said he was not like most gays, in other words he was and is not an effeminate male. I think his coming out was a way to promote his new band Sugar and to rid the Husker Du past. He shares his desire for the burly men - even military porn, as well as some episodes that I felt were leaning towards indulgencies, but without sharing too much of his motivations, other than going through some “dark” times. Most of his relationships with men are long lasting. He moves fairly frequently, from his upstate New York hometown to college and a young career in Minneapolis to Hoboken, then across the river to New York City off to Austin and to DC and finally to San Francisco. His music like his moves has developed - even influenced his personality. He currently DJ’s for a certain group of burly men, referred to as bears. But I’m disappointed to learn he’s sort of retired from performing with a band.
Would I recommend this book? I would, I cared for the SST stories and Black Flag plays a part in Mould’s past. The early days are well chronicled, but this book could have been shorter.

Memorial Day USS New York made me proud

2011-05-31T05:03:00.000-07:00

Back on the train on a Tuesday morning and I’m feeling beat. I went for a run this morning which transitioned into a morning walk. I have to get into my head to eat lightly the night before. I feel the mass of digested food pushing down inside my kidneys. With the humidity the only break from the run is a good walk, but this morning there were so many breaks…so lesson, eat less the night before or go the bathroom before the run, I would be lighter and able to maintain some semblance of speed.
Yesterday was Memorial Day. Instead of sleeping in we woke up early in the morning. It was raining when we left a house, a passing storm the weather experts predicted and were correct. Joe my father-in-law drove us, who included my son Joe and daughters Emma, and Isabella into Staten Island to see the USS New York and other Navy ships. It used to be a tradition to ride into Staten Island where as Joe my father-in-law explained there are smaller crowds compared to Manhattan. In fact one year, we went in with my brother-in-law Phil to tour the frigate he used to work in, the Klakring. That was a rarity, and Phil had the opportunity to bring his son, Joseph on-board.
This year was different since the New York which holds 7 tons of metal from the World Trade Towers in its hull drew a crowd. It’s the only Navy ship I have a picture of in my office.
We arrived around 10. Already the parking outside the gates was packed. From what we read it would be limited to 2,000 visitors on the New York. By the time we arrived the crowd must have approached 500. At first we toured a Coast Guard vessel, which was interesting, we saw how they manage our buoys and learned more about their responsibilities, protecting our shores. The men and women on-board were very pleasant, and answered the kid’s questions.
We waited outside the New York for about twenty minutes, and finally we boarded the large vessel. Men and women saluted the officer on deck. I was amazed how large the ship was and impressed with our military capabilities. The men and women all of them seemed passionate and took their jobs very seriously.
The oldest serviceman we met was thirty, most of these men and women are in their early twenties. The USS New York ship could hold more than 1,000 marines. There were demonstrations where the kids could hold actual guns and go inside some of the military vehicles. On the deck we were allowed to go inside the helicopters and the crews were very friendly. By the time we left the crowd, more than a thousand (maybe two thousand) were snaked around the dock. I hope everyone got a chance to board, if not I’d recommend - next year getting their earlier.

Henry Rollins - Bang - a review

2011-05-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

I wanted something quick to read so last night I began Henry Rollins Bang. Like I said I said it was a quick read, and most can finish it within a couple of hours. This morning I sat in the kitchen and wrapped it up. The last part of the book has what I would describe as haiku's. 1,000 little hits which were roughly a couple of lines, and perhaps five words…would I recommend it? There were a couple of strong hits, and the opening Knife Street was a slow violent ride. For Rollins fans, who might have read some of his earlier books, you can skip this. General themes, rape, murder, and misogynist angst.

On a side note, I saw a "documentary" on Black Flag's last tour. Generally it's a behind the scenes look at the minds of young men. No real insight. I couldn't tell if there was any animosity between the members of Black Flag. The most unsettling scene was when Joe Cole is laying in front of a headstone with Cole on it. He's actually talking about being dead, and gets up and runs after the camera like a zombie.
http://vimeo.com/23499919

Back in the grind

2011-05-16T04:56:00.000-07:00

Back in the grind, last week was a full one in the office and this week appears the same. So what’s good about it? I get back to a certain routine, which is an oxymoron for a man with four children. But I’m on the train and this means I have time to write and read. I’m struggling with Celine, not so much for the writing which is poetic and forceful, I admire it, but its content is dark.
Tomorrow is Election Day for the district and many on Long Island. My wife is running for school board. If you live in the district, please consider her, she’s by far the best candidate and the most beautiful of the lot. Yesterday we hung a sign I painted. The posts are flimsy and I’m afraid the first good wind it encounters will knock it down. My project later is getting it back up. I can see us in the light rain with a better hammer. Last night I had a small axe, while trying to ram the post in the ground the axe slipped and nearly lodge itself into the cavity of my chest. She pulled up her hands to her face and I pictured my blood rushing out in a red wave showering the sign and the grass as I fell backwards. Joe and Bella were in the minivan…what happened to Dad? My scrape on my chest is the only proof how close it came.
Before we left the house, Bella and Joe told me that one of our cats got a bird. I ran after it with the bird in its mouth and jumped over the fence to our neighbor’s yard. I like my neighbor, Vito and I ended up chatting for about fifteen minutes as the kids chased after the cat. When I got back home, Bella was under the deck, with the half dead bird and brought it out. Joe lined his lizard cage which passed last week with paper towels and we dropped the baby Robin in. I told them it won’t last long, and Bella said in her matter of fact way, “It’s OK, it’s the circle of life.”
This reminds me, when I get home later I need to take down the light fixture in her room, she rolled up paper balls and threw one in the light fixture. When I asked her why, she said, “I was throwing up in the air like a football and it got stuck.”
“Were you trying to get it stuck?”
“No…”
“Bella, tell the truth.”
“OK, yes.”
“Always tell the truth, you won’t get in trouble.”
Time to go back to Celine…

Last Saturday I read Rollin's Black Coffee Blues

2011-04-30T18:20:00.000-07:00

Black Coffee Blues by Henry Rollins is disturbing. The repetitive violent themes revolve around suicide, homoerotic fantasy, murder, and an overall misery. There is really no concrete fiction to speak of since this is a collection of random and disturbing thoughts. Henry likes to shock his audience, but the most disturbing features consisted of at least two incestuous depictions of a father and son. Did his father try something? This thin collection was the least of my favorites as I swim through Rollins this year.

My business trip to Brazil

2011-04-30T18:01:00.000-07:00

4/25/11 1602
To get the blunt honest truth give me a couple of drinks and we’ll start the tour of San Paulo Brazil. Compare d to Rio, this is where the work horses come and feed on their scraps. Where grey clouds followed me from New York, where fucking think prick motorcycle drivers abandon the rules of the road and cut in front by inches in front of smoldering bumpers, where rotting dog carcasses, their fat basking in the sun boil line a highway. This is where the buildings are grey. Consume me Bohemia beer, meat, Novilho de Prata flesh of the metal cords, the men come to the dinner to slice off the once living blood. The creatures crawl in high heels, a warm breeze blows through the room and I consider sleep and more sleep and more Bohemia beer and the Cuban cigar I can sit and meditate outside away from the churches, you shouldn’t do that, “That’s what Sister Ray said.” The smoke of distant ghetto fires where the hunger to survive corrupts the youth. You shouldn’t do that, burn away the wood and fall asleep in ghettos.

4/29/11 1957

Getting to the airport was an ordeal. There were two accidents that slowed traffic to a crawl. Motorcycles cut in and out of traffic; some sped down the highway as if they didn’t care if they hit anything, dead dogs, shit on the road. A river cut through the city, shit floated on the top. Small brick buildings, shanty downs, a clothes line under the highway overpass. Some sold water in the middle of the highway and had to ward off the motorcyclists, like gnats.
This morning dealt with a hangover. It’s been a long time, happens with cheap drinks, sugar.
Writing this on board the flight before we take off, sitting in business. As my coworkers get in the back, I told them I asked for the emergency row for more leg room, but an upgrade was in the works. This is nice, I’ll sleep tonight. Misery loves company.

4/30/20:40
Back home. Got back here early this morning, there was little traffic at 6:30ish on a Saturday. The driver wouldn’t shut the fuck up or listen and took my $20 tip. Will never see him again. Ali was up and let me in; I was shot and stayed awake for a couple of hours. The trees are close to full bloom. Saw Amanda first and she was excited to see me. Joe came up and gave me a big hug, and then Bella boo. Emma came downstairs a little later and I gave their gifts to them. Fell asleep for a couple of hours and got up, walked to the gas station for the lawnmower and cut down the long grass in the back. I’m beat. Tomorrow, taking Emma Tess to Boston to see her band, 30 seconds to mars. Lord have mercy.

Masters of Jazz, Ravi Coltrane, Jazz Standard

2011-04-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

Jazz Standard this past Wednesday was sold out for two shows. It was a rare treat as some masters of jazz played Coltrane’s first Impulse release Africa/Brass. Here’s my dilemma since I can’t say if Ravi Coltrane was the headliner. The occasion was a celebration of Impulse records. An amazing group that consisted of the gentleman Cecil McBee on bass, the pugnacious Dave Libeman on sax and flute, Billy Hart on drums and the blessed Phil Markowitz on piano. Mr. Liebman made a comment that Joe Lovano was supposed to be there? I vaguely remember seeing the schedule couple of weeks ago, and seeing Joe’s name. In the audience was the owner or Impulse, Ashley Kahn who wrote a jazz book on Impulse and Coltrane’s Love Supreme. Mr. Kahn was speaking to Ravi before the show, while I stood to the side trying to get a word in. I did and we spoke about the house in Dix Hills and what did he say? We’re all volunteers and there is only so much we can do…
I was lucky to get a ticket. I got there early since doors opened up, parked across the street, and made waited on the staircase for about 15 minutes. Not bad considering I drove out from New Hyde Park and made it through the tunnel in no time. I found a seat and asked a foreigner gentleman to please keep an eye on my seat. You understand don’t you? Of course, I will be back. And when I got back to my seat - my close seat - I sat across from a man who introduced himself, my name is Kevin. My name is Mike and we talked jazz and had a beer or two and we shared stories, how old are you? I’m 45…saw Miles in Berkley and at Indigo Blue here in NY City and did I mention I saw Betty Carter? No? Amazing, at the Bottom Line, Freddie Hubbard jumped in on one of the sets. Did I tell you? Jimmy jazz. Kevin is the editor-in-chief of the Daily News, no way. Kevin and I hit it off and I watched him in deep Zen like meditation take in the sound, how appealing a band without an orchestra. How? imagine.
I was a shit and had to piss, and got up in the middle of the show, it was fuckin painful sweat was pouring out of me…awful. So, Kevin picked up the tab, my friend you didn’t have to do that. Really. Don’t worry. Before you go, I have a pitch for you. Cover Ravi coming back to his house in Dix Hills and sharing his memories, I like it, but that’s not something I would edit, no - you’d need the features editor. Imagine if this works out.
I drew two sketches of the show, and had the men sign it. I will look so cool framed.

Reading Buk's Post Office in a day

2011-04-19T04:15:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday I went to the library to pick up a CD and to find a good book to read. The day before I finished Knut Hamsun’s Hunger while riding the train back home. I’ve been on a mission to read more often. In the past I would consider Bukowski’s Post Office as one of my all time favorites. I took out a paperback edition and read the whole thing in one day. For me that’s quite an accomplishment. My wife, Ali can tear through a book if it grabs her. I enjoyed the book, it was a good story, but was disturbed by the Bukowski’s alter ego, Henry Chinanski brutalized women, referred to his girl friend as bitch and the outright rape scenes. What sucks is that every woman wants to fuck Henry. To depict all women this way is an insult. This book was published in the era of women’s rights, bra burning and sexual equality, but this book kicks all these rights in the ass. Instead of getting distracted by this, I’d like to point out that his writing is bare minimum, straight shooter and at times had me laughing out loud. His boss was a sadist. They worked Henry to the bone. He played the horses. He was written up countless times by his superiors for any infraction, but he didn’t care and this is what appeals to most, his fuck you attitude. You can say its punk, but this was written by an older man at the insistence/encouragement of his publisher, John Martin who felt a novel would be more marketable. Poems could only sell so much, and I think Post Office was his first novel.

Mike Watt at Maxwell's

2011-04-07T18:44:00.000-07:00

So a couple of weeks ago I’m checking into the best radio show on Long Island Finn’s Revolution Tuesday Nights on WUSB. His guest was the legend Mike Watt from Minutemen and firehouse fame who released a new album, Hyphenated Man on his own record label, Clenched Fist. Do your ears and soul a favor - order a copy. The progressive, complex and erratic album is in your face – bold! Each song flows like a rock stuck deep in the grooves of a tire - smacking the pavement on a lone Nevada highway. The songs follow you. You know it’s there and it sounds like it belongs, that’s Watt – he belongs in our ears. On the radio, Watt was the wise master who spilled wisdom to the listeners, only possible by Finn’s knowledge of punk history. During the interview, there was a contest to give out copies of the new album and then another for tickets to see Watt and The Missingmen at Mercury Lounge. I won a copy of the CD and received the copy and the tix for the show the night before seeing them at the hollowed Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ. Eric and I rode in and passed under the tunnel and popped out in Jersey, took the first exit and took in the sites of the small city as we searched for parking. That took longer than driving through NY City! Anyway, we made it inside and saw the opening band. Ah, who was that? They were tight.
Inside the black walls, Mike Watt made his way to the stage - slowly with a limp through the crowd, wearing a yellow windbreaker. Once he hit the stage the cheers rose. The room smiled with Mike and the band played hyphenated man for the entirety – 30 songs and some Minutemen covers on the encore. Watt, standing stage right - in the back – shadows - had a black brace on his knee, but he bobbed and weaved – stood strong like an anchor - through the whole set and even bent over – played - behind the wicked basher drummer, Raul Morales. The amazing/screech guitarist, Tom Watson rocked into a sweaty frenzy.
So after you buy the album, you need to go see Mike Watt and The Missing Men. Here are five of my favorites off hyphenated-man.

Classic song: Hallowed-Man
Classic song: Cherry-Head-Lover-Man “The Lesson never lessens”
Classic song Mouse-Headed-Man
Classic song: Hill Man (get ready to kick up yar elbows you nitwits)
Classic song: Wheel-Bound Man

John Coltrane!

A review of A Dull Roar by Henry Rollins

2011-03-30T04:15:00.000-07:00

Henry Rollins, A Dull Roar is another journal of his life depicting events and moods in the spring and summer in 2006. The first half deals with his experiences getting his band back together & then hired and working on a film in Vancouver. After each entry is a short list of what Mr. Rollins ate and drank. The book like a life has a few themes, the first the movie and the second, the last tour with The Rollins Band. As with most of Rollins’ works I felt his pain as he honestly deals with depression and a constant struggle to maintain an internal and physical strength. The mind is a powerful weapon and Henry is - as he declares - is,” The Spear.”
If there is any question as to what makes this man tick, here as with most of his writing is an open door into the mind of Rollins. His themes revolve around an obsessive work habit, his experiences in his old band Black Flag, to his self induced isolation since he has little patience for anyone other than a few key players. In an amusing sidebar, Jeannie Garoafalo appears, she insists that Henry will paint her apartment next time he is in New York. The Rollins Band themselves is an assortment of characters, and yet throughout I felt there was a murky distance between Rollins and the players. He does not go into detail about what they’ve done since the last time they were together which was close to ten years. Doesn’t share if they married and had children, a little report would be satisfactory. I was left wondering what or who the other member were, but reading Rollins you need to prepare yourself since he writes about what he assumes the reader will find enlightening - himself and has little regard for others except for the writers, Wolfe and Fitzgerald. He’s obsessed with Tender Is the Night, and declares it’s his favorite book; I started reading it last night and was surprised by the flowery writing compared to Henry Miller who is another one of his favorites or some other French poets.
Other notable passages are when he goes back to his childhood in DC, and how important it is for him to get back at least once a year. There is a good scene when he hangs out with his long time friend Ian MacKaye. There are other scenes of meeting fans outside his bus and of course his discipline preparing for each performance.
I’m looking forward to reading more of his works, I appreciate his blunt and honest depictions, what’s intriguing is his passion for knowledge, his love of music is contagious, and yet I would always give the man his space to discover his demons.

Rise Above to save Coltrane's house

2011-03-22T19:08:00.000-07:00

http://thecoltranehome.org/letters/national-trust-for-historic-preservation

Monday 3 21 11
The John Coltrane house is in bad shape. The chimney and cap are in disrepair and the roof shingles in the back are bucking, which I’m sure has led to some leaks in the house. The back brick wall is cracked and the rear needs major renovation. As I stood outside the house this past Saturday I felt ashamed that the house was in such poor shape.
This was his last home and a landmark for the place where he composed A Love Supreme, one of the masterpieces in jazz. Research states Mr. Coltrane composed it upstairs in his study for days and only interrupted for meals. When it was finished he came downstairs and told his wife, Alice, “It is done.”
While writing a paper on Coltrane for college, I learned he lived in Dix Hills and is buried in Pine lawn cemetery. He passed at Huntington Hospital, the same hospital where his sons were born. Searching the internet there were a few articles I came across, and eventually came in contact with Steve Fulgoni who led a campaign to save the house from demolition. I had the pleasure to meet Steve at the Coltrane house and was given a tour inside. At the time, there were new doors installed and an alarm system, windows were fixed, and inside the living room pictures of how the house appeared when Alice and her children lived there in the early seventies.
The house was purchased by the town back in 2004. This is where my piece ends, since I have little details about the not-for-profit which raised funds to rebuild the house. I sent a letter asking Steve what progress has been made. Since Saturday there has been no response. At one time, there was a web site which depicted the work to save the house, articles in Newsday, News12, and letters from jazz musicians. Today, there is a blog, but little details since 2008.
Through meeting Steve, I was invited to attend the Alice Coltrane memorial at St. John Divine cathedral in New York. I’ll never forget seeing Ravi Coltrane, John’s second oldest son and an incredible saxophone player, sitting at the end of our aisle and crying when a short documentary was played of his mother. And at the end of the memorial standing near the alter and hugging or shaking hands to everyone who passed their condolences. I spoke to Michelle Coltrane, who was the oldest and remembered her step father smoking a pipe and playing with the kids. She had fond memories of the house. I also had the chance to meet and interview Rachied Ali, one of John’s drummers who passed last year.
So join me as I investigate what happened to saving the Coltrane house. Today, my goal is calling the town to learn who is in charge of the repairs. Maybe I’ll shoot off an email to Ravi, since I recall he was on the board of the non-for-profit.
Later I called Steve who received my email, money is the issue. The big investors need to see a professional restoration plan, which costs money to generate. We discussed the proposed plans, like concerts, but they cost money to generate. Have they reached out to Bill Cosby? No.
So I’d take up the challenge and push it to fruition. There are many good angels that Coltrane continues to bless.

Henry Rollins is 50 & back in Harrisburg & Philly

2011-03-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

It’s not common for my brother and me to hang out. Last Thursday was one of the rarities, we planned on seeing Henry Rollins in Philadelphia, but the show was sold out. I bought a ticket, before speaking to Dave, since I never know his plans. Also, let’s be honest, how many times have we bought that extra ticket for whom ever and it’s a bust. Anyway, I bought two tickets for his show in Harrisburg, PA. This was the first show back in the US on a shortened spoken word tour to celebrate his 50th birthday. After close to two hours on 76 heading west we arrived in Harrisburg. We passed the Howard Johnson’s on 83, where I stayed with Ali and the girls (don’t think Joe or Bella have been there) when we visited Hershey Park all of those years ago.
Harrisburg is a neat little town, some cool bars on the Main Street that we gearing up for St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a diverse town as well, since for the few hours we were in there, there was a decent mix of gay, African American, poor and rich, but most of the crowd at the venue were hipsters. I loved the fact there were a lot of young men and women, who beamed with an odd excitement for the appearance of the uncle of punk Henry Rollins.
The rapid two hour show was fantastic as Henry began with an apology; after all of these years of spoken word performances, this was his first show in the city. He described how he did not intentionally ignore Harrisburg. In fact Black Flag performed in the city a few times and he brought up some old haunts. He also described getting there the day before cause he wants to be prepared, visiting the local YMCA and coming in contact with drunks in the afternoon. ‘As if getting drunk in the afternoon is truly- taking it to the man!”
Mr. Rollins touched on the shows at Joe’s Pub in New York which started off the tour, and described walking up town in New York into a fierce headwind and coming across a man on the sidewalk hawking fur coats, “Get yar fur coats here! You know you want one!” Mr. Rollins has an incredible ability to mimic, but he is conscientious enough to know he should not mimic everyone in case he sounded xenophobic - as was his reason not to share a mimic of a North Korean performer.
And that is essentially the show, his travels to China, Beijing and the thick pollution and how he pretends to lick off the pollution off his fingers. Off to North Korea and his escapes to allude to truth to his ever present tour guards that he is a journalist. Off to Vietnam and his hysterical tour guide, Kong. “Can I call you Mr. Kong?” The man replied, “You can call me Mister, you can call me Kong, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.” I will add, "John McCain is an angry man." See the show and you'd get the joke.
Henry’s story of his first ever visit to the local Cosco with Heidi his official office staff, is worth the ticket. He shares his disdain for our large American diet on fast food, our cells dying as they cling for life, but the best was when he came to the literature section and finding mostly conservative books, “Hannity, Palin, Bush. “ This led to reading President Bush’s Decision Points out loud. He said it was written by ghost writers, “Not the ghosts of the thousands of troops killed or innocent Iraqi citizens…” The master at mimic was at full force. He had an audience of one who laughed out loud and from another (who was offended) a stare that tried to shut him up, Rollins glared him down and recited out loud…the other eventually huffed off defeated.

**Let me add something, his story when he confronted Dennis Hopper had me on the floor**

Closing the show, he reflected on what bits of wisdom he could impart. Throughout the show he said he responds to all emails. He does. There are some young men and women who ask his ten favorite books and for his musical choices. Let me add, do yourself a favor and buy both editions of Fanatic, his books on his musical tastes, there only $5 off his website. In Harrisburg, he shared how he downloaded a large file onto a teenager’s computer while visiting his parents, and over dinner the young man said, “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“The Stooges”
In Philly he was proclaiming we are the generation to change the world, which he did not blare in Harrisburg. He pumped up as he bid farewell and saluted us. The lights went on and we were off into the warm night.
So this is where I will impart my wisdom, if you’ve seen one show on this tour, there is no need to spend another chuck of cash cause you’re going to get exactly the same - performance. He is a true performance artist.
On Friday I saw Mr. Rollins again, this time alone at the World Café in Philly. I heard the same jokes, same pauses as he gets “sidetracked” and back to his stories, the same reactions, and facial expressions. There were little changes, but there is no need to go to more than one show. That being said, I am a new Henry Rollins fan and look forward to next year as he launches a longer tour which will bring into a town near you. Now back to reading his book, A Dull Roar.

For the blaggards and bastards on St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T03:29:00.000-07:00

My ma comes from Dublin. For years I was raised as an Irish Catholic with minimal historical references or interferences from my father’s side. When I’m told, you don’t sound like you’re from New York, I explain, my ma’s from Dublin and she corrected my native pronouncements - if I sounded like my father who’s from Brooklyn – I was corrected.
When I’d bring my friends over and they met ma they’d ask her about Ireland. When I was young, the questions revolved around dancing leprechauns, thick pots of gold and the elusive four leaf clover. For the record, these are the general interests that still lead some tourists to the emerald isle.
My childhood was different, I took Irish step dancing and to this day know to hold the sides of my pants, and to synch my steps in silence, kick out and in and one two three four…I was taught by Gerry Mulgahill, one of the country’ s best Irish step dancing teachers in a church basement in Kings Park. I wanted to play hurtling and Irish football. We were raised to be proud of our heritage, even getting into flights with the O’Brien’s who swore they were more Irish then we were cause their Dad was Irish. Yeah, good luck getting an Irish passport your ignorant twits, both of your parents were born here. I still have some hostility!
Looking back at pictures my cousin Colleen posted on Facebook, we appeared like thin rashers in rags, but that’s the way it was in our neighborhood, the kids cared little about the name tags and stayed out till dark playing sports on the street, fighting and building forts. If my uncles came over, they always wanted to know – not what grades I got or sports I played, but the fights I got into. “Tell us about your last fight Mick.” I’d go into detail with the last fight and share the blood and gore and hear the encouraging words, “Way to go Mick.”
I’ve been to Ireland four times in my life. One of the first was when we made an emergency landing in Cork, it was scary, seeing my Ma and my Aunt Betty whispering prayers, grabbing my hand and the stewardess’ making an announcement to keep our heads as down low as much as possible. For the record, the reason why they’d tell you to keep your heads low so they don’t fly off your spine when you make impact at couple of hundred miles an hour. Your hips are being held down, that loose head of yours can make a nice projectile.
On one trip my granda took me to the zoo, it started raining and he wrapped me under his coat, his warm body and the scent that I slept next to each night was soothing. That’s right, I slept next to my granda who’d have to get up each night and pee in a plastic bucket that he kept under the bed. A steady stream would sound like a drum roll. The last trip was when I visited my grandmother, just after high school. When I arrived at the airport, I was given a lift into the city by some airport workers who got off their shift, just because the Irish are known for being out going and pleasant, no other reason and of course they asked if I wanted to hit the pub.
“Let him see his grand,” one said and I was left at the bus depot and found the number 8.
When stepping into the house in Kimmage, I remembered the scent of burning black bricks of peat in the small fireplace in the living room, the tight quarters and to imagine this house held 8 children at one time. Grand made me a tea and toast and we caught up on the family and how happy she was that her Mick was there. Although I was happy to be there I missed my granda, and I wished he came back from the kitchen and sat down with us. We’d run off to church to say a prayer…
Lighting the candles in a darkened church, the scent of sulfur, a flame licked the glowing glass orange inside and retained my blessings…
On one of those early trips, in the small back yard, there was chicken coup, and it was there I fell off the roof and landed on a pile of boards, I remember pulling a thin board off and feeling the nail tug out of my flesh. It was there in the backyard, at night, under the Irish stars my granda taught me how to box - left from the shoulders, quick and right, that’s grand Michael. Swing your weight with your hips. His smile and the resplendent stars at night, the thin moon and cats, or were they banshees that howled? Tucked in the corner of the backyard, was where the outhouse was. Sitting on the seat early in the morning was painful. Ma told me when she was growing up they’d have to use ripped newspaper, so I was happy to have the thin wax paper like toilet paper, newspaper would be too harsh, but I guess it’s better than some leaves… even back in the seventies and eighties, an outdoor toilet was uncommon.
There wasn’t a shower, but a big tub in the kitchen that grand ma would fill with hot water so to take a bath.
I’m writing this for St. Patrick’s Day and there is so much to read about the Irish civilization. Do me a favor and read the last page of James Joyce, Abbey and learn how to describe raw emotions, watch The Quiet Man with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara who was the Irish celebrity till U2 and before them Thin Lizzy. Try some Irish soda bread. Read about the horrors of the Irish famine which killed millions. Imagine hearing the screams of the starving children. Learn more about the conflict with Northern Ireland and thank God peace has settled on the place. Ireland has transformed itself, for awhile the Celtic tiger was growling in the world’s economy, but it lasted briefly. Unemployment is high again and on All Souls Day they’d build bonfires like they’ve done for centuries…
All of these memories are whooshing back as I’m typing this on the train. Thinking of Mick Doran who is the main character in my novel Killer Commute on Champagne Books. Mick was born in Ireland and is a former professional boxer, like my granda, those who recognized him would call him champ. Doran is my mother’s maiden name and you know where Mick comes from. Still, I’m not like Mick Doran, he is a homicide detective and almost twenty years older, besides he a hypochondriac. My granda was a saint and a health machine, walked for miles each day and kept his mind on positive thinking, he was hit by a car in Dublin, but got up and brushed himself off and waved off any assistance, he said he wanted to finish his walk and didn’t want the interruptions like an ambulance or a hospital.
God bless William Doran in heaven.

Something new in the works...book release party?

2011-03-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Writing a new piece for Monk Press, and for now I’m writing without a title. It’s nice to be back typing the keys. On the train and I really need to move to an open seat where I could move my elbows. I’m in the single seat which faces another single directly. Feeling constrained. Commuters line up in the aisle before we pull into the station; I’m afraid some can look over my hands and see the words. Mind your own business.
We’re having a book release party and I hope some can make it. We’re investing a lot into this event, well not a crazy amount, but enough that I’m now thinking – this may not be a great idea. I’ m not sure how many will attend – if anyone other than family. Maybe a few friends?
Note, last night Ali and I discussed and thought we may need to cancel the event, is becoming too expensive. Hope the hall agrees to pay back some of the money…

Meeting Michael Stipe, Patty Smith is my hero, Tibet House 2011

2011-03-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday I ate my dinner at the Cracker Barrel in Trevose, PA. After I finished I headed up to NYC to meet Ali and Amanda and Emma Tess at Carnegie Hall. The show began at 7:30 and I just made it to my seat as Robert Thurman walked on the stage and spoke about Tibet House, it was a benefit concert for the foundation.
Tibet House US is dedicated to preserving Tibet’s unique culture at a time when it is confronted with extinction on its own soil. By presenting Tibetan civilization and its profound wisdom, beauty, and special art of freedom to the people of the world, we hope to inspire others to join the effort to protect and save it.

Tibet House US is part of a worldwide network of Tibetan institutions committed to ensuring that the light of the Tibetan spirit never disappears from the face of this earth.
Our seats were up at the top balcony, but the acoustics in the auditorium are perfect. The ornate ceiling, stucco walls with gold trims were pristine. After a blessing for a prosperous new year by a group of monks, the performers hit the stage. The reason we attended was to see Michael Stipe, but before he sung, Patty Smith recited a haunting Rimbaud poem as her daughter played piano and her friend on the xylophone. All of the performers were incredible, from Jesse McCartney, Taj Mahal, Angelique Kidjo, The Roots, Flaming Lips, who were the most excited to be on the stage. I loved the fact Philip Glass plays and MC's the show. We're blessed to have all of these gifted artists on the same stage.

It was a good night. After the show,I had an opportunity to give Michael a copy of Killer Commute. Before I saw him, I signed the book and scribbled in frozen black ink my email address. A minute later he bolts out the stage door and headed back to the waiting car as fast as possible. Shit, he ain’t talking to a little crowd waiting. Signs a few things, CDS…some guy walks next to him and holds up a camera to get them in the shot, flash. He signed the copy of Killer Commute as he kept walking - quickly. I explained, it was his copy, and he looked up, “oh, I thought you wanted me to sign it. Thank you.” He was gone, I didn’t get the full attention, I felt like I was in a rush…my heart was racing. Hey Michael, this is my novel. I used lyrics from Mr. Richards…scribbles his name…I held it as he walked on and caught myself…no, I need to give him the book instead of holding it! Mission accomplished. Thank you.

Homeless in DC and lessons for my children

2011-02-28T05:21:00.000-08:00

After visiting the Library of Congress we walked a few blocks down to the News museum. There were homeless sleeping on the sidewalks in Washington DC. Our national’s capital may not be equipped to care for the homeless? We live in the world’s richest country, we are the most productive, land of freedom and opportunity, and yet bundled up in blankets on a bench is a life. I remember twenty five years ago marching for student’s rights for minorities, and not allowed to sleep on Federal property, the metro police were out that night in force with a parade of motorcycles beaming their headlights into the temporary tent we set up. The officers would walk through and tell us not to lie down and gave directions to a homeless shelter. A few of us gave in. I wanted to experience a night in a shelter. We were given a blanket and told to watch our shoes and wallets, and given a spot on the floor in the church’s gymnasium. When I fell asleep there were a few of us on the floor. When I woke up, the place was packed. Many of the homeless choose to sleep on the streets. I see the bundles down on JFK Blvd in Philadelphia when I go out for a morning run, and I see them beg for money when I’m out for appointments. Before we took our train back to the hotel, a man was standing at the entrance for the metro station with a plastic cup. His face looked haggard and I put in a few coins in the cup, thinking of Jesus and showing my children that we can help in our own way. What surprised me last night was when I drove over to a friend’s house to pick up our dog, and Bella used the term hobo. It’s such an old expression, but we talked about being homeless and I pointed out, it’s not just men on the streets you see, but women and children your age. I hope they both don’t use the term hobo again since its derogatory, which was the word we learned last night.

Our Trip to DC - so far

2011-02-26T04:50:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in the darkened hotel room at the Greenbelt Marriott. The staff is very courteous and I’d recommend this place to anyone who is considering a trip to DC. It’s not in city, in fact it’s in Maryland, but we’re a quarter mile away from the Metro station. To get into the city, takes approx 45 minutes.
We left Port Jeff later than expected, since I had some work to do. On the way down we stopped at the Cracker Barrel off exit 5 on the New Jersey Turnpike. It was early enough so I ordered a stack of peach pancakes, side of turkey sausage and coffee and orange juice. The food hit the spot and after spending some money on the little bums we headed back on the road. From Cracker Barrel it took about 2.5 hours. From Ronkonkoma, it took roughly two hours. Traffic was easy all the way since we left after the morning commute.
So we checked in and relaxed, the kids hit the pool and Ali and I prepared for our night at the Kennedy Center to see Bill T Jones Dance performance of Fondly we Hope, Fervently we pray. Seeing it in DC was appropriate since the dance is based on the life of Lincoln and his family, with much focus on Mary. I bought the tickets the day they went on sale back in December. We took the Metro and a shuttle from the Foggy Bottom station to us to the Kennedy Center. I expected the performance to blow me away, and I was not let down. The visuals, the music and the incredible artistry of the dancers were beautiful. I’m happy we made it, but when we got back to the hotel, my mother-in-law told us how sick Amanda became. Throwing up…must’ve been something she ate. She suffered a similar bout when they came back from Cape Cod for her sweet 16 trip.
Yesterday, Mo cheeks and Grammy stayed back as well as Papa, and the rest made our way to DC to see get a tour of the White House. It’s been years since I was in the building, the last time must have been when Carter was in office. I expected small groups were allowed access, but there was a line. School groups, church groups, families, it was a fast line, but I missed the idea this was a rare event for a few special folks. After getting through security, twice when they checked our ID – we were in. The secret service guard inside explained it’s a self guided tour, the faster you go, the more you miss, so take your time. Also, ask questions, they are secret service, but they must learn the facts of the White House. Last night there was a Mo Town show, Stevie Wonder performed, as well as others, the show will be on PBS next month. Passing through the halls of the White House, the antique, pristine furniture and paintings depicting the presidents and natural landscapes was humbling. And I’d remind myself, this is where he holds press conferences, this is where they lay in state if they pass while in office, where Lincoln and Kennedy were. What about McKinley? The heavy window curtains, the wall paper in the Yellow room and Green rooms, and all the time, I’d look outside since all of these years we have been looking from the outside in. I saw a few tourists looking at the house, and studied the magnolia tree, heavy limbs supported by wires. There were no photographs allowed inside, so we snapped away like everyone else once we got outside.
Eventually Joe met us. We ate lunch at the spy museum café. Avoid the café, the food was horrible! I went across to the National Portrait Gallery, and art museum, they took in the spy museum. I love this museum and could spend hours in there. There’s a section on folk art, which contains works from Rev Finster and so many others.
Today we’re off to DC again. I don’t know where, but I hope Amanda and Grammy join us. If anyone is feeling ill, I suggested to Ali that we head back home. I can’t see the point

Half The Sky

2011-02-21T05:22:00.000-08:00

Written on 2/18/11 on the LIRR to New Hyde Park

Yesterday I woke up in Malvern PA - it was a busy day, my first appointment was at 8:30, and another at 10:00, and then a lunch and learns at 12:00; which took around three hours. After dropping off the rental and filling up the car, I made it home after 7:30. Made a salad for dinner and had a yogurt.
I’ve been reading Half The Sky and will participate in a book club at church. After watching a documentary on Frontline on sex slaves and reading this book my mind has been transformed. The insidious nature of prostitution and our misogynic attitude has destroyed the welfare of societies. Predators have waged a wining war on poor women, and the most poor are the most vulnerable. With false promises of a better life through jobs, they are stolen and sold into sex trafficking. Once there, they are physically and mentally tortured and drugged to comply with any demands. Just this week, our western world was shocked by the gang rape by a group of men in Egypt on a CBS reporter. In comparison to the stories in Half The Sky, all of us should get doses of reality checks. It’s not uncommon for young girls to be brutally raped or disfigured. The missing element in these societies had been the lack of education. Universal education should be standard, not only for women, but for men as well. If a woman is schooled, there are greater benefits for their society. They have fewer children; they become leaders in their villages, entrepreneurs, nurses and doctors. There is hope. We need to be conscientious. Instead of writing a check to help a cause, roll up your sleeves and assist. As I’m writing this, I have an intention to go back to Guatemala, but in my own back yard, there are young girls who are growing up in poverty and are becoming victims.

Listening to NPR this morning, there is a story on Afghan women and abuse they're encountering, shelters are fronts to prostitution? Many women are forced into marrying their rapist out of shame.

Book Review, Mosley and Rollins

2011-02-03T16:43:00.000-08:00

January 31: Book Review
Walter Mosley’s Fearless Jones was a decent book to read on the commute. Decent, but not a grabber and a little confusing to keep up with all of the characters. This book introduced us to a new character, Paris Milton a used book store owner who suddenly gets tied up in international swindle. Who else can protect him, the one and only Fearless Jones who was imprisoned and forgotten? It’s more than that, but I think he was stretching the plot too much and in the end sewed it back as best he could. Many characters were killed and all somehow were involved in this mysterious monetary bond that had immeasurable value. He threw in a corrupt cop and preacher, and of course the holocaust for good measure, but decided to leave the Nazi’s out of this story. If you want to learn how to create a character, Mosley is a great guide. He captured the early sixties as best he could, incorporating racism, segregation and deep rooted beliefs held by some African Americans. There are times in this book when you feel the pulse of the writer’s creativity and other times when you’d scratch your head and ask where the fuck is this going? Who is that, how do they tie in? Maybe if I read it on a weekend, the book would appeal to me more.

February 2:
Black Coffee Blues Do I Come Here Often? Book II
Henry Rollins hits it with this book. This is my second Rollins book, which contains articles and interviews he wrote and conducted for various magazines. You’d learn more about Rollins as he describes his respect for David Lee Roth and how Nugent was pissed off when the audience at his concert was chanting for the opening band, Van Halen. Johnny Lee Hooker is interviewed as well and we’re warned that the man did not speak. But he opens up for Henry, sharing some stories, his affinity for Van Morrison, that in itself is an incredible endorsement. I’m going to research some of the other musicians who he said were overlooked by mainstream media. Other pieces describe the first Lollapalooza tour, speaking word engagements. He writes about visiting a dying teenager in Australia, bleeding lips and with sores in his mouth who was shocked when Henry came to visit him. Included is a visit to his old neighborhood, and he writes honestly about his parents and his feelings for them. Alright, these emotions, like love is what was missing from Broken Summers, this guy can write and open it up. I actually laughed out loud a few times, describing his disdain for passengers on a small aircraft in Spain, and teenagers on another flight. The women who constantly throw themselves and one in particular who he tries to explain she doesn’t have to do those things, later he sees her coming out of tour bus wiping her mouth, after being with many and looking away embarrassed.

Thoughts while riding in an empty train

2011-01-28T04:07:00.000-08:00

Here it comes. Listening to Sonic Youth on the train. Tonight we’re expecting more snow. I don’t want to talk about the weather. That would bore you. What happens on the train as we approach St. James? Nothing but silent heads getting tossed. It’s quiet in the train. This is the time when we contemplate the day we left. This time can be used for self introspection, intoxication and frustration. You can listen to music or watch a movie on the laptop. Read a book. Do some more work and rise like a star in your company. I type this and get distracted by my Blackberry. Let the water run in the river. We pull out of Smithtown and there’s nothing but snow faintly lit by dim street lights. Cars are tombs. We crash under our blankets and wish for dreams to erupt from the deep, let me sleep. About this time I’m hungry and wish for some dinner. I’d like to have something to eat now. It’s warm in the train. Next week I’m heading up to Toronto and presenting to the sales staff up there. Afterwards we are going out to dinner and then back to my hotel for a night of sleep in Canada. We’re pulling into St. James and I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of the black shoes I see. The platforms are covered in snow and the commuters trudge through wet snow. Where is the cleanup crew? Keeping warm since we’re expecting more snow and shit. Still, listening to Sonic Youth. Met a girl from Northport who is studying massage therapy, former English student…gave her my Newsday essay. I think I have some more copies. Reading Walter Mosley, Fearless Jones. So far it’s a damn good book. Looks like a house still has their Christmas lights on. The commuters recognize one another and discuss the weather, how’s it going? Stony Brook station. You have to know what you want. It’s surprising. See you tomorrow, have a good day. It’s 6:25. We’re about to pull out of Stony Brook. At this time the train is virtually empty except for a man in the Emergency row and a woman who waddles down the aisle as we get thrown about on the steel tracks. I think tomorrow I’m working from home, just a hunch. I don’t want to get stuck on the train. It’s time to wrap up this puppy.

Newsday publishes my essay

2011-01-15T08:21:00.000-08:00

http://www.newsday.com/opinion/oped/a-commuter-s-ticket-to-inspiration-1.2610397

bella's birthday, let us take a moment

2011-01-08T19:15:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Isabella’s birthday, our youngest is turning 8. The youngest of 4, Bella as she prefers to be called is an independent spirit like no other. Bella at times rules the house with her demands and a deafening volume that blasts out from a mouth. I feel she will become to next Ethel Merman, I’m going to try to add a link to You Tube in this post. Today, we celebrated her birthday. Now to be honest, we know that two weeks ago we were celebrating Christmas. Bella like my dad who was born two weeks before Christmas is a short changed through life, since both don’t have the day like most of us have had or will continue to have. Your birthday is the day the earth stops around you. No chores for the birthday boy or girl, and they can have anything for breakfast. You want chocolate cake, you got it. But two weeks after Christmas, we’re trying to sharpen our minds, get back the normalcy of life, work and school. These days it feels the earth pauses for a moment, but there’s a sense of let’s move on. There’s work to do. For my Bella boo, as I call her, I will try to take a step back and remind myself, being 8 is limited to months. This is our birthday girl. Before you know it, like her older sisters, who are now teenagers, life steams past us. Take a moment and celebrate the day.

Henry Rollins - Broken Summers

2011-01-02T18:01:00.000-08:00

This past week I read Broken Summers by Henry Rollins. I bought a used copy in Cambridge MA and I would glace at the copy now and then. My goal this week was completing The Clinton Tapes. Instead I settled on something easier. Rollins is an easy writer to sink your teeth into, but I found his redundant themes of running into babbling drunks near his bus or back stage at the shows or how often he’d snicker at the USA, spelling America with a K or two…and he’s always on the move. What’s he running from? Facing his demons? Accepting he is vulnerable? What are missing were any real emotions or a girlfriend. Come on Henry tell us more about your infatuation with Cheryl Crowe. Other than hate, there is little else of substance in this book. He mentioned his upbringing, but did not go into detail. His parents divorced when he was younger, and remembers getting hauled off by his mother. That was about it. Rollins even assumed his grandmother may have been alive when his tour brought him to Detroit, but he hadn’t spoken to her in years. What kind of machine is this? Then again he’s in his early forties when the book was written, and I got the sense there was an adolescent masquerading as a middle aged man. The inner squabbles between his old Black Flag band mate is bush league. Here’s the gist of the book, after his recent spoken word tour Henry has a brilliant idea; record a benefit album of Black Flag covers and tour to raise funds for the Memphis three. The three are three wrongfully imprisoned young men for the murders of three young boys, but I never learned why they were wrongly imprisoned, just they got the shaft from the judicial system. Rollins had the gall to compare flying in a jet for hours to these young men who are in solitary? What the fuck? In fact before writing this I learned more details in a few paragraphs from a blog. The book ends without sharing details like how much did the tour and album raise? The three needed money for a DNA test, and this was a few years ago. Instead there are two more essays that left me feeling as if Rollins needed some filler. I’m not going to abandon Rollins writing based on one book. I respect his endurance and fight for social justice – around the world. His macho crap is over the top and reminds me of a few friends I had years ago, they always looked for a fight but backed down the moment you looked them in the eye. One shot was all they needed to cower, like a barking dog, their bark is worse than their bite. I was interested in attending one of his shows at Joe’s Pub in NYC next month; all the shows are sold out, but after reading this, I’m going back to listening to his music and reading some…more…Henry.

Finding time to write: A transition

2010-12-31T12:02:00.000-08:00

Finding the time to write takes discipline and time management. Most of us are inspired by thoughts of escaping the family by writing poetry in sealed cards, think of Raymond Carver. When I shared the news that my novel was released, I received a collection of expressions. Surprise was the first, followed by questions such as, “Where do you find the time to write? I didn’t know you wrote? What is the novel about? Do you think they’d make it into a movie?” This brings me to this essay. I have loved writing since I was a boy; I’d sit on top of the staircase landing and write stories or draw. The stories were not important to me, it was the fact I was using my imagination and could feel this simmering joy. I was tapping into a force, some call it Zen others the force of God, creating…whatever it was, I was at peace in the world in my little corner on top of the landing.
For many years I followed the paths that other writers made. Like Kerouac I joined the Navy and worked as a merchant marine. I was also a house painter, construction worker, farm hand. I had some short stories published and poetry. But I was avoiding the practicality life. Being responsible for my actions, my savings, pursuing a college degree and finding a career were not acceptable. I was the grand escape artist who wanted to live many lives, experience the rush of life and barely survive; I wanted to suffer for my art until a friend told me life should not be about suffering. After years of running I realized I was lost.
Life blesses us, we adapt to our struggles and surroundings. I settled down, married a beautiful articulate woman and we began to raise our children on shared principles like respect and love. My writing eventually drifted back to the weekends and only when the chores and bills were paid. If I was lucky I wrote for a few hours on Saturday. The more children we had the less time there was to write. With four children, my passion to write was transferred to watching my loves become amazing individuals.
When my hours changed at work and I was frequently late. My boss suggested leaving the house earlier, but I was already on the road for an hour and a half each way. I could leave at 6:45 to start at 9…but he also suggested looking into the train. What a great suggestion. Commuting was a blessing. I discovered the lost time and could use the ride to write. One night while on the train I was alone in the cabin and realized anyone could take me out and there would be no witnesses. That moment was the inspiration for Killer Commute. I don’t complain if the fares go up or if there are delays. The train has salvaged my simmering joy.

What Gives? The Clinton Tapes

2010-12-03T14:36:00.000-08:00

Hey what gives? There were not entries in November? It’s Friday and I’m on the train about to pull out of Huntington. I’ve been reading The Clinton Tapes, but overall it’s too compact for the historical events, it almost seems as if each paragraph touches on something of importance. What’s disturbing is Clinton’s rationale for asking Taylor Branch for his opinions, Haiti for example, becoming almost a mediator between Clinton and Aristide? From the sound of it, Branch had the idea for Hillary’s first book? The overall access Taylor Branch and his family had to the President is surprising. Let me clarify his meetings were planned in advance for when Clinton had an opportunity to discuss recent events. But I’m left with the feeling President Clinton had time on his hands. Not only to conduct the “secret” interviews and playing cards and reading, watching movies, Clinton did not care for Pulp Fiction. We’re given an insider’s perspective of the lives of the first family. From eating breakfast in their robes, to doing homework with Chelsea, life continues as it normally would. And in contrast we have history, the relations with Russia, Bosnia, England, but I’m just skimming the service. As I’m writing this, I realize, I’m enjoying this book…

Re Elect Tim Bishop for congress 1st District New York

2010-10-29T05:21:00.000-07:00

This year’s election the whole family has been supporting our congressman, Tim Bishop for re-election. The polls indicate it’s a tight race, but for my youngest daughter’s sake, I hope Tim wins. She will be very disappointed and I’m not sure how she’s going to take it. The whole family will be depressed, but we know the reality of politics. In our case, we’ve seen Gore win and lose. The other night Bella was watching TV, when a commercial for the opponent came on. “Lies! They’re all lies,” she said when the commercial mentioned Tim was for raising taxes, had bad hair and smelled horrible. Bella is seven. I think we’re raising a political monster. There is only black and white in her mind, either you’re with us or against us. Our oldest daughter Amanda has been diligently working on the campaign, and let me add here, all of us have put in some time – and for our hard work we had the opportunity to meet Bill Clinton before Wednesday’s rally at Stony Brook University. We were invited as part of a VIP group to have our picture taken with the president and Tim. The VIP group included state senator Brian Foley, the Brookhaven Dems director Jon Schneider and Suffolk Dems Rich and Mr. Jacobs, the State Dem chairman and others, but there was only about 20 in the lobby. In fact, we were the only family. In the Stony Brook gym, more than 2,000 flowed in to see the president and congressman Bishop and it was a great rally, a get out the vote to the students who are vital in this year’s election. I’m writing this on the train, since this morning I handed our literature to hundreds of fellow commuters before they boarded the train. Got out of bed around 4:30 and went for a run and heard a call at 5:30…and another at 5:45! 8 cops from the Suffolk PBA were waiting for me to hand our literature! And we did it together. It may be a tight race, but as Bella’s homemade sign states on the headquarters door, Tim Bishop will win!

How I received permission from REM to use their lyrics in my novel

2010-10-24T17:43:00.000-07:00

While writing Killer Commute, REM’s album Accelerate was released. The fourth song on the album is titled Mr. Richards; the music jumped out at me. I wanted to use some of the mysterious lyrics, as well as the name Mr. Richards in the novel. You should know; I’ve been an REM fan since walking the five miles to buy a copy of their album Murmur, and saw them for the first time open for The Police at Shea Stadium. In order to use the lyrics I needed permission and I was directed to the right source through REM’s manager, Bertis who was very helpful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnUyEYF8tv8&feature=fvw
This is how my mind worked: how can I use the lyrics in the murder mystery? From the hypochondriac veteran Detective’s point of view, “they know what’s going on.” From the insane killer’s perspective, “We’re the children of the choir.”
Please allow me some conjecture on the song; Mr. Richards is a full blown assault, a constant pulse pulling me into a wall of sound. It is very different from a typical REM song. Though who can pigeon hole them anymore? Almost thirty years ago critics would recall the Byrds when REM’s guitarist Peter Buck broke onto the scene with his sparse guitar playing. Compare the song HarborCoat from their 1984 release Reckoning, to their 2004 release Under the Sun, the song Leaving New York. I could speculate on the changes and write something didactic - the transformation is attributed to age and advanced technology, but both are bull shit responses. We evolve. Our tastes and our lives move on. Which brings me back to Mr. Richards and the reason for this entry; I’d love to learn the musical influences for the song. I recently listened to their album Green, and thought of Turn You Inside Out – it is the closest REM song to compare to Mr. Richards.
If you’re an REM fan and interested to read my novel Killer Commute, it’s available as an E Book and paperback on Champagne Books. I’m considering running a contest; the person who counts correctly the number of REM references that are in the book will win a signed REM item. Hint: John Stipe, Peter Buck and Mike Mills appear as well. Let me know if you’re interested, but you’d need to buy the book. Look for details of the contest early next year.
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/product&path=27_49&product_id=205

Last day at the beach, a post I wrote but didn't post

2010-10-18T15:46:00.000-07:00

Taking in the last days of summer, on Saturday afternoon, I took Joe and Bella down to the beach. We knew it would high tide, a favorite game is guessing what the tide would be, it’s a habit of mine to ask before making the sharp turn towards Cedar Beach. The water lapped onto the side of the road. No one checked our beach tag, the post was deserted. It appeared as if one parking lot was closed for a fair. I parked the mini-van and we made our way down to the water. The waves were high since the winds were strong, and from the West faint cool cries of autumn were droning in. There were few bathers, the life guard chairs were removed as well as the rope that borders where the public bathers can dip into the water. There were no bi-planes, but one guy was flying a big fish synthetic kite. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drank juice. The food hit the empty spots in our bellies and we paraded back into the clear water and conducted acrobatics for the curious on lookers. Later that night, we heard the thunderous distant explosions from a fire-works show from the fair. We ran over to the train station and raced up the bridge to look over trees and into the distance, and watched the tiny colorful shots expand for a second or two before the show was over. How many more days of summer will there be?

When your child is in the hospital

2010-10-18T15:40:00.000-07:00

When one of your children is sick the world fades away. When one of your children is in a hospital, life trembles and revolves around visits to the confined sterile room, medical updates, and our uneducated speculations. The house was emptier without my wife and Emma Tess. The child was suffering with some sort of virus, couldn’t keep anything in and even drinking a teaspoon of water brought intense pain, which lasted almost three weeks. It’s been less than a week since had her gall bladder removed. She's only fourteen. Wednesday will be a week since I picked them up at Stony Brook University Hospital. Finally the doctors came to an agreement. Tests were indicating the gall bladder was failing, and thank God her symptoms were not caused by something more serious. Watching her pale face, the sad eyes and listening to the demure voice was upsetting; her voice was hoarse when she came out of surgery. Drug induced stupor; she looked too distant from the world. My Emma Tess is back home. Thank God.

Charles Bukowski edits one of my poems

2010-09-09T18:48:00.000-07:00

So what was it like to have Charles Bukowski edit one of my poems? How did it happen? These are the questions when my secret gets out. It’s not something I usually share, but I thought it would be a good blog entry.
I didn’t know who Charles Bukowski was until a fellow student in my writing class at Purchase College said my work reminded him of Buk’s. I forget the student’s name, but he looked like a dark creature with faded scars on his face, sad warped eyes and banged up, stained yellow teeth. He wanted me to write for his local paper, but I had heard somewhere that journalism ruined many fiction writers. Not interested I declared! What an ignorant twit I was…and still am in some ways. Anyway, I wasn’t sure how to take the comparison to Bukowski. Another student said my work reminded her of a David Lynch film. What? But I read up on Buk and learned he was a poet as well. I found a used copy of Tales of Ordinary Madness, which is a collection of his shorts. The original title, something about erections… would cause all of his works to be banned from my parent’s house. I was not impressed and to be honest, I was a little insulted to be compared to him. Buk was a stark difference to what I then considered literature: John Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner & Ian Flemming. Not sure why I added Ian, but it gives you an idea of where my mind was. Oh, to be ignorant. I searched for his poetry at the book stores and couldn’t find any, so I figured he wasn’t a good poet till I came across one of his poems in an English lit text book. I liked the poem, and if I remember it was about his fondness for the color yellow. Years ago there was a thick book in the Port Jefferson library which included the addresses of American authors. It gave a brief summary and a bio. Bukowski was born in Germany and I imagined his struggles with the English language and assumed he had an accent. I wrote a letter to Buk asking who influenced his work and if he would read my poems. I included three poems I had scribbled that weekend in pencil and sent them off.
He wrote back. I can still see the hand written envelope and then opening up the letter on blue pages. He said he received many letters just like mine. “I’m too hung over to write the good stuff so I respond to yours.” And he mentioned something I wrote in my letter, “luckily you like Tolstoy, I found him to be a bore.” He did edit one of the poems. “Your poem needs tightening it should read…” I will find the letter and make a copy and attach it to this entry in the near future. His influences, Li Po, Fante (I had heard of neither) Dostoevsky…and some others.
After the first letter there were a couple of others. I read more of his works and found books of his poetry and read some of his short story collections. I sent him copies of the comic books he did with R Crumb which he signed and mailed back. Another time, I found a picture in a lit magazine of him sitting in his office at his desk; radio against the wall, an electric typewriter with stiff keys waiting to be struck and I imagined his German accent whispering to the photographer, hurry up and take the fuchin ‘ shot. After he passed, Black Sparrow published some books of his letters. I had the opportunity to speak to John Martin, the publisher. When I mentioned the letter, he said it was rare, for the fact that Buk had edited the poem and I should hold onto it, but he could not use the letter.
I need to find the letter.
Tell you what, if you’re interested in reading one of my shorts and a poem, I will send them to you. Send me an email and let me know after you read the work if I still write like Buk.
trainwriter@gmail.com
If you’re truly courageous, than please buy a copy of my novel, Killer Commute on Champagne Books
www.Champagnebooks.com

Running shakes off the Blues

2010-08-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

I try to run every other day. Mornings are best, but when I feel days have passed and a little sluggish, I’d get home after work and go out for a 3 mile run. Avoiding the blues, lethargic, even sick, I push myself and get out. Running is not difficult for me, there’s not a lot pain. This summer there were extreme humid days and I should have skipped those days, breathing was difficult, my muscles ached since they were not receiving the rich oxygen; I stopped running and would walk losing time and feeling the pressure of getting on the road to work. Of course the spring and summer are best. Getting out with a long sleeve t-shirt that soaks up the sweat is best. My sneakers are light and I try to run in shorts as often as possible. My faded orange baseball cap had sucked and dried up layers of white sweat stains. Sometimes I assume strangers look at me and guess if I played ball. Thoughts swirl back and forth, and there have been some satoris or awakenings during some runs. My writing has been effected in a positive way, the ideas of a scene – how it would develop - the narration, a character emerges or a scene shifts and when I get home I try to remember it all. When I travel I like to run in different cities, there’s an intimacy with the streets and the landmarks that only a runner can have. At home, there are a few occasions when I go out for long runs, to the end of the Port Jefferson harbor where the boats and ferries pass through a narrow opening…big rocks…the desolation of shells and abandoned wrecks. Those runs are rare, but when I get one in, I feel a closer connection to God and send off prayers in the salty breezes.

Fargo

2010-08-22T19:35:00.000-07:00

Fargo North Dakota is a city that will never shake off the notorious reputation it received from the movie bearing its name. Ever been there? Last Wednesday I drove more than two hundred and fifty miles from Minneapolis to Fargo for some meetings and spent the night in the Courtyard in Moorhead Minnesota. That’s right, part of my territory is North and South Dakota. The last two trips I stopped in Alexandria, MN, but skipped it since I was running a little late heading to and from Fargo. This late in the summer the acres and miles of crops were pulled leaving open land as far as the eye could see. Faint rainstorms faded away as I drove in drizzle. Bugs splattered on the windshield, as I drove the rented Cadillac Escalade on Highway 94. Thank you for the satellite radio. The last time I was in Fargo was two years ago? I feel as if I wasn’t there last year, but it’s my third trip and hopefully not my last, since I never really investigated the town. It’s flat. There are strip malls. There is minor league team there, and they are in first place in the independent league. Some cars are old and beat up as if they saw too many horrendous winters, with salt and sand that chewed away at the metal, bearing rusted wounds, and spilling out smoke from loose tailpipes. I get into Fargo for some meetings and get out spending the night in Minneapolis before flying back to Long Island. I plan my trips so I can catch a Twins game. I was able to walk to their new stadium from the Renaissance Hotel. It’s a good clip, and I wished I changed into a T-shirt and brought shorts. It was humid. The next morning I went for my jog over some of the local bridges and across the river…it’s a beautiful run and I’m glad I got it in. I was going to spoil myself and sleep in since I stayed in a suite. When I got back, I took a shower and changed and had a quick bite in the concierge level and caught my 9:30 flight.

Radio Free Long Island WUSB 90.1 FM

2010-08-22T19:02:00.000-07:00

Finn’s Revolution WUSB 8/17/10
Driving home after making my cold calls on the west coast, I discovered a cool show on WUSB a few months back. The DJ was playing song after song of diverse music, eclectic, jazz, songs from disenchanted angels and such. Coltrane, Lou Reed, replacements, Minor Threat. I sent an email to the program director, asking for an interview to promote my novel Killer Commute. I called after there was no response. Last Tuesday the hard work paid off and I sat down in the radio booth with the man himself, Finn and chimed in after he played REM’s Mr. Richards. I hope to link the interview here so you can hear it. Finn asked some great questions and I truly appreciate the time. He ended the show with one of my requests, Broadway by The Clash. Joe Strummer sang a couple of lines into my ear when both of us were intoxicated after one of his last nights in New York, Ain’t my fault it’s six O’clock in the morning…”
Thank you Finn

The Baseball Project at Maxwells

2010-08-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

I know this is more than a week late, but this weekend I have every intention to write some ditties. These will include, the interview with Finn on WUSB, travelling to Fargo, North Dakota, and the joy and peace of running.
The Baseball Project came to Maxwell’s, Hoboken NJ last week. This time the lineup included Mike Mills from REM instead of Peter Buck on bass. It was the first time I saw a show there, but the spot has a history in alt, garage music. The stage is very small, as well as the venue. At most two hundred people could fit in there, but that night the BP had close to a hundred.
My goal that night was to give Mike Mills a Killer Commute Postcard and to discuss the fact I used lyrics from their song, MR Richards. As Erik and I walked in Mike Mills was ahead of us. I approached the man, and spoke into his right ear as the opening band was playing. He didn’t seem to believe me, and a little later when he was attempting to buy a glass of wine at the bar, I walked up and paid the tab and he said, “I noticed your name is not on the card.” It’s in very small type in the cover, and I introduced myself. He read the blurb on the back and said he’d buy a copy. Mike as well as the rest of the band is real down to earth and very gracious. After they played we took this picture together.
What about the show? They were a little off on the first song which was released that week, Triple Crown…but once they played Long Before my Time, and Ted Fucking Williams, they were on. In fact they played the whole album and kept on coming out for encores. With Mills, the harmonies between him and Scott were close to perfect, since they’ve worked so well together for all of these years.

After the show I spoke to Linda for a couple of minutes, and she said Mike filled in, and is a bigger baseball fan than Buck. Buck is playing with Tired Pony and they’re due to play in New York in October, first US show and Ali and I are there. Linda said she was going and would see us there.
REM news as per Scott, no tour to support the new album! It sounds like a cross between Accelerate and Reveal.

Killer Commute on Mystery Books

2010-08-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

So how did I get the idea for Killer Commute? Please read the link and enter the contest...

http://www.mystery-books.com/2010/08/mbn-welcomes-michael-robert-gordon.html

Driving on the highways Business Travel

2010-07-29T09:34:00.001-07:00

Why are so many roads under construction in Pennsylvania? There has to be a reason, the Governor has an in with the Department of Transportation, or his brother is the State’s Highway Superintendant, but there has to be a reason, since it seems after each five mile stretch there’s construction. It slows you down. Try making an appointment on-time. Allow yourself ample time. Yesterday I woke up in Lancaster PA, and had a meeting in Marietta and then up in Hershey at the University there. Both were good meetings, I was well received and there are some opportunities. What I liked most was the slow traffic towards Route 76 and snapping some shots of the farms. It was a brutal hot day yesterday. I regret that Ali and the kids weren’t with me. The ride would have been more enjoyable. I need to head out. I have an appointment in an hour in Horsham, who knows what the traffic will be like although I’m only a few miles away.

Playing basketball on Saturday mornings

2010-07-23T05:04:00.000-07:00

July 23rd
I wanted to run this morning, but I made a promise to my body to take a few days off. Last Saturday was the first day I played basketball in years. We used to meet at Avril Park, New Hyde Park and play for hours. It was a good opportunity to share stories and shit when we saw each at the office. I recall John Wagner, Pete Marcino and his brother Jim and Pat Sweeney and of course John Monetti and Arnold Bernard. Monetti and Bernard are still playing. I picked up Eric in Northport at 7ish and we were back in New Hyde Park just before 8. Playing basketball with guys you have not played with can be frustrating. Basketball is a team sport compared to running. With basketball you need to have an idea of the little finesses, like setting picks. This is when you intentionally stand and block an opposing player from defending your teammate; after the block is made you move towards the basket and may get a pass from your teammate or in the least, get close for the rebound. That’s setting a pick. The other basic play is the give and go. I pass the ball to you and I go to the basketball and you pass the ball back to me. I shoot the ball and it goes in. Give and go. My team was not playing as a team. When individuals play, they make mistakes, miss passes, don’t set picks and eventually drain themselves of energy. These days it’s close to ninety at nine thirty in the morning and humid, a speck of sweat is burned off in the sun, and after each game you find yourself sucking down the Gatorade and water and thinking…why am I doing this? This is fun? I don’t like talking shit when I play, I’m more of an old school player, keeping my mouth shut and looking for the open man who’s going to get “the rock” in. The rock. I think that’s an old expression today, but when you’re forty four anything other than the ball makes me sound so cool, doesn’t it? Sure. We played our games and won some games but lost most, and tomorrow we’re back on the court for more games. How did I play? It’s not about me, it’s about the team. I played awful. I’m interested in tomorrow’s outcome. If it’s like last week, there would be the shower when I get home, and a quick lunch, and the eventual escape to a nap in the air conditioning. The body can only take so much punishment.

At the airport in Pittsburgh and what challanges to face when attempting to rent a car

2010-07-21T13:08:00.001-07:00

Pittsburgh 7/21/10
I’m at the airport waiting for my flight. I arrived yesterday and should have known something was up. My driver’s license expired. It expired last October, and once before, maybe when I left Baltimore last month the TSA agent pointed it out in Baltimore and yesterday morning at Islip, but said it’s still valid under their policies. Fine. I filed it way. I didn’t renew it. Why? You can’t rent a car without a valid license. I tried to get a car with Hertz, but it wasn’t happening. The woman behind the counter said, you can try to reach DMV and they can fax us something. I looked at her and shook my head. Dealing with New York’s DMV is like pulling teeth, waiting to wait and more frustrating than needs to be. I called Ali, after a feeble attempt at renting from Dollar (Hertz said in a whisper, Dollar may rent a car to you) It wasn’t happening. Thank God for out agent here, who arranged to get me picked up and made my appointments. In fact, I made it to the Pirates game last night. When I walked to the stadium I asked for one ticket, the attendant asked, where do you want to sit? Where’s your best seat? There was a pause, and he said how would you like to be next to the dugout? Thirty five dollars. Last night I sat in the best seats I ever sat before. I don’t think I’d sit that close again! There was only one row in front of me. The players for the Brewers were mere feet in front of us, and I know they heard these little shit bag kids who taunted them. The Pirates won. I had a chance to tell Willie Randolph, thanks for your years in New York. He nodded his head and sort of tipped his finger on his cap. Walked back to the hotel and spoke to Dennis for awhile before drifting off to sleep. I’m back at the airport and sitting here in an empty terminal as jets zip off the runways before silence returns in this empty place.

Sunmer Vacation

2010-07-21T12:41:00.000-07:00

July 5, 2010 in Saint John’s, NB
For whatever reason, I thought this cruise consisted of Halifax and then St. Johnland, New Foundland. No, that’s not it at all. We’re actually in St. John’s, New Brunswick. It’s going to be embarrassing to explain to my logistics friends, where we went. Yesterday was a day at sea. The pool water was freezing, so I ended up on the deck reading, and ran barefoot on the short track, nine times around a tight circle to reach a mile. Nine times is one mile. Trying to navigate among the walkers was a challenge. Since I’m in the middle of Born to Run by Christopher McDougall I was inspired to run barefooted. I felt a blister forming, so I put on my sneakers, I didn’t run through the pain or the beast as some refer to it in the book.
What’s St. John’s like? The buildings look similar to Boston, and Emma Tess pointed that out. We went on a photography tour that was a learning experience. I learned most of the city burned to the ground in the late 1800’s and many builders and architects from Boston and New York came here to rebuild the city. While we were out, it was humorous to see whole families from our ship rent taxis to take them to certain landmarks. Em and I went to visit backwards falls, the swift current was unbelievable - intense and I tried to cut out the paper mill factory from my photos. We went to King’s cemetery which is planned as if a Union Jack was cut into the ground, then headed to the market, which like Boston is similar to Fannuel Hall. Saint John City Market has vendors on the sides and in the middle selling wares and sandwiches to town folks and tourists alike. I saw a boy about Emma’s age, looked like he just got of bed, wearing jeans too short without a belt and a wrinkled collared shirt, messy hair buying a bag of coffee. He looked unsure of himself, the awkward teen. Included in the tour was a stop at the “witches’ house” an house that Samuel Goldwyn (a native St. Johnlander) rebuilt. There was another stop at a Canadian landmark, a garrison built for the war of 1812 that over looked the entire harbor and reminded me of Ireland with the rough boulders jetting out of the grass. The vast view of the harbor was incredible and we could see The Carnival Glory in the distance. Before our tour was completed, we went back to the reversing tide, and within an hour or so saw the great difference, the water was higher and rougher, the current was impossible to conquer for even the speed boat which carried tourists and made sharp turns, but that damn paper mill factory was so obtrusive. We got back to the ship and I changed and went out for a run. St, John’s is a narrow island, and I easily ran to the other side, past low income homes and I asked myself what do these people do to earn a living? I’m curious. Stopped in a few of the churches, one a catholic and no the pope did not pay a visit to the place, and another church an Anglican, Trinity church set up high on a hill with a whale as a weather vane, and beautiful stained glass. And lastly was the Church of St. Andrew and St. David, part of the Christ Canada which may be affiliated to our church, United Church of Christ. It was a circular church and an older woman approached me, although I was sweating, she was very nice and explained how they feed the teens breakfast in the morning since they noticed the kids sat around and “smoked dope.” During the summer they share services with the Baptists down the road, giving each opportunity to take breaks. I saw a record store and went in, but could not find anything worthwhile to add to our REM collection. I bought a St. John’s pin for a dollar and paid the man with a US dollar. He had a stack of Playboys behind the counter and again I was asking myself, how do these people make money? There were some art galleries, and a beautiful neighborhood that appeared to be lifted from Boston. I headed back after my run to take a picture of one house that had a rectangular picture, sort of Tudor style. Last stop was tattoo pallor since I need to get a larger tat than my wife. I asked if I could get a quick one, but the tattoo boy said there was a four week wait. We discussed some old punk bands, since he a Black Flag symbol and all of a sudden the flood gates opened and I heard about Flag was a reforming for a charity show, but so and so wouldn’t do it since it wasn’t a real charity. But I recognized one name, Henry Rollins, and then onto the Misfits and how they wanted to tour but without someone, so and so and he mentioned off shots and I just stood there thinking, nice going, ask one question and you’re inundated!
If we come back on this trip, I’d love to go to the Hopewell rocks. They look beautiful, and I was hoping for more settings.
I’m writing this on our last day on the cruise. I was about to go off, but I won’t.
Yesterday was Halifax, Amanda and I took a tall ships cruise. It was a good time for both of us, and I know she appreciated the time. The tall ship was a metal vessel, built in 1939. Oh, we hoisted the sails, but they were locked into place as we chugged around the harbor, sitting there and listening to Brian our tour guide. Celtic music played over a loud speaker, coffee and muffins were prepared. Halifax is a beautiful city and rich in history. More than 125 bodies were recovered from the Titanic and buried there. Interesting note, the unknown child was in fact buried across from its mother, through DNA testing. The city, like St John are deep in English loyalist history and I’d like to see learn more about the cotton trade during the confederates and the loyalists. The port was nearly wiped out when an ammunitions ship collided with another ship. More than 2500 lost their lives. The anchor sailed more than two miles and to this day is in the same spot where it landed. The story is interesting since people came out to see “the fire” caused by the collision, but once they learned one ship carried ammunitions that set off an impending horror that was too late to escape from. One teacher brought her class down to see the ships on fire; in an instant they were gone. I think it was Brian’s aunt who watched the fire behind a window in her classroom and was cared for by an unknown and faceless solider. She never forgot the sound of his voice. His grandmother held his uncle and was thrown into the backyard and found passed out with the baby, clutched in her arms. Brian pointed out some other landmarks, the town’s clock, the citadel and another fortress, which I think was built for the war of 1812.
Ali and the other bums went whale watching, Dink said she felt a little seasick and even last night headed down to guest services for dromonine. She felt much better. While on the whale watching, they saw a whale and seals and we met at the same time on the dock when our rides tours were over. We walked on the dock and I wanted to head into the center of town to take more of it in. It wasn’t happening. We bought some burgers and hot dogs and ate on the dock, and on our way back, stopped at a candy Shoppe for some homemade ice cream.
I went for a run, it rained lightly but the town took on an appearance of Ireland with the authentic double Decker busses and the green grass surrounding the citadel, it was a beautiful site and view over the harbor and out to the ocean.
The Canadian Navy has some of their light blue painted ships docked there.

The cruise overall was very successful for all of us. The fact we ate dinner together for almost a whole week was an accomplishment. We had time together as a family, and I was able to read and take a nap each day, a very restful vacation, a needed break from the world.
Now it’s back and finding some venues to promote Killer Commute

The first day of summer vacation

2010-06-28T18:23:00.000-07:00

It’s a quarter after nine at night, fireworks are popping in the sky somewhere over a house, above curious faces, and then they crack and die. It’s quick. The train is pulling into the station. The kids are watching a movie on Disney and I can hear the sparkling twinkle of a magic wand. It’s funny. It’s hot and humid though a breeze drifts through the screens. It’s quiet for the most part. No parties in the house across the street. It’s a good night to sleep.
Next week, Killer Commute is released and I’m in the middle of the ocean. Next week, will begin the reports on sales that eventually will build up. Next week begins a new stage in this life.

April 5th on the LIRR towards NYC

2010-04-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

Monday after an extended vacation, is like living through a fog. Come to think of it yesterday morning, Easter Sunday began with a fog. We woke up sort of late, enough time to make the 9 AM service, but entirely missed the sunrise service at Cedar beach. I’m curious to know who was there, how many attended? Joe and Diana met us at church and we sat upstairs. Afterwards, we had a delicious brunch at Lombardi’s on the sound and posed for our portraits on the deck overlooking the Long Island Sound.
This was Dr. Rev Diane’s last Sunday before a three month sabbatical, and we vowed not to speak to her during this break, but of course I thought, she doesn’t know about Killer Commute, but she will. There’s that loss. The feeling that I can’t speak to someone, or see something ever again, like seeing an animal on the verge of extinction on display in a zoo – there is a sense of panic. This is different. She will be back in July in time for the chicken BBQ and I sound just like a country bumpkin. She will know about the novel in her time. I remember when we were in Guatemala; she told me she needed a break. Breaks are good. Being a church leader must be hard, like being the sole parent for hundreds, offering guidance and spiritual nourishment. I hope she enjoys this time, gardening and fining peace amongst the soil and herbs. Maybe she’d teach us a few things when she gets back?

April 3rd 2010 on the Bridgeport Ferry

2010-04-05T15:57:00.000-07:00

We’re pulling out of Bridgeport of the ferry. It’s a little chilly. The sun is out, but a good steady breeze is washing over us. Joe and Bella are up on the top deck with me. We’re coming back from a day at the Eric Carle museum, and spending an hour in Amherst, Mass. The hour was spent in the Amherst bookstore which sells used books in the basement. I found two novels – both signed by Richard Elman, Lilo’s diary and another old one. Both were inscribed to the same person back in 1969. I don’t think there are many of his books that we’re not signed. Richard was my mentor, my adopted father for a few years and I was the son and struggling writer he felt sorry for. Our relationship was more of a friendship and I miss him to this day. I’d rather not think of the last time we saw each other.
I wanted to get in an entry since I’ve completed going through the suggested edits the editor has made and was surprised by how much she missed. For that reason, Ali is going over mine as well and then I’d send them off to the editor. It still needs to pass through the copy editor.
Thinking back to Amherst, and this is a town I could vacation in. Not just for the Eric Carle museum which we visit – twice a year, but for the history and the charm of this New England town. I remember visiting Carla Eve while she was a freshman up at Hampshire the fall in ’84, and how I wanted to go home the next day since Carla broke up with me. She apologized for being so insensitive, years later.
This wind is too much. It’s too chilly for me and I may make an escape from this.
So, back to the novel, Killer Commute is still on for a June release. I’m thinking it may be a July release.
There are too many people up here. I need a quiet place.

In a winter storm during rush hour

2010-02-10T05:17:00.001-08:00

It’s snowing. I was the only person on the platform in Huntington. Sitting in the train, while a man smokes a cigarette outside the open door, the smoke drifts in with the cool air and I take it all into the back of my throat. Today, the MTA is testing their new snow policy. If we get hit with more than 10 inches, the trains will stop running. They plan on running the regular schedule this morning and later adding trains in the early afternoon commute back home. The intention is to shut down the system later, when the largest accumulation will occur and commuters are abandoned on icy platforms. My goal is to get into New Hyde Park and get a free lunch and put in a few hours of work. Yesterday, the panic was settling in. Schools began closing in anticipation for today’s storm, but here’s what I understand, the monster of the mess is happening later. So, why not keep the schools open and let the tikes trudge through the ice and melting snow and prove to themselves, nothing is going to stop them from getting a good education. I should have run this morning. That would have been best. Why? Top prove nothing will stop me from getting in a good run. The snow was falling this morning, and I don’t need to slip and crack my head open. We’re moving. The train is empty. Listening to U2 on my iPod. I’m facing strangers and there’s a woman sitting alone who looks like Laura Turner, but I doubt it’s her. Laura would recognize me and say something. We just picked up some passengers in Cold Spring Harbor. Snow falls from damp hair and thick coats. One looks at me with a hint of disdain, hey what did I do? Just typing words into this machine, and watching clouds of snow swirl outside the hazy windows. Don’t make eye contact with stranger and stop glancing at Laura Turner. It’s not her.

Promotion with a purpose

2010-01-09T06:55:00.000-08:00

It’s a new year. Not only that, but it’s a new decade. We can shake off the…what would you call the last decade – darn it’s not like the sixties or the seventies. The two thousands? And now getting into the tens and elevens and such. I made a promise to myself that I would look into ways to promote Killer Commute beginning this month. Here’s the thing, we get so excited about the potential – the endless possibilities that our future holds. But when it gets time to work…some of us falter. I’m guilty of it. Like I said I made a promise to myself. This time it’s going to be different. I proved I can write a novel. I proved that I can get it accepted. Let me add a few stories were accepted for some web sites as well. All of this takes time, and now is the next bold step. Promote Killer Commute and myself as a novelist. I think of my grandmother who said, “Self praise is no praise.” But this is different. I’m not praising myself, but instead the novel. It’s a great book that appeals to a large segment of our society – the commuters on the train.
I’m writing this on the train. I’m not in my usual seat with Mike the cop across the aisle from me. Just put my iPod in my ear since we’re approaching St James and there’s one character that gets on and used to sit next to me. The ear phones are in, and listening to Echo’s A Promise. There are a lot of people getting on. And guess what…he sits next to me.
Let’s talk about dedicating time. This is what I need to follow up on. So Champaign mentioned I should get into chat rooms or something similar. Mention the book. There is also an article in the Daily News that pertains to commuting and this would be a great outlet. I will submit the essay to the Long islander. I can talk to Katherine at work since she used to work there. My friend who is sitting across from me doesn’t know why I’m not talking to him. Dude, I’m working here. “I’m walking here!” Ratso Ritzo yells out and bangs the hood of the taxi. We’re in Smithtown and I’m babbling. I don’t mean to waste your time with babble. So there’s the article in the Long Islander and the Daily News. I will locate some mystery chat rooms. Come to think of it, perhaps an interview with my friend across the pond? Next week I plan on speaking at Toastmasters about writing the book and getting it published. There’s a few things right there.
So what does it take to promote? It takes some assistance from others. What about my Father-In-Law who does PR for the school district? I need to ask Ali what she thinks.
Before you know it, the novel is published. This is anticipated for a June 2010 release. Before then I would like to have some book stores lined up for a reading and signing. Any yet Champaign wants us to focus on the EBOOK. The almighty EBOOK that would be more profitable for all of us. There are a few Kindle readers on the train, but by far most of us read books. We like feeling the weight of a book in our hands, creasing the papers, lending it to others and eventually storing it our shelves.
“I’m jumbled up…maybe I’m losing my touch…but you know I didn’t have it any other way…” Echo and The Bunnymen - Rescue.
My friend sat down right next to me. Don’t know why, but I got up and moved my seat across from him. The train is going to be packed. I should move my bag that’s on the seat next to me. I should. If someone asks I will move it.
So, where will I start? Putting together a list of mystery book stores in the area. These includes Pennsylvania and Mass….check web sites for Mystery Press readers groups and share the good news about Killer Commute….a unique mystery for the commuter…
We’re pulling out of Kings Park. I get off in Huntington, but I really don’t want to lift my head up. My fellow commuter is just hanging on and waiting for the moment when we can make eye contact and he can say something about my laptop and he can tell me about his and his music and his music systems for his DJing gigs – I heard it. Let me write and look up a few times…
”What are you writing?” You must be busy with work.”
The train is moving through a slight snow shower. Blowing white strands on the rusty tracks. Inside the commuters are maintaining the silence. Stuck in their distinct worlds, caring less about the person just inches from their bodies. Northport…and this is where the most get on board. They are waiting outside the door, and slowly making their way inside, walking up the three steps.

Next day, and I’m home sitting in the dining room typing this. One of our cats is cleaning herself in the sun flowing in like a stretched rectangle. It’s quiet in this house. At this moment. Today is Bella’s birthday. She’s the youngest and so full of life. I want to prove to all of my children our dreams can be fulfilled with hard work, being responsible and faith in God…live a life with purpose…

when the flu strikes a mother the house is not the same

2009-11-07T18:23:00.000-08:00

Mothers are not supposed to get sick. Mothers are the spine in the family. They snuggle with the kids and keep them warm at night. They listen. Mothers go out food shopping. Keeping stock of what’s in the fridge, and like clock-work swoop into the supermarket and self check out with coupons and are back in time to be at the bus stop. They pick up the oldest at the high school. Comfort the youngest who was up the night before throwing up twice and changed the sheets each time. Dried off the remains as best as possible and sprinkled baby powder on the mattress. It works wonders. Keep it in mind. But this was not the work of a mother. It was me. I dropped off the young ones at their schools and picked up the middle one at the junior high since she was not feeling well. And then took the youngest to the Pediatrician. My wife wrote down the youngest symptoms. Like I wouldn’t remember them all. 103, complains of dizziness, throwing up. Bella woke up a few times in the middle of the night and would wrap her sweaty arm around me. Ali slept in Amanda’s room and Emma and Amanda slept in one bedroom. Joe slept in his room.
Cleaned – floors, windows and dishes, clothes, towels, sheets and and over and vacuumed the living room and our bed room. There is still a lot to do.
Mothers are not allowed to get sick. Ali was hit with the flu the week before and on Sunday we were in the emergency room. Her quota was up. Yesterday, she seemed better. She is getting better. Bella’s fever dropped down and Emma did not have a fever last night. I dropped off Amanda and Joe at the in-laws. The sick ones get to spend Election Day together.
I “worked” from home yesterday. The best I could. I had to take Bella to the doctors and held her since she was scared of a throat culture. Then we were off to the radiologists since they wanted to make sure her lungs were clear. They were. But she was frightened since she did not know what to expect.
I’m on the train. Took a run this morning and will open up the King book I’m reading. I really can use more sleep. I can, but I’ll get through it. Just like the sick ones. It won’t last.

I need to begin promoting Killer Commute. I need to see the contract. I want to sign it and send it back…

Champagne accepts Killer Commute

2009-10-25T17:20:00.000-07:00

Champagne BooksBox 350694604 37 St. SWCalgary, AB CanadaT3E 7C7

Dear Mr. Gordon; It is with great pleasure that I offer you a contract with Champagne Books for your novel, KILLER COMMUTE. I have attached the contract for your perusal, as well as a Marketing Sheet and Cover Art Data Sheet. If you have questions regarding the contract, now is the time to ask them because once the signatures are attached to the contract, it is too late to make amendments. Complete the marketing and cover art sheets to the best of your ability and return it as soon as possible with a copy of your synopsis to admin@champagnebooks.com . Immediately, send an email to admin@champagnebooks.com with your legal name and address, so that signed contracts may be mailed out. Once received, sign one copy and return it via ground mail (Canada/US Post). You will be automatically added to the Champagne Authors yahoo group, which will allow you to communicate with other authors. This is also our method of exchanging information, so it is important that you do not remove yourself from this loop. If you choose to not receive daily chit chat, keep your preferences to ‘special notices only’, so you don’t miss out on anything crucial. In the file section of this loop, you will find copies of the Champagne logo, as well as a banner ad that you may use for promotional purposes. As soon as possible, you will be introduced to the editor who will work with you to get your manuscript ready for publication. Once completed, your manuscript will then be copyedited. The next time you see your manuscript it will be in the form of galleys prior to publication. Congratulations! We look forward to a long and happy publishing relationship with you. If there is anything I can help you with, please let me know.

Best,

J. Ellen SmithPublisher/Managing EditorChampagne Books

Baseball Project and slipping back to 1984

2009-10-07T15:34:00.000-07:00

So what’s it like seeing The Baseball Project. A year after their release, Mike Sweeney, Jeff Parkhurst and I were in front of the stage. A month or so after we bought the tickets – we stood close – almost arm in arm like survivors. Having ignored the lack of sleep; our tired middle aged bodies made it to the Bowery Ballroom. Before such an event – I struggle with the thought. I knew it would be a late night. Damn, did they really need to play to midnight? Did they really need to hit the stage at 9 PM? Why did I have to be late?
Ali dropped out since this was back to school night at the high school. Eric dropped out since it was back to school for Eileen. And I could not get any replacements. I should have called Frank, but it was back to school night for him I assumed. Dennis couldn’t make it. Not even for a drink.
I drove up from Philadelphia. I was there a couple of days for a cold chain session and stayed at the Courtyard. The hotel is across from the city hall building. I was late leaving the city since I had to wait for an hour for Les. I agreed to drive him back into the city – so he could catch a train at Penn to take him back to the island. 76 was slow, but once we hit 476 and 276 – traffic moved very well. There was little traffic on the turnpike. We stopped at a rest stop where I filled the tank with cheaper New Jersey gas, and bought some horrible food at an Arby’s. But we were starving. It was close the 7 when we stopped. Les hoped to make an 8:06 from Penn, but he hit the sidewalk around ten after. And this was after taking the Holland Tunnel – I don’t like tunnels. By the time I dropped him off, and made my way to the Bowery – I knew I was running late.
Damn the GPS. It kept announcing “calculating route…” but I got out of the car on Bowery – close to Grant and felt I was close to Delancy. MTS suggested I head up down – away from China town and this led me away from Delancy. I asked a street cop where Delancey was. I went in a full circle and after sweating in the late summer humidity and feeling beater that beat – we walked down the staircase to the Bowery Ballroom and heard the song – Ted Fucking Williams. The guard said we only missed the first song. I’d like to know what it was.
It’s been a little more than twenty five years, when Mr. Feinstein and his wife took me and Bob Miller and Dave to see REM in concert and the opening act Dream Syndicate. Mr. Feinstein saw my REm T-shirt when I was in summer school and he told they were playing out east and he’d be happy to take me. I brought a tape player and made a fake ID – WNPT radio and laminated the homemade card with Scotch tape. We drank beers with our teacher. High School kids with a slight buzz. I asked where press would go and I was directed out of a side door at the Roller Skating rink in Setauket. There was a long bus as well as sleeper vans and Bill Berry was there in his white cowboy boots. He swore I was someone from Athens – happy to see me again – and I explained who I was and why I was there – to interview him and the rest of REM.
We set up the interview in the camper, and were joined by Michael Stipe – who sat in for most of the time. He had black fabric Chinese slippers on. A few days later, I found a pair for sale at the Commack Flea Market as well as a small handbag. I think I bought his somewhere as well. Peter Buck was by far the most energetic and outgoing. Berry was just as cool, but the band could sense I was not there as a reporter – though I had twenty minutes with the band. I discussed my REM dreams and asked about songs. There were a couple of lulls and I would ask Bill how was I doing – “You’re doing fine…keep firing away…”
Last Wednesday must have been about the tenth time I met Buck. He was signing CD’s and I shook his hand and introduced myself. I was a little buzzed after a couple of beers and might have appeared worse off, with my loose belt and disheveled appearance. Got a CD signed, and went back up to the floor.
The show was great. I was surprised they played as many Dream Syndicate songs. And I was brought back to the roller skating rink – summer of 84 and hanging out with Bob Miller and seeing Steve Wynn back in the parking lot and interviewing Dennis Duck. It was a short interview – since I didn’t buy the latest Dream Syndicate record at the time – Medicine Show – and he was upset – he caught on – the interview was a waste of time – for both of us. I wanted to interview Steve. Steve seemed more appealing and interesting for the wanna be rock star/journalist/fan I was back then.
The Days of Wine and Roses!

Killer Commute update

2009-08-21T15:50:00.000-07:00

This is the best time to write. On the train and taking this time for myself. Last month I would be sipping on a beer and in my own world. Today, I’m writing a short entry into the blog. I’d like to keep a record of the responses I’ve received from the various presses for Killer Commute. I would love for one of the traditional publishers to accept it. Dream on. But this may not happen. Accept the fact. An e-publisher accepted Killer Commute, but I’m waiting for two more responses – acceptances really. Let’s take a look at the last few – shall we:
8/7/09
Thank you for your recent submission to Champagne Books. I read the partial of your novel, KILLER COMMUTE, with interest and would like to review the complete manuscript. Please submit it to me at your earliest convenience as a .doc or .rtf attachment.
Warm Regards,
J. Ellen Smith
Publisher
Champagne Books
Submitted the novel three weeks ago…
A rejection:
Dear Mr. Gordon;

Thank you for considering Lyrical Press for your novel Killer Commute.
Although it is a creative read, we regret to inform you we cannot offer an acceptance for Killer Commute at this time.
We wish you all the best,
Frank and Renee Rocco
Publishers - Lyrical Press, Inc.
I responded to their rejection- asking if there was a way to make the novel stronger they may suggest something. Right? This is the response:

Dear Mike,
I appreciate your enthusiasm to better the manuscript in order for reconsideration from Lyrical Press, Inc. Although your story had areas of promise, overall, the plot and writing would simply not make a good fit for Lyrical Press.
We do wish you all the best in finding a house for your work.
Best,
Renee Rocco
Publisher, Lyrical Press Incorporated
Lyrical Press, Inc
An acceptance from Rogue Phoenix Press – who - accepted the novel days after receiving it: If it sounds too good to be true – it probably is. I don’t like their POD services which can be costly. So, I’m hesitating and waiting for two more press’
Mike,

If your manuscript is still available, Rogue Phoenix Press is interested in publishing Killer Commute. Rogue Phoenix Press is an ebook publisher and as such do not offer advances. What we do offer is 40% of all ebooks sold from the RPP site and 10% to 35% off other ebook sites. Traditional publishing houses offer a 5-6% royalty to be paid only when the advance is earned out. We also offer a POD service as mentioned above. For further information please refer to the contracts listed on the RPP website. www.roguephoenixpress.com. Your book will be listed at other electronic sites such as Amazon Kindle, Allromanceebooks and others.
Please download two copies of the ebook contract from our website. Sign and send both copies to the address on the contract. Rogue Phoenix is primarly an ebook publisher, however we offer print on demand for those authors who wish to have a print book. If you are interested in POD, please download two copies of the POD contract sign both send to the same address and include a check for $70.00 for formatting. If you have any questions please feel free to contact us.
Also please email us a copy of the Author Information Questionairre and the Cover Art Questionairre for this book if you have not already done so. Both questionairres are available on our website.
Christine Young Owner and Editor Rogue Phoenix Press

8/06/09 Books for a Buck/Publisher:
. Hi Mike,
Congratulations on being accepted elsewhere. I appreciate your patience and
will get to it asap.

Rob Preece

So that’s where I am at for Killer Commute. I’m not giving up as yet, but I feel the mystery market has shriveled up to nothing. Last night Ali and I were talking about this fact. Ten years ago, I think this would have been accepted. There was a mystery market, but what occurred to it? I feel like an old vaudeville entertainer. “Seriously folks…take my wife…please.” I’m not going to let myself get down. Nothing good would come from it, but riding on this train at this time and pulling into St James…I’d love to crack open a beer and drown it.

Auto Train to Orlando

2009-07-23T17:42:00.000-07:00

Last night we arrived at the Springfield, VA Courtyard a little after 9 PM. The pool was closing so we changed quickly and enjoyed the hot tub and pool. A father and his two daughters joined in and soon the kids were eying each other suspiciously and doing their own thing. The father took over the hot tub, and we dried off and headed off to the courtyard. It was warm last night. I bought a beer, and we headed back to the room. Lights were off a quarter to 11. By 6 AM I was awake and ready to go. I finished up some work, and wrote my weekly while the rest of the bums got dressed, took showers and watched the Disney Channel.
We ate breakfast, really brunch at Bob Evans, I had eggs and pancakes and sausage and OJ and coffee. The food wasn’t too bad, but the waitress had an extremely dry sense of humor. Not sure how he day was going, but she told us she was there since 5:15.
Afterwards, knowing we had time to kill, we drove to DC and went to FDR’s memorial. It’s a beautiful display, using boulders and water, and is the only presidential memorial which includes the first lady. Took some pictures with Amanda standing next to the statue.
We’ve been at the Larton terminal since 1 PM. This is our first time and we didn’t know what to expect. Not sure if our seats would be next to one another. The process was very easy. We drove the car, checked in and watched as our car was inspected and videotaped, since they wanted to make sure there were no erroneous claims of damage. I took Bell and Joe outside for a walk. We had an hour and half to kill. The depot building is very roomy and bright. The building is air conditioned and modern. A TV is playing in the corner, and there is a small café, a shop really in one corner. From the look of it, the place appears to be in Florida.
It appears as if people are boarding though there was no announcement made. Just waiting for Ali to get back since she bought TUMS. This place is emptying fast. Time to go?
We’re on the train. There is a lot of room. It’s very comfortable. Whoever is sitting behind me is playing with the foot rests. The seat is knocking. There is a family next and behind us. This is not going to be a quiet train, but let’s see how it works out. I can use an ADVIL.
Instead of Advil I had a couple of beers. Dinner was served at 5 PM and 7 PM – we chose the early dinner since there was a movie playing for the kids at 7…I had cod and veggies and rice. The food was very good. With dinner came white wine and water and choices like iced tea and apple juice for the kids. They were given the choice of chicken fingers, and mac and cheese. There was a lot of food. The other options were a beef or veggie lasagna. The settings were pleasant, a flower on each table as well as silverware, but the cups were plastic, as well as the plates. For dessert we had cheese cake with a couple of options, either covered in strawberry or chocolate.
Overall it was quiet, but one neighbor watched a movie on his laptop and the language was not appropriate for children. A couple had two little ones on-board and it took them a long time to fall asleep. Music came over the loud speaker but was shut off close of 8 PM and soon after lights were shut down and we got comfortable.
Sleeping was a little bit of a challenge. Trying to get my 6 foot 4 body comfortable – even in reclining chairs was interesting. I bent my legs and curled in the seat, and propped the small pillow on a corner as well as my sweat pants.
I’m typing this, knowing we’re expected to arrive an hour earlier. Amanda and I had breakfast and met an older couple from Florida. Cereal as well as warm bagels and muffins were served, coffee and OJ as well. A good start to the vacation…rise and shine we are in Florida.

Much To Do

2009-07-13T05:27:00.001-07:00

Went running earlier. Twenty nine minutes and we’re pulling out of Stony Brook.
This past weekend we left Amanda in Hyde Park. She was accepted into a wonderful program – Young Women’s Leadership Group, which is organized by the Eleanor Roosevelt Foundation. Today she’s taking a hike, and this week this she will meet with global leaders at the UN and work in various shelters, clinics and bring back a new maturity as well as a transformed outlook on life. It’s an incredible opportunity. When we pulled out of the town, I reminded myself of her first full day at school. The school picked. Full day kindergarten. Most of us took half days, but it’s a new requirement for the school districts, and we must have been one of the first. She took those first steps into the bus and started talking to the little girl next to her and did not notice that her parents we’re outside, watching and waiting for a sign that she was alright. The same happened on Saturday. We brought her to her dorm room, and she wanted us out as soon as we were there. The last we saw her was at Val Kill – home for Eleanor and where Amanda would spend most of her time. Ali started bawling. Amanda did not.
Yesterday, we went to church. The children that were in the Vacation Bible School performed songs and read. There were more children in the program than previous years, and the stage was packed. At first Isabella did not want to perform and then got up there and smiled away, although she was in the corner and sort of under the balcony. Joe read and I was very proud of him, and on our way home I told him it took a lot of courage to get up there. Emma Tess looked like she was just going through the motions. She was tired. Slept over her friend’s house the previous nights and explained to Ali she only slept 14 hours the previous nights.
So I’m here in Huntington. Let me go back to this weekend since it was the first time I saw JP Groenger in over fifteen years. My old friend from St Phillips is in the production – Much To Do About Nothing – I thought he was incredible. Jape has come a long way from the motorcycle, Harley Davidson bell bottom blue jean days…I would like to hang out with him and catch up after all these years and we just might to that. I brought Emma and Isabella since the performance was outside. I thought it would be a good opportunity for them to see Shakespeare. We brought chairs and snacks and overall had a good time. It was a beautiful day. A steady breeze blew through the trees and the clear sky without a hint of humidity was a perfect addition to the play. Afterwards, I went up to Jape who looked at me for a few moments, studying my face and not sure if it was me….Mike Gordon?” He was very warm and was excited to see me and more – so grateful that I came.
After the play we went home. I ate a lunch and went out to Riverhead to see a baseball game – Riverhead Tomcats vs. Long island Mustangs. This is a college league. The game was played at Riverhead High, just a half hour from home or twenty miles. By the time I got there the game was in the third inning. I saw one kid hit a dinger – in fact he hit the fence a couple of other times. Tonight the league is playing their all-star game. Last year I brought Isabella to the game and we saw a short stop make incredible defensive plays and hit two dingers. He’s playing for the Oneonta Tigers –Chris Sedon. I hope to catch him playing against the Brooklyn Cyclones this later next month.
So what are you writing? I was thinking of this story for some time. Oldest daughter is taking care of her sisters and brother while Mom is working. Parents are divorced. School is out and she’s finding ways to keep them entertained. There are chores and there conflicts. The oldest would tell stories and the younger sister and brother always ask her to tell a new story. It’s different from the others since I’m using my children as references. Isabella is always asking me to tell her a story, and normally it’s the same two stories I’ve told her before. This one would evolve since the oldest is creating a sense of adventure. I’m imagining the father as being a pirate who tries to kidnap the others. In reality the father is trying to get the kids back as the mother struggles – works two and a half jobs and the bills are just getting paid….
The train in pulling into the station and it’s time for me to write…

Reformed Immigration Policy

2009-04-30T15:40:00.000-07:00

Immigration is a loaded word. Depending on how you feel, there are those who foam at the mouth at the slightest suggestion of the word. For those, images are conjured up, dark men sneaking under fences, raising our crime rate and raping our women. Huddled men standing in parking lots waiting and begging to work. There are others who like me are taking a stand for immigration reform because of my Christian values (read Romans) and standing apart from some of my xenophobic neighbors. There is a distinction between begging for money and working for the money. There is great disparity between the man who asks for money for his next “escape,” and the other who support his family from hundreds of miles away. This also applies to my sisters who cross the border and are subjected to harsh treatment and many suffering in modern day slavery.
What causes my point of view? After taking two trips to Guatemala and seeing firsthand the squalor and extreme poverty, I can tell you that to survive in some parts of the country are limited. Statistics have proven the average age of a Guatemalan is 45 years old, and the life expectancy is 62. There is little work and minimal if any support from the government. Years before during a famine in El Matasano mothers had to choose which child survived and which starved to death. Imagine the horror of listening to the screams across the village. My church is working with a local agriculture committee and assisting to install micro drip irrigation systems. Not only are the families surviving, they are able to sell their extra food to earn an income. Keeping the men in the villages that are vital in their families and communities. But not all villages have this sort of assistance. What options do they have?
Here are a few myths that need to be addressed and can be researched. Most immigrants are illegal. More than seventy percent are legal residents. My Irish mother is one. Most crimes are committed by illegal immigrants. This is another fallacy The FBI reports – How about a drain on our health care? Not true. Over two billion dollars are collected by social security and never collected. Immigrants cannot seek health care unless it’s an emergency.
Franklyn was concerned about the Germans who were taking over his Pennsylvania, “ “So if the Germans, who were persecuted and suffered from prejudiced men, how did the Native Americans treat us? The land was a gift from God. They could not understand why we wanted to trade for land. What fools we must have appeared like, but is power the answer. We’re on the face of the earth for a short period. Imagine if we could live in peace.
So, what are the root causes for immigration and what can I do to show my support for my brothers and sisters in Jesus’ name? Write an essay? Sure I can do that, my intention is to look for others support and show my support. How? By finding other groups who support immigration reform.
When a man is stabbed by a group of young men there is an underlying hatred that is percolating in some parts of this island. When most a family is killed by an arsonist since the landlord removed the fire escape, there is a need to take a stand and unite. When a family walks through our neighborhood, we say hello and welcome. Just a smile can be a beautiful act of kindness and peace that can transcend the violence. In Jesus’ name I commit myself to this cause.

Joe's Birthday

2009-03-29T17:54:00.000-07:00

My son’s birthday was today. This morning he woke up while I was downstairs watching the rain and wondering if today’s softball game was a rain out. It was. I put on my Chuck Taylors and made it outside to retrieve the paper, and made some coffee and had an oatmeal breakfast ball. By 8 AM, I asked Ali if she wanted to make it to the 9 O’clock service, but she was too comfortable in the dark warm room. I wanted to climb back in even with the birthday boy. There’s little room in the bed. We’re getting to the point when there’s barely an inch on the mattress.
So, here I am. Back on the blog and getting some words down. It’s been weeks and I’ve slipped from my goals. I wanted to submit something each week, but there’s been little time or the options I have are either rest and let the mind go blank with some mindless TV or something else, but don’t put the demand on. And if I continue to choose to do nothing I will have nothing at the end of the year. The decision is mine.
What did you do today? Went to church and after went for a run. Eileen and Eric and the boys stopped over. Went to see Kyle Okopuso – Islanders and got him to sign the year book and an Isles book I bought on EBay with signatures from the some of the dynasty players. Kyle was cool. There was no line, one good reason to show up a half hour before the signing was over! I’m old enough to be his father. Went to dinner at Friendly’s and we’re back for the night.
As I’m writing this, watching MLB and I’m considering starting a fantasy team. Last season I thought I’d give the NFL a shot and I made the playoffs. I didn’t do anything.
The choice is mine.

Thoughts While Commuting To Work

2009-02-28T06:10:00.000-08:00

Thoughts While Commuting To Work
By
Michael Robert Gordon

Is the media distorting the news? Are we getting all the facts on the stimulus? Maybe the media assumes we would be swayed by the panic? Another depression? I’m writing this while commuting on the train to work. Passing the same parks and streets, seeing the same faces in their same seats, we’re sort of like machines moving in our commuter’s syncopation. But we’re all here. Perhaps the economy in New York is not the same as the rest of the country, but we’re reminded we should all be afraid. Be afraid – very afraid for the wind is changing direction.
It’s tough for me to write about this. I have my job and for the most part speak to the same clients and new prospects each week. Our company is doing well. When I’m on the train I’ve been struggling with these deliberations. What good can come out of this current mess? Were we ignorant to think there was no such thing as a looming bursting of the housing market? We were warned. Were were silent when we allowed congress to send our money to the banks and other firms without at least the responsibility to enact fiscal policy or reform? I don’t work for a bank. What did we learn from our past? You can’t trust the government? Be the change.
There is another theme I’m hearing. Be grateful you have a job. Remember that meal you refused to eat? You crossed your arms in front of you and would not budge. Wasn’t it ma who said, be grateful you have food? I think while the bubble was expanding we lost the ability to be grateful, to put an effort into each day, and perhaps became complacent? It’s something my grandfather who worked three jobs to take care of his family would not dare to do. He had to feed eight children.
Let the market take care of itself. There will always be special interests that will police themselves. It’s the economy stupid! Be stable. Like children, we lost the strength and boldness to call out when we saw fraud and wasteful spending, questionable transactions. Be silent. It will all go away. As long as I get mine. Why, all of a sudden we’re exposing the likes of Maddoff, and other financial crooks? Think less government, fiscal responsibility, let the market regulate itself. Can we trust?
I feel sorry for those who lost their jobs and feel more for the children who don’t have a roof over their heads. Be grateful, is my daily mantra and each day while sitting in this seat, the same one near the back of the train and listening to the same voices tell their stories or complain, I will remain grateful for my job and do the best I can. This is a time when we are correcting the market, cleaning out the corruption. It has happened before and will happen again as long as we are ignorant to our insatiable greed.

It's the second day in the second month of the year

2009-02-02T18:09:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I submitted stories to three publishers. By Sunday, I received a formal rejection and will put this story into the pending file. There are going to be some stories that I’m not confident about. Either the plot is different from what I’m used to, or there is an element that is lacking. The element that is lacking can range from character development. Thinking of Andre Dubos, what a writer to learn the craft of character development, and this is someone I need to go back to. Someone I’ve told myself I needed to go back to for a little over eight years, so after Audacity of Hope – I will read some Andre. But, what about the plot? In this example I’m considering POS, the Sci Fi story that is not really a Sci Fi story. Written by a writer who doesn’t know that much about science; so let me think about this…if I never swam before, can I really describe the sensation? Maybe that’s not a great comparison, since most of these writers never or will never live in the future. I was a little disappointed to read Asimov stopped writing novels during the fifties. Most of his million books were non-fiction. Did not know this. I would like to wrap up POS and submit the story and see the reaction I get.
Killer Commute is now in the hands of 5 Star. I should get a response in four to six weeks. It’s actually in God’s hands. Each time I read the book, I love it more. After reformatting it, the novel is approximately 280 pages. A lot different from the 340 or so I initially counted up. I’m thinking of ways to promote the book and can set up a table at train stations, and even have readings at certain stations. Why not? Imagine a reading at Penn? There are bands playing there. Imagine a reading during rush hour in the summer? Maybe give out free water? There’s a lot to do.
I’m writing this on the train. It’s warm in here and I’m at the Northport station. Just sat up in my seat and I can feel the sweat. The Salvation Army – Family Store. The one story business buildings. There was a mob killing in one of them – more than twenty years ago. Newsday had an excellent article that implied it was an inside job – dirty cops – that were arrested just a couple of years ago. And my old high school and we’re off towards Greenlawn.

Going to DC

2009-01-18T14:38:00.000-08:00

So the latest from the keys. Last night I edited Killer Commute for about four hours. For the first time I copied and pasted the novel into one file. I've done a spell check, and I know I need to read through the whole thing. 320 something pages. The novel is by far the best novel I've written. Acid Tree Park was filled with a few chapters that could have been edited out, and discussing editing - it was obvious after others read the book and from their comments, it needed a professional or at least my friend DZ who has incredible insight and expertise. Last week I received the following email:

Dear Mike, Thank you for your interest in the Five Star Mystery program. I'm attaching a brief outline of the terms of our program, along with the Five Star Author’s Handbook for your review. I am also attaching a Trademark Reference Sheet from Five Star for your review and an “Author Tip-Sheet” (required by Five Star) for you to fill out and return with your manuscript. After reviewing these terms, if you still wish to submit your novel: 1. Please attach the complete manuscript in a single electronic file (in MS Word or RTF format), formatted according to Five Star’s guidelines (see pgs. 18-20 in the Author’s Handbook).2. Include a short synopsis (one page) in a separate file.3. Review and completely fill out the Author Tip-Sheet form attached. Please do not use “track changes” to fill out the form.4. Send the above three attachments (the manuscript, the synopsis file, and the completed Author Tip-Sheet) with your reply to tekno@new.rr.com. Please note that there is no need to complete the Author's Agreement (pages 24 and 25 in the Handbook) at this time; that will be executed only if we acquire your manuscript. Please let me know if you have any questions, or if there is anything else I can do. Best regards,Rosalind GreenbergTekno Books

This looks very promising and I responded to Roz that I would like two weeks and then will send the novel as well as completing the attachments. There is an advance, which is a rarity for an unknown. I will need to detail promotional work as well as do some homework since they are conscientious about trade mark infringements. What I mean, I need to check if I can use Long Island Rail Road...Budweiser...etc. I edited some lyrics from songs. This is the real deal compared to some of the other publishers and the potential for reviews and awards are here. This doesn't mean I signed the contract. All in God's hands.

Today, I received another rejection from another publisher. I don't think there would've have been a good fit if they accepted me. From their web site they are bent on sarcastic remarks and even mentioning or boasting that one of their employees or owners is an atheist. What does this have to do with publishing mysteries? And who cares what the owners first name is or if it's real. Yeah!

Hi Mike,Thank you for letting us look at sample material from your book. We appreciate the time and creative energy you have put into your work. I’m sorry to tell you that, after careful consideration, we have decided that your book does not meet our needs.

The most common reasons queries are rejected are:Poor grammar and/or spelling and frequent typosThe author is telling the story instead of showing itUnrealistic dialogue
Poor characterization
The plot is derivative
We don't accept poetry, or juveniles, or children's books, or non-fiction
Our acquisitions editor is having a bad day

Keep in mind that this is just one publisher's opinion on one particular day. Another publisher might very well decide that this is exactly what they are looking for. Whatever the reason for our rejection, we thank you for thinking of Swimming Kangaroo Books and hope you will keep us in mind for future submissions. Dive into a good book at www.swimmingkangaroo.com

OK, time to read and edit for a couple of hours till I pass out.

Tomorrow we're headed to Baltimore and on Tuesday morning we'll be up early to witness the inaguration of Barack Obama

Latest submission - well a response at least

2009-01-07T17:38:00.000-08:00

Here is a rule - check the writer's guidelines more carefully. Considering I had the time, I sent querry's to many publishers, and I'm sure I should not have. Don't waste their time unless your works meets their standards.

Under its AVALON BOOKS imprint, Thomas Bouregy & Co., Inc., publishes hardcover secular romances, mysteries, and westerns for the library market. Our books are wholesome adult fiction, suitable for family reading. There is no graphic or premarital sex or sexual tension in any of our novels; kisses and embraces are as far as our characters go. It is the author’s responsibility to heighten the romantic atmosphere by developing love scenes with tenderness, emotion, and perception. The heroines of our romances should be looking forward to marriage at the end of the book. There is never any profanity in any of our books.

Dear Editors, I checked the writer's guidelines more carefully. There is no sexual content in the novel and wholesome throughout, but the language matches what many New York homicide detectives use. I feel this may be a waste of your time and I value your time and consideration for other works - unless you would still like to consider it. Be well, Mike

Dear Mr. Gordon, If you would like to send a partial, we will be glad to consider it. This includes a 2-3 page synopsis briefly describing the plot and the main characters and the first three chapters of the manuscript. Please attach the pages in .doc files compatible with Word ’98 or more recent.

Dear Editorial, Happy New Year. Thank you for your response, please be assured - I am open to editing the novel to suite your press. Is there a possibility you would consider reading a sample?

Dear Mr. Gordon, Thank you for allowing us to consider The Killer Commute. We are sorry to report that the story is not quite right for our press. As stipulated in our writer’s guidelines, Avalon publishes mysteries, romances and westerns of up to 70,000 words, which is the equivalent of approximately 220 manuscript pages. At 324 pages, this manuscript exceeds this maximum word count. We appreciate your interest in Avalon and wish you every success in placing your work with a suitable publisher.

New Year and a new ritual

2009-01-04T17:54:00.000-08:00

So that's me about to jump into the water at Cedar Beach. Newsday was there, since the monks organized a dip at 10 AM, but I was getting anxious to complete the goal. So, Ali and I drove down and got there around 9:30, and I pulled of my sweat pants and took off my shoes and stood on the beach as Ali took a couple of pictures. Why? Each year see those freaks jumping in, and was motivated by insanity and the memory of watching my uncle Pat break through the ice at a each in Fort Salonga, and wait there for him to jump in and climb out. To you uncle PAT! It was insane, and WINDY - freezing, and my feet suffered. It took an hour or so for them to thaw out. Lesson for next year - wear sneakers or anything since the sand and the small rocks and shells are frozen solid. Since it was low tide - there was a long walk to the water. So, how deep did you go? Not that you can see it from the picture, but up to my thighs. Next year, a little deeper!
Goals - to write at least 15 minutes every day. So far, so good. I'm on schedule even writing longer which is a great sign. Last night even in the hotel room in Poughkipsee, I began a new short. We headed up to Hyde Park for the weekend - really for a full day and one overnight. Val-Kill is such a reflective place. I'll try to post some pictures on the blog from today. Time to write.

End of the year - 2008

2008-12-30T15:36:00.000-08:00

So what are some of the books I read this year? Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer, Stephen King writing as Richard Bachman - Blaze, Barack Obama, Dreams of My Father, Walter Mosley - one of the Easy Rollins novels, Franciso Goldman's The Art of Political Murder - who killed The Bishop? Was one of the most intense books I read in a long time. I was able to think back to Guatemala and spending a couple of days in Guatemala City. Memories of the Cathedrial where the bishop was killed and the cover up and obvious evil that persisited and some say the killings are occuring again. But I don't want to address that now. It's a subject for another blog. Books? Some Harvey Mackay books - there are times when I need some inspirational works. Today I picked up a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale at the library. I tried to read The Audacity of Hope, by Obama, but it did not have the same appeal as his first book. The latest was somewhat insghtful, but the writing was stifled. So, what else? I wrote some poems and tonight will look into some markets, and will write more of the Sci Fi novel. Man, I like this one. Yesterday I received a favorable response from a publisher for Killer Commute:

Dear Mike,

Thank you for your submission. We have been on a holiday break. :) I am forwarding this to Damien Roth. He will respond within 6-8 weeks.

Good luck!

Sincerely,

Marci Baun

--
Marci Baun
Publisher
Wild Child Publishing -- http://www.wildchildpublishing.com/
Break free...read wild!
Freya's Bower -- http://www.freyasbower.com/
Weaving passion into words

It's all in God's hands.

It's close to 7 PM and yet it feels later. The winter has that effect, but today I noticed the sun was still up - even if it was close to 5 PM.

In the night thinking about the day that passed

2008-12-21T17:23:00.000-08:00

So what's the deal here? It's about that time of the night when I'm thinking back to the day. Wondering how productive I was. Any shovelling outside? No. Any real work? Nope. A stark contrast - man, i love that expression to yesterday. This was a Sunday when I woke up, went outside a little before 7 and was surprised how warm it was. My goal was to go for a run and to think of a YM novel I've been contemplating. This is a Sci Fiction - what's that? Why would I even tackle this monster? Two things, I like the challenge and I think there's a market here. And I can hear Richard Elman say, Write with Love. Write. i love the characters. Is Sci Fi even selling? Let's see how it works out. I went for that run earlier, in the rain and took a shower. After I attempted my usual 30 push ups, but got to only 20 before my left elbow went into shock. It's been a few days since I worked out the muscles and I'm not counting shovelling snow here or at the in-laws. Even still, I feel and I know I spent most of the day up here. Ali gave me an opportunity to write and I took advantage of it. Like my muscles, it's been awhile since I wrote. Here's the first page:

one

It was a routine she began when T-1 was first apprehended by The State. Anna 6139 stood in the doorway and watched as the first moons light settled in her son’s room. She couldn’t sleep. Her son, Pos 4239 was fast asleep in his bunk. Thin tubes pumped oxygen and warm air into his bed chamber. For a fifteen year-old he was a small for his age. She rubbed her hands together and said a prayer, the same prayer that she learned to recite back at The Campus. After she genuflected, she raised her hands to the sides of her head she closed her eyes and prayed that T-1 was safe and still alive. Still, there was an emptiness that replaced his absence. She was losing hope that he would ever return since he was warned that if he was arrested again – he would be exterminated. The medication hasn’t helped her sleep.
She walked into the living quarters and felt lost. She was not sure what to do since she was ordered by The State to remain in her house and not to allow guests inside unless it was family. The silence in her quarters was stifling and she wanted to either curl up and cry or scream out, but she was beyond those displays. Her mind was close to numb, and she debated with the thoughts that self extermination may be a rational option.
The State has the ultimate control over the lives of the colonists. Life on their planet was violent since they were families of criminals of The State. Not only were the criminals arrested and removed from the bliss of planet Alexandria, but their families were expelled as well. Anna sat down and breathed in deeply and thought back to life at it was. She walked on the beach and watched sea creatures in the distant ocean jump out from the

_____end of pg 1 and this is copyrighted material 2008 Michael Gordon

I read a little with Joe and gave him a choice of how many words he had to write. Typical, he chose one word. Ali mentioned he didn't want to read. Amanda is singing Christmas songs down stairs. I can assume Ali is on the computer in the kitchen and Emma Tess and Bella are somewhere watching TV.

What else - submitted a query to Echelon

AlialialiREM's Blog: Recap of Friday the 13th

2008-12-19T20:27:00.000-08:00

AlialialiREM's Blog: Recap of Friday the 13th

Submissions into publishing

2008-12-19T16:29:00.000-08:00

Last April I challenged myself to write a novel. What sort of novel? A mystery. Something I can crank out while taking the train to work. Why April? It's supposed to be the cruelest month. Think Waste Land. And here's my Big Idea. Each of us has that one big idea - write a novel about a killer on the train. I fell in love with the idea and looked forward to each morning and each afternoon when I could take out my laptop and tap the keys. The book flowed easily which is a very good sign. I heard, and maybe it was Henry Miller who wrote, if a book is not flowing - come to think of it - he as thinking about reading...drop it. But there are writers who struggled, and say it's not worth it. It's your internal voice that is screaming at you to drop the book...forget about the story. This novel is different. I still love her, but recently I've been hit with a rash of rejections. I know times are tough. So what should I do? Thinking about self publishing? Check out Monk Press Acid Tree Park. Search Google and I'll send you a copy. That was an experience, and I don't want to go down that road again. Maybe I have to? Agents are a tough breed to crack. I thought Sobel Weber was going to take this and run. And I was foolish to think - I got picked up by the first agent I queried since the book has such promise. I was wrong, and even took their suggestions, lose the atypical divorced detective...so Mick Doran is hypochondriac detective and it's third person instead of first. I still love the book. I received help from others who edited the book and made meaningful suggestions. So it's ready. Like a child watching a snow storm in a classroom the work is anxious to be set free.