Hey Kids, You Don't Need to Play Sports!

3/19/16 15:52 Home listening to MC5 and Wire: Pink Flag

Last night my son, Joseph Gerald Gordon proved he has more courage than most men I know.  To take the stage as a ninth grader, singing solo in front of the high school students, the jocks and the geeks and the artists, graduates and the good community of Port Jefferson Station would have paralyzed most of us.  But the choice of the song was a stark contrast to what most young men would have chosen.  Most men want to exhibit their maleness and strike up some interest from the young women.  That was me in my senior year of high school, playing U2’s now classic song, I will follow.  I did fairly well in my combat boots and was called Bono for the rest of the senior year.  Joe chose something completely different, a song by Lady Gaga.  

My son has more talent in his pinkie toe nail than I ever did.  His range is incredible, he’s comfortable on the stage and let me tell you readers…it brought a tear to my eye.  Actually, each time Joe sings I am so proud of him.  I’ve seen this child perform in our church, in choirs at school.  Recently, he sung in the all-county choir and last month in Boston he sang with a talented group of students, representing the East Coast.  He had to audition for both of those choirs. 

The last couple of weeks I have had meetings with clients and some have asked about my family.  When I mention my children, three girls and one boy – typically, the first question is what sports does your son play? Um, none.  There is a little awkward silence.  And some have asked, what sports do “they” play?  As if sports in the only choice a young person has, especially if the child is a boy.  You’re a boy, you play sports. Penis equates sports, who made this rule?  What else is there in their young lives? Is sports the only option?   

For many families their lives revolve around sports, church and school and some TV or time on their phones/computers where they play games.  This narrow mindset wear sports shorts all year long.  I see the men who are middle aged and have beer bellies. They’re obsessed with "their" teams as if that is the only thing in life.  They are able to recite stats from the games, standings and speak of the players as if they are family, unless they're traded.  

The parents for these budding star athletes travel long distances for games, strength and conditioning sessions, practices and tell them to “man up,” if they are injured and if the dare shed a tear or a cry is heard. Man up.  We did not have that shit in our house.  None of my children have had any real interest in sports.  Did I try to coax Joe into baseball?  Of course, I promised him toys he wanted, but watching my distracted son in the outfield - being more interested in the dandelions than the game was enough for me.  Especially for Joe.  He explained he had a fear of getting hit in the eye with the ball.  

Hold a second, building a supportive team either a cast in a play or a band or a robotic team is just as important as in sports.  You learn to adapt, working as a unit to achieve a goal.

I loved sports before I wanted to be Bono.  But there comes a time when we need to let our children go and discover their healthy joys.  I was not going to push any of my children into something they had no interest in. 

When we are in our element, maybe it’s on the court or at the plate or in front of an audience, we feel complete.  How often are we prodded into careers which made us miserable?  I can’t wait to see Joe develop his gifts and watch where it leads him.  He’s interested in college – actually in Emerson in Boston, but there is no pressure.  Ali and I want him to be happy and of course continue to make bold choices like being fearless and singing a Lady Gaga song in front of an audience.  Rather than fear controlling his life, he took the stage; the curtains parted and the spot light lit up my handsome boy.  And the audience cheered…

    

 Thank you for reading this.

When REM played in a Roller Skating rink on Long Island

2/17/13 17:16 Home

A couple of months ago my Dad brought over some boxes that contained some of my things when I lived at my parent’s house almost 30 years ago.  There are notebooks and sketch books, water colors and an endless stream of songs especially the lyrics.  When I was eighteen my dream was to make it in a band.  I got in the band and the box has the evidence from those years when I was sending the band’s tapes to IRS records, Warner Brothers and whoever else I thought may be interested in giving us a shot.  The name of the band was The Few.  It was a high school band.   We played the variety show in High School, in fact opening the show with U2’s I will Follow.  I still know the lyrics since we practiced the song a million times.  There is the evidence in the box as well of the original name of the band, GS/G9 which is/was a German military branch or that is how I remember the other singer telling me it stood for.  For a few months he was the singer of the band, but I persuaded the group the kid couldn’t sing and he was out.  We changed the name and played The Police, Driven to Tears, REM’s 1,000,000 and The Clash’s Brand New Cadillac, The Jam’s That’s Entertainment, Led Zeppelin, Joe Jackson.  More often we practiced original songs that Bob Miller wrote.  Not many people heard these songs expect for Scott’s parents where we practiced in his room, and the twenty or so at the audition for the variety show.  I should add we played two gigs. Gallagher’s in East Northport, August 9^th 1984 and Sparks also that summer.  If you notice the picture attached, I included the Sparks flyer which we passed out.  The more kids that showed up with the flyer for your band, the chances were better - not a guarantee - the band would play there again.  Being underage was a big strike against us.  Gallagher’s was an empty restaurant and Sparks barely had what I would call a…crowd.  Sparks was the place to play in Huntington.  Vance from The Mosquitoes was there.  I was petrified; my nerves forced my voice to become hoarse by the second song.  I sounded like shit, tried to push through the set with constant squirts of Chloroseptic pain medicine behind the amp.   I can still remember the commercials for the throat relief medicine.  A heavy set actor with a distinct lisp had a sore throat, struggles to swallow.  He takes a couple of squirts, signs and says, ahh, Chloro…OH…sssseptic!”  The band eventually kicked me out.  It was my best friend who took the initiative.  Bob Miller thought it would propel me to go to college and stop dreaming of being a rock star.  Since those years I met a few wannabes like the kid who was pumping gas at the Hess who liked my Clash T-shirt.  He said he was going to sing in a band.  I told him I had the same dream.  But he looked at me; I was the kid who quit before making it and he said defiantly, “Yeah, but I am going to do it.”  Go for it, but give me five dollars of regular for the beast.  I drove a real beast - Chrysler Satellite station wagon.  Take a look at the other image, although Dad had the 8 cylinder animal - sporty with cool hot rod rims, but I felt like I was driving a whale.   Getting away from the band here…back to the music and the box of memories.  So I start pulling out pictures of me playing little league - The Dukes at Larkfield Little League.  I vaguely remember their names in the picture.  There was the kid who always had egg residue on the corners of his mouth, the other kid who had a thin moustache even at nine years-old and we all inspected the thin shadow with an odd mix of fear and trepidation.  Music.  I included pictures of a fanzine the Bob Cuomo published, Crisis.  His brother’s band The Service had a decent article.  I remember one of their songs, It couldn’t happen here….I saw them play in CB’s…the brother was cool and treated Bob and I very well.  I saw their drummer years later after a Joe Strummer concert, one of his last in Brooklyn and he couldn’t believe I recognized him.  What I wanted to write about was the night I interviewed REM when they played Good Skates or the Music Hall in Setauket as it states on REM’s postcard they sent to fans to promote their Little America tour.  This was when Reckoning was out and the hit, S. Central Rain or better known as…”I’m sorry.”   The band was making it.  Their video was on MTV.  If you don't know this song it begins with the lines, “Did you ever call?”  I wrote about The Smiths previously and this was the same time.  That summer – 1984 - I was invited to attend summer school since I failed English.  It was my rebellious time and I did not care about school.  One day I wore my REM t-shirt to summer school and one of the teachers made a comment to me like, “Hey, you know they are playing out in Setauket.”  No I didn’t.  “My wife and I are going and we can take you and a couple of your friends.”  Who was this guy?  July 17^th…So, Bob Miller and my brother Dave catch a ride.  “There’s a six pack in the back,” we can split, he tells us and enjoy.  Don’t tell your parents or else I can get fired.  I wanted to meet REM.  This was my opportunity, so I made up a fake press card and brought a tape recorder.  I gave the kid my ticket to what was a roller skating rink? I asked where I can interview the band.  “Press?”  Yes, I said press.  Go out that back door there.  I walked out and bumped into Bill Berry who thought I was someone else since he was really happy to see me.    I interviewed the whole band and they signed that faint piece of paper on top in the picture, Stipe drew a snake since I asked him to sketch.  I thought I lost this and seeing this after all of these years brought back memories of that night.  It was the first night they played Hyena.  You see me and Michael Stipe there?  Can’t believe those faces are the tired and old men we are today.  After the interview with REM I interviewed Dream Syndicate and then went back out to the venue and saw Stipe and introduced my brother and Bob to him.   Dave took the picture. Turns out Stipe had a few tokes of nature before the pic was taken.   I found a lot Del Lords posters and set lists and articles from Newsday.  They had such promise; I’d like to see them make another attempt.  There is a flyer from a Secret Service show.  There will be more entries on the local scene at the time.   When I was removed from The Few and tried another attempt with a band The Dharma Bums, Bob played guitar and we had a different band that never played a gig.   There are some black and whites pictures, one in the frame of the DJ’s from WNPT radio which played the music in the commons in Northport High School.  Some of the kids from that picture are no longer alive like my partner on our show, The M&M show – Mike Abrahamson.  He passed a few years ago.   Then there is my best friend Bob Miller who went missing after fishing in San Diego on a clear calm day almost eighteen years ago, never to be seen again.  Our music remains in this box and stored in my distant recollections.

 

The past is ripe with possibilities and regret.

Thank you for reading this

That's Paul Wetserberg from the Mats who signed this for me back in 85

We Were Promised Jetpacks Webster Hall 10 30 11 set list

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....

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

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.