Fifteen Minutes Later (Having Once Been a Part)

Even given my proclivity for blather and palaver, this is unlikely to be full of insight. If you're undecided whether you want to sit through another meander, well, it's time to make up your mind. This one is going nowhere quickly. Or rather it's going to sashay leisurely with no destination in mind.

I was never really a fan of Andy Warhol. This is not a popular admission among bipeds my age but it's never been true. I appreciated what I saw as humor and social observation, but his creations were just never my thing. At the same time that famous phrase stuck with me: 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.'

Then of course it happened to me.

Life has a funny way of giving us the things we ask for. When we're lucky enough we can learn a bit about ourselves in the process, but most often it's a chance to realize that we didn't want what we thought we did. I also love this.

But I digress.

Fame. Mine was not big celebrity or wide social appeal. Instead I was a part of a small movement in a small community, which meant for a while there were people who knew my name. This brought attention and things my way. It gave me opportunities I would never have enjoyed otherwise. This made possible my having a career in the music industry and writing for a bass magazine. I've signed autographs and been recognized in unexpected places. When I was still playing for a living, I got to walk some big stages and make the acquaintance of some remarkable people. I am grateful for all of this.

And I'm even more grateful that it's passed.

I never wanted fame. Attention, yes. Validation, absolutely. Respect, of course. But with fame comes the loss of privacy and the invitation of others to interpret one's life and art through their filters, neither of which ever appealed to me. As my moment in the sun was a little one and fleeting, I got to experience just enough to know with certainty that I was happy to have enjoyed it and equally to let it go.

Art has been at the center of my life since before I can remember, both the enjoying of it and the creating of it. I don't make any lofty claims in terms of my ability or talent, nor do I state that I know a damn thing other than I can recognize what resonates with me emotionally, intellectually or spiritually. I understand a bit of my aesthetic. That's about it. I know geniuses and savants. More often I witness those with facility who can impress but not make a particularly profound statement, at least by the standards I hold. This isn't judgment so much as finally grasping what's real and good for me. There are things which get acclaim I can't understand, but that's just fine. There's a hell of a lot I don't understand. Actually, that may be one of the hallmarks of my life.

A rant for another time.

But it does dovetail into something that's happened recently.

I got the sudden and unexpected news of a young actress' death this week. This is not someone I knew personally, only someone whose work I enjoyed. As I didn't know her, I had no way to know that she was -- like so many of us in the arts and otherwise -- battling depression. When the online backlash of a statement she made was massive, vitriolic and ongoing, she stood up for her position, attempted to clarify it and ultimately gave up fighting. If one is to believe the news, she hanged herself. And of course the lack of empathy rains down still.

As someone who's fought depression for decades and has survived every suicidal impulse, episode and spell, I will tell those who have never been touched by it that they are supremely lucky. This is a darkness they can't imagine. The fact that so many who have never felt it and refuse to acknowledge it is horrifying to me in a way I can't express, and expression is what I do. If I were to spend all my posts trying to articulate what it's like dealing with this or convey what it's like when it hits, I could never do it justice. This is horror on a level that no book or film will ever capture. Maybe that's why so many of us who have this in our makeup turn to horror to distract and entertain us.

If you've never dealt with depression first hand, I'm glad for you. This also means you can't understand what someone depressed feels. It isn't being sad and there's nothing worse than saying, "Can't you just be happy?"

No. We can't.

It's a cyclical thing but not in a predictable way. It may or may not have triggers as it may or may not be tied up in trauma. If trauma has never touched your life, be glad. Be overjoyed. If it has, you will never be the same and you will often be blindsided.

All of this, as I stated initially, is not building to anything in particular. Maybe I'll write about having mental health issues at some point. Maybe I shouldn't as it all but inevitably invites attacks from those same people I'd like to enlighten.

I dunno.

It's funny to me -- not so much the 'ha ha' variety -- that none of us chooses to be born but so many of us are judged for how we do or don't cope with that, as if we're all given the same tools at the start. If you're one of those lucky enough to be confident and content, I am genuinely happy for you. If you're someone who can't understand the rest of us, I hope you choose something better than belittling or seeking to hurt those bereft or your benefits.

Wow, that really did go somewhere I didn't expect.

As the Vulcans Say, 'Only Nixon Could Go to China.'

I can't really apologize for the scattershot nature of my posting or the inconsistency of the tone in what makes it into the blog. I'm still amazed at the number of things that I use or do daily which didn't exist when I was a kid. Touchscreen technology was science fiction and now it's all but disposable. As something of an anachronism I can't apologize when I'm running to keep up with a world that I don't particularly like. Not the planet. I love the planet. It's this weird construct we call society, built from double standards and where most of us are on double secret probation. After months of cynical, sarcastic carping and a protracted absence, I write from another place along the emotional spectrum, perspective skewed once more. That means I remain a satellite to social media and -- wait for it -- this may be cheerful.

Yes. Really.

Since getting back into the anonymous quasi-reality/para-reality that is social media and staying below the radar long enough to become sort of invisible, a few things have become clear. But don't worry because the change is in a good way.

Trolls are no less numerous nor less rabid than they were. But since they don't seek me out I'm not so often blindsided by the hostility when it inevitably crops up. And after a couple of years out of the line of fire it's much easier to read the vitriol and laugh. It still makes me sad that this behavior is as prevalent as it is and that it's how so many choose to interact, but even when someone is trying to make it personal I can usually see that it's got nothing to do with me. Like everyone else in the world, I'm just a target.

The strange phenomenon of so many taking so much seriously on the 'web remains baffling, but I can't understand why most everyone is tethered all but continually to their phones. I get that they're convenient and that they offer so much, but I can't grasp why that makes them as prevalent a choice over reality. People in groups in cars or in restaurants choosing to text or post online in lieu or talking with their companions are commonplace. I'm now seeing people trying to run and lift weights while using their phones. I can't get it and I'm done trying.

But my choice is to enjoy what's around me rather than let it pass me by. I harbor no animosity toward the world of pixels and memes. That would be powerfully hypocritical of me. I still visit for distraction and to enjoy the good in my friends' lives. I am occasionally mentioned here or there. But I've become a tourist. I live in a mountain cabin and know how lucky I am for that. The existence I know is largely one of my own terms and I don't ever want to forget that. Those who know me do not judge my choosing the path I have, even when my solitude may sadden them.

'Oh, yes,' you think as you read these words. 'He is so much more light and pleasant this go 'round. So very much.'

Wait for it.

The flip side of all the above is that since I've been able to be a virtual ghost, a near invisible man, I've also returned to those things about interwebbery that I enjoyed when I first engaged it. There are some connections that are remarkable. Ideas that I've held as truths since I was a boy are sometimes echoed or even validated. As someone who's lived so much in his own imagination, it isn't lost on me that so many go online to find what their lives may not give them. Romance and eroticism are abundant. One can be a superhero or villain and not get physically battered. Intellectual discussion is actually probably more easily enjoyed through a screen and more commonly than it is in most of our day to day otherwise. While some choose to project an image in keeping only with how they wish to be seen, others are communicating as their best selves.

If we are entering a new age and are gradually opting for a kind of symbiosis with our tech, with a sort of electronic hive mind, that is an inevitability and my inability to assimilate should have no bearing on anything. My view of or feelings about this trend are meaningless as I'm from the previous era. As a friend puts it, I'm pre-analog in a digital world. And I think this is true. But being out of synch also means there are things I can enjoy that are no longer real in this day. I write letters, go to libraries, discuss philosophy and take time to breathe and to bask in silence. Am I free from stress and strife? Not by any stretch. Have I achieved some kind of enlightenment? Not hardly, as John Wayne might have put it. But I am doing what I can to improve the quality of my life rather than get lost in the mad run to acquire more. If there's a choice between having what's meaningful or what's current and cool, it should be pretty obvious where I stand.

So yes, I'm more hopeful than I've been in the last several posts. I have made my way back into what gave me sorrow and found good there. There are millions screaming from soapboxes or choosing to wallow in what makes them unhappy, but there are more than a few simply trying to put good in the world and giving others reason to feel good. There's humor that isn't mean spirited. I've even 'liked' cute animal videos and pictures of food. But as a tourist I'm also happy to have things stay this way. I'll be peripheral to this world, meandering through every now and again, but if you want to actually find me you'll need to release the tether that binds you here. It's a beautiful morning on the mountain and I've already spent too much time sitting in front of a screen. Time to be outside for some of that breathing and ogling.

Answers. Yes, They Exist.

I'm not a fan of facile or of spoon feeding when it comes to knowledge, wisdom and experience. I don't think they have meaning if they aren't earned. Yet people cry out for these things, like they're items on a fast food menu. I understand that but I don't think anything good comes easily. So what am I on about this time? I'm telling you how you can have anything you want. It's actually simple.

There is a price for everything. It's sacrifice. It's time. It's energy. It's belief. It's perseverance.

That's it. Really.

When I was making a living on stage, in the studio and teaching, the one thing I heard most often was, "How do I get good?" You play. You practice when you can, you take gigs, you make a metric ton of mistakes na you don't quit. It's not about getting paid for everything you do or being perfect, it's about working, learning and doing it. That's all. Honest.

You can be rich, famous, popular or just about anything you want but you have to pay a price. You will give up something to get what you want.

But what about people who were born rich? Someone made that money. Or stole it. And if you think people who are rich have it easy, think again. They may not have to worry about their bills, but they are paying for things you can't imagine. I took a ride in the vehicle of someone with more money thanI could imagine. It was explained to me that the vehicle was bullet proof and could withstand a landmine going off beneath it. When I asked why I was told that the number of death threats that came to the family in a year was dizzying and that attempts had been made to kidnap the children. Repeatedly.

I've met people who are famous and I have listened to people talk about the famous. I've heard all kinds of things. Seen them, too. What kind of price is there for fame? Privacy, for one. Can you imagine what it must be like to have people trying to photograph or interrupt your most private moments, the most special and precious ones? Being followed to the supermarket or seeing your photo as you walk into the doctor's office on the cover of a tabloid? How about the photos you took for your partner? Imagine how many times in a day you would have to overhear the people around you talking and whispering about you.

This is not me preaching. I've made my choices and just like anyone else, they've cost me. Do I regret them? Hell, no. Do I envy others their talent or their wealth? Probably in fleeting moments, but at the end of the day it's not important. I count among my friends some incredible artists, some of the best in the world. I am lucky to be inspired by them but even more lucky that I get to know them as people. Why? Because they people who have worked hard and earned what they have, who touch others' lives with what they do, are remarkable humans. It doesn't mean they aren't tormented. It doesn't mean their lives are easy. It means they made choices and followed through on them.

I was with someone once who rarely got angry. In one of our rare arguments she spat out, "Your job is playing. How hard can it be?"

Ignoring the decades of practicing music for 8 hours or more a day, the unpaid or underpaid gigs and dedication to the craft had costing most every meaningful relationship in a musician's life, there are things a musician deals with daily that people on the outside don't see. Ever imagined a day on tour? Sleeping a few hours on a floor after a sweaty gig, to climb into a van with a a bunch of zombies, driving hours to get to somewhere only to be seen as a freak, loading gear, dealing with the politics of the venue and the area, waiting for hours and hours to play a few hours, then loading the gear again and hoping there's a bed waiting before those few hours of sleep.

This is not griping. It's a reality. And it's worth it. Traveling, meeting new people and doing what one loves is absolutely worth it. It's not easy and it's not something for everyone, but that's also probably why everyone doesn't do it.

Next time you want to slam a film either for the performance or anything else, check out what a day of shooting actually means. It's waking before dawn and being ready to go for 14 or more hours. Have you ever had to be 'on' for that long, every day for weeks or months? Do you know exactly how much is determined in the process of editing a film or what impact the score and lighting have on it? How about the sound design? Did you realize that the funding can be pulled from a film at any time and the shooting may have to stop several times before principle photography is done and the editing can even start?

I'm not trying to garner sympathy for artists. I think everyone who rises to a certain level makes a decision to get there. And of course it's not all about the work. Luck and any number of random factors play into it. But if you want something, you have to go for it. That's all there is to it. People will give you some. Life will place some at your feet. For the most part, you have to go out and get whatever it is you want. Drive will take you so far, but it's continuing to push when drive fails you that makes the difference.

One of my favorite quotes is from Rachel Rosenthal. As part of a discussion about funding for the arts she stated, "Artists don't have a job, they have a calling." I think that's true but I think art can be expanded to any number of things not traditionally viewed that way. I think there is art in engineering, in commerce, in manufacturing and in love. Most who have achieved did it because they had to. Olympians recognized their gifts and those were fostered by others who could see their potential. It is the same with all kinds of people in all fields. But no matter who one is talking about there was a point -- or there were several points -- where it was about having to push when there was no one there to encourage or support. Great things come with success but the road getting there is not easy.

None of this is easy. And it isn't anything anyone has to do. But it's there if you want it. What are you willing to give up to get what you want?

Revising the Revisions

It was an experiment. It was morbid curiosity. It was that perverse, bizarre need to know. And now I do.

I have posted plenty about my feelings regarding mainstream social media so I won't rehash, but after nearly 2 years away from Facebook, I reopened the pages just to post two photos. No fanfare, no preamble, just the images.

What's surprising is that I wasn't surprised. Within a couple of minutes there were well over a hundred 'likes' with dozens of comments congratulating me on coming to my senses and welcoming me 'home.'

Yes, surreal.

The best part for me was that several of those posting were the same ones who had made sure to get my contact info before I closed down the pages initially, so they could stay in touch. The same ones I reached out to first. The same ones who never contacted me during the time away.

I don't want this to read as hypocritically as it likely is. I am terrible about communications. Part of that comes from having a job doing it, but on social media there is just no way I can keep pace with it. None.

And I don't want to present the image that I haven't enjoyed or benefitted from social media. I have. A lot. All I'm stating is that I'm not the same person I was when I subscribed to those sites and began interacting in those communities.

At present the pages are staying open but there is not a whole lot of interaction. In the last couple of years I have reclaimed so much of my life. I am thrilled to live where I do and to have the time to invest in my creative whims. Perhaps I'll even try returning to music performance or publishing something. But more than anything I'll be redefining my boundaries. Probably a lot. If anything, the last two years have shown me that there is quiet to be had and distraction to be avoided, that I am the one who can make the choices.

I don't mean all this to come across as me judging. I have no issue with anyone choosing to use and enjoy social media or the latest, greatest technology. If these things work for you, great! For me neither is worth the investment of time, energy or much else. I am happy to become a satellite to the world, peripheral to the mainstream. The more peripheral the better, actually.

Where I once craved attention and validation, I now seek something much different. Attention is the last thing I want. Validation is something I can serve up. All I want is authenticity. Likely this will pull me further from a society that becomes less palatable and more baffling daily. And this is no slam against society, it's just my way of saying I don't understand where things are going and I want to cultivate what I can understand and what feels good. For me this is best done away from people.

Regardless of what I want, maybe I am judgmental and a hypocrite. I do know that I'm damaged and that much of what I embraced no longer has a place in my life. At the same time most of the values I have clung to resonate more strongly. I believe in love, honesty and the connectedness of all life. That does not mean I will force my love, my truth or my presence upon anyone. The people in my life know where I am and how to reach me. And now those that don't and want to can find me online.

If I am lucky -- and I mean very lucky -- I will become more articulate and communicate better. Or maybe I'll stop to organize my thoughts before sitting down to write. But I will tell you that the urge to simply leave all this behind and retreat to anonymity and invisibility is overpowering sometimes.

A Debt, One of Many

Faith is a curious thing. People generally associate the word with religious belief but it's got much broader applications. We can't live without it. We need it in ourselves, in our loved ones, in our professional relations and in whatever belief systems we choose. And there comes a time when it's questioned. As an artist, it's faith in myself I most often question. Do I actually have any talent? Am I purely self-serving by doing what I do? How do I know it's not just self-aggrandizement?

Sometimes this is a significantly more powerful doubt. Several times I have nearly quit what I do and there was a solid year when I gave up making or listening to any kind of music with the exception of incidental music in movies. Conversely, those times I could not play due to things like injury, there was no thought in me but getting back to it.

Almost 20 years ago I hit a point in my life that was, if I'm kind, ugly. My engagement had ended in a way that puts movies and novels to shame, I was drifting geographically and metaphysically, so of course my self-doubt was crushing. For more than a dozen years builders had been shooting down my ideas as ridiculous and even though I'd stumbled into a good paying day job at the warehouse of a music store where I was teaching, my only real thought was quitting. Everything.

Then one day I noticed a book in the store about instrument builders. I'd been playing intensely for a long time and had sort of lost touch with what was out there and who was doing anything new or interesting. I was on the roster of one of the biggest names in the industry but my discontentment was an unpleasant thing. Leafing through the book, I found something that really jumped out at me. A real maverick design that appealed to my aesthetic, and something in the spirit of what I read in the description of the company and the builder really -- pardon the pun -- struck a chord. I decided, as the melodramatic do, that this would be it: I'd contact this luthier and if he responded the way all the others had over the years, then I was just done. I scribbled down the company's website and that night sent a message to them with all the ideas I'd sent to so many builders.

The next morning when I opened my email I was stunned by what I read. The builder had written me himself and was not only open to my ideas, he was enthusiastic and encouraging! I couldn't believe it! I called the shop and we must have talked for 20 or 30 minutes. We went over the design point by point, worked out a price and just like that my faith was restored.

The builder was Bill Conklin of Conklin guitars (www.conklinguitars.com) and over the last two decades he has built me 4 instruments. Today I take delivery of my fifth. I even owned one of the import models to play in rough bar gigs. I would call our relationship both a friendship and a collaboration. He has patiently listened to and considered every harebrained idea I've sent his way and he was the first to invite me to perform for him at NAMM. When I lost everything in Hurricane Katrina (and Rita), he was the first to call and tell me, "Don't worry. We'll get a bass into your hands again."

Writing those words after hearing them nearly a dozen years ago now, I'm tearing up.

The first bass he made me was the culmination of several ideas that had been playing in my head for a long time: extended range, a particular combination of woods, a different approach to wiring pickups and a specific aesthetic. I was so nervous when I first opened the case, looked at it and eagerly picked it up. All coming from a builder whose instruments I'd never played.

It surpassed all my hopes. It became my primary gigging and recording bass for years.

When I formed the duet Depth with 9-string bassist Greg Campbell, Mike Apperson of the Conklin shop joked, "You know no one's going to take you seriously unless you start playing a 10 string!" While we cracked up, the seed had been planted and it wasn't long before Bill and I were talking again. With the gracious gift of my then-wife, this beauty came to life and found its way on stage, onto tour, into the studio and joined me for several appearances on the radio...

Sadly, both were taken along with most everything else in my life by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. But then Bill contacted me with the aforementioned call and this lovely came into existence...

This instrument was central in helping me rebuild my life and rediscover my identity. It remains one of the most cherished things in my world. But of course me being me, the more I played it the more I craved 10 strings. I called the Conklin shop and sheepishly began the conversation, "I know I promised I wouldn't do this to you again, but-"

"We had a feeling you might want one so we made a 10 string neck for you. Want to talk specs?"

After the laughing stopped, the dialogue began. In short order Bill and Mike made what has become the main bass I've played for just about 10 years...

This purple and yellow monster has treated me so well and is rarely far from my side.

But for the last several years I've been plagued with both more crazy ideas and hostility within the bass community. Whether those attacks represent the majority voice among bass players is irrelevant. It's been tough. So once again I made one of those decisions: I'd bug Bill with everything rolling around in my brain pan and see where he stands. The thought was that if he was willing to build me this latest design, I'd have no excuse not to play as the instrument in question was not designed in any way for ensemble playing but exclusively to be used in solo performance and recording. Not surprisingly, he was excited about the project (and possibly just indulging my wackiness) and work started on the new instrument.

And today is the day. FedEx informs me it's out for delivery but in the meantime all I can do is look at the photos Bill sent before it shipped...

Yes, this means I'll post more shots once it's here and I get a moment to snap some.

But if it wasn't for people like Bill and Mike at Conklin, Mark Wright of AccuGroove Speakers, Eddie Speedy of S.I.T. Strings and Carey Nordstrand of Nordstrand Pickups, I would have given up and walked away from all this years ago. Art is about possibility as much as it is about creativity and communication. While I may never know if I'm a decent artist or even someone who has a right to call myself an artist, I am grateful to have the encouragement and support to peer into this universe of possibility. I hope I can pay them all back in some small way. I will keep trying.

Lies I Was Told... and Believed.

This is not a happy post. Or at least it's not starting as one. It could metamorphose as some of these do, but I'm not starting from a point of positivity or encouragement. Sorry. But this is your chance to look elsewhere if that's what you seek.

Over the last week I've heard from some of the people I hold most dear. Women, to be specific. These are individuals I love but am not involved with. If you've read any of the older entries here or know me in real life it will not come as a surprise that this is the case or that I'm about to ramble on the subject.

I love women. I always have. Many if not most of the bigger decisions in my life have come about in one way or another because of women. That's really only started changing (some) in the last ten or twelve years. Is that good? Does it mean anything? I have no idea.

As a boy I was taught to respect women and in fact was raised to be chivalrous. But I grew up when the world, when society, was changing. I mean, it always is but this was a time of interesting change. As these were my formative years a lot would not become clear until much later in life, but I was brought up to put women on pedestals when women were smashing them.

Now I know and accept that men and women are different. On a purely biological level we have fundamental disparity. But we're taken through childhood largely separately and even when we're integrated at school there is an 'us and them' mentality. Maybe this has changed some since I was little. I hope so. Girls and women together are not the same as boys and men together. I don't think either is particularly good, but I think there are things that we don't understand about one another in very broad strokes.

I think the male as canine/female as feline analogy works pretty well on some levels. Men are linear. We're task oriented. We're kind of about one thing at a time. Our focus is generally upon what's before us. When we're hungry, we eat. When we're tired, we sleep. Pretty uncluttered. Women are a bit more convoluted. The number of things at play in the feminine psyche at any given moment would scare the hell out of men. It does scare the hell out of men. On a purely chemical level, what a woman deals with day in and day out is unreal. Some men are able to grasp this intellectually, but the reality of it is completely beyond us. Men want to simplify, to create a direct path. Women usually find this boring.

Once again, I'll point out that this all comes from my experience. My observations and yours may differ wildly. I'm not trying to draw conclusions or to make any kind of statement under the pretense that I'm expert at anything. I'm not.

Like a lot of men my age, women were to be treasured and protected. Their sensitivity, empathy and self-sacrificing nature was precious. Women represented the finer things where we men were more crude and unformed. It is because of women that so much of our art exists.

However...

Women want to be treasured and protected occasionally. That sensitivity, empathy and self-sacrifice are usually conditional or situational. Representing the finer things can mean looking down on what's crude and unformed.

But women will always be magic. Unknowable. Deeply flawed but without them men like me would never know what it is to be in love. And we are flawed and limited in so many ways, too.

I don't know. I used to joke that I knew what women want: everything, but they don't know in what order. These days I don't joke much. I don't invite women into my life. A romantic who was raised to open doors and walk between a woman and traffic doesn't really have a place in the 21st century. I've been lied to, left without explanation and attacked for no reason too many times to open my heart. I still love and I do it deeply but until or unless a woman unlike any I've known in half a century saunters into my life looking for an itinerant musician with no ambition for material wealth or fame, I'm done with romances. Which sucks because there is nothing like being in love. I write that as someone who has never fallen out of love and has only been with women who don't want to be in love.

Again, I don't know. I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why I believed everything I did or why I still want to believe the things women tell me. I don't know why I can't or won't grow up. I don't know why it's easy to spend days caressing a woman but it destroys me to see the same woman happy with someone else. I don't know why I've never been enough for anyone but I suspect that goes back to the idiotic things I've believed for most of my life.

Most women in my life have at one point or another said, "Love isn't enough." But for someone like me it is. Maybe because I've never known stability and I can be happy without a lot. Of course I understand that a woman wants what I can't give. But then why do they seek me out even when I point out this fact? Why do they come back to me years later to tell me that no one loved them like I did?

I don't get it. I just don't. We all want sex, love, acceptance, affection and those things that reassure us we're good or worthwhile. Is it really so hard to simply be straight with one another about what we want and what we don't? Really?

Want to know the real rub here? I still love romance. I write about it, relish it in books and movies and a part of me that I just can't seem to kill still dreams of it. When women say those things they do, my fucking heart still skips. So maybe I'm just crazy. Maybe we all are.

Okay. That's enough.

Eternally Unplanned?

There have been a boatload of things in my mind lately so as I sit at the computer, they have all evaporated. What that means for you is another off the cuff, in the moment completely random blather lacking any of the elegance or eloquence of a piece brought to you by a real dyed in the wool writer who places craft on a par with art. No, I'm not one of those. My aesthetic is more the improvising musician's, where there's fuel for the fingers but possibly nothing fed downward from the brain into them. Don't worry: I'm not offended if you take this opportunity to direct your attention elsewhere.

You should absolutely read me, though, if you appreciate the singular thinking that comes from the mind of an artist, a neurotic, a romantic a curmudgeon and/or an iconoclast. I'm no genius, crusader, bastion of political correctness or mouthpiece for the 21st century. I'm a self-imposed outcast who may or may not be a hermit, depending upon your definition or who you ask. I prefer to be positive but am negative more than I'd like, have been extremely healthy and just as self-destructive, was labeled both serial monogamist and womanizer, and while I think of myself as transparent, I am continually misunderstood.

So what the hell am I on about today? How about communication and blame. Yeah. Yeah, that'll work fine.

I've been in a lot of couples and know a lot of people in them. It's what so much of us crave, as much for the end of solitude as for the enjoying of someone else, for the chance to be heard and touched, to laugh and do all those things people do together. This does not in any way qualify me as an expert, just as human. Again, that last part depends upon your definition and who you ask.

There really does seem to be a split in the kinds of couples out there. Some couples talk. They work to get closer and to support one another. They work through problems and find solutions together. They know that fights can actually lead to greater intimacy and understanding. They live in a dynamic state. They are also the minority.

Most couples get together based on chemistry, possibly on shared goals and the thought that they can make it because they really like one another. Over time the chemistry fades, they discover they don't have that much in common and communicating nothing they really want to do. Routine and rut become their norm. They look outward at other couples, imagining they're somehow better. They look at other people. They fantasize. They cheat. Lies become commonplace, not only to each other but to themselves. They are the majority.

Why?

Because we're human. We're lazy. We want to believe that there's a point where the work stops and we get to coast. Comfort and convenience are so much nicer than reality. Most of us have no idea what healthy is. We understand healthy appetite, but healthy choices are alien to most of us. We live according to our desires.

That isn't always bad. The desire to prove oneself has led to great athletes and artists. The desire to be right has led to great inventions and given rise to corporations, to whole industries. Desire is hardwired into us. We desire one another, families, children... it goes on and on.

The problem is that desire unchecked is dangerous. To want for the sake of wanting leads to the end of relationships, weight gain, career destruction, cultural ostracism and worse. People kill and die for desire. Lives are ruined for it. Disappointment grows in it. It kills empathy.

Rather we let all these things happen. We hate consequence and most of us aren't particularly far-sighted. We confuse gratification with satisfaction and we get them both mixed up with contentment. Gratification is rarely enough. Satisfaction is passing. Contentment is a fucking unicorn.

But I'm lucky. I've had to start from scratch a couple of times and been able to create more than one life for myself over the years. In turn I've lived my dreams and wallowed in horrible depression, practically destroyed myself through self-loathing and reached places of health and happiness that had been beyond my ability to imagine. There was a point where the unicorn of contentment was mine. And I let desire drive it away.

Really.

Even though I choose solitude at this point I think being part of a couple is a wonderful thing. I would be lying if I told you I didn't crave it on some level. Being desired, having a friend, sharing inside jokes, simply having a human presence are all wonderfully human things. The flip side of that is letting things devolve to the point where the one person central in a life becomes the recipient of the worst vitriol, unwarranted resentment and blame for so many things. This too, unfortunately, is human.

But none of it is carved in stone. I know that change is possible. The process of making it may not be pleasant, but almost anything can be changed. That's why it's circumstance. And most partnerships can be saved. But it's degrees of desire. If one partner wants the new more than the proven, he or she is going to walk away from the relationship which exists.

Again, human.

We admire people who have 'those' relationships, but the difference between them and the rest of us is that both partners are committed to making it work. They do the work. Both of them. It's about togetherness. Even when it's ugly. Even when you want to throttle one another or run away screaming. No one will infuriate you like the one you love. No one else will make you feel as good. We choose our partners but we forget to honor that choice. We don't have to. There's no need to. But we do.

Love may be the greatest thing going, but love ain't easy. There was a movie I watched long ago where it was called the ultimate leap of faith. I don't know if I'd go that far but on a purely emotional level, I can't think of a bigger risk. We lose faith in ourselves constantly, but to really love you have to have faith in that someone else and in the relationship you've built. Most people see everything as disposable but that doesn't hold true with people. Not the ones we value. The instant you think of a relationship as disposable, you've planted the seed of its destruction. It may never germinate but it can.

Perhaps this is all a part of my insanity. I believe a lot of what I was taught, even though I learn more and more of it was lies. But I have felt INCREDIBLE love. I have breathed it in, wrapped it around myself and slept in it. Love protected me from horrors. I do believe it's all you need. And I cannot possibly be alone in that. I can't be. The trick is finding someone else who believes it, then being able to work. It's possible. Not easy, lord knows, but possible. Look around you. There are people living in love. They aren't better people. They're committed: to each other, to the work and to love.

But as Ian Anderson put it, nothing is easy. Though time gets you worrying, my friend, it's okay.

Pretty solid jumping off point.

Life, or Something Like It

I don't know what the written equivalent of yammering is but this is your chance to get out before you wander into it. There's no actual crafted flow or cadence to what you're skimming now and it's not likely to get better before you reach the end. This is just one of those times I'm sitting here, things won't stop going through my head and I take it out on the computer, the internet and you. Apologies.

This screen has caught me prattling about everything from my own anachronistic, misdirected nature to disappearance and death on more than one occasion. And what is this ramble? What meander are you about to be dragged along? I think the strangeness of not being chosen. I don't mean that in any 'save the planet' kind of way but more like when the playground population is being divided up to play something. How many of us were the last one picked?

But to get a little more specific, I'm the one that no one chooses forever. I've heard the words and felt the emotions. I've even exchanged the promises. I've looked in someone's eyes and seen a reflection of my own love for a woman. More than once in fact.

At the end of the day, however, here I am. Alone.

Am I depressed? Disappointed?

Nope. Not really. A little sad, maybe. Tired, certainly. Confused in the way all subjective creatures are who encounter something counter to their way of thinking and of seeing things. This is as countless people have said and written the way it goes.

But I don't get it.

Now before you start making assumptions, let me repeat a few things that I've stated in previous posts. I am no angel. I'm not even a particularly nice guy. Nothing about me is a neat package waiting to be unwrapped to reveal magic. What you see is more or less what you get. And I know that we all change. I fully accept that forever is more a poetic term than something we can apply to our daily lives. I can't say I know or understand women, but I've been far closer to them than I have to men and know that 'in the moment' is much closer to describing the women I've known than forever is.

But I'm not without merits. There's a reasonable brain in here. I'm a pretty solid friend. Sensuality and romance are big for me. My massage kung fu is strong. I snuggle. The decades have given me some serious domestic chops. I'm an artist. Communication, honesty and intimacy are all cornerstones for me.

Of course the flip side of all that is I'm moody, prone to intensity, sleep is largely optional in my world, opinions fly from these lips far faster than they should, I can be too curious, I'm not someone parents ever want to know about, stability and consistency are all but completely alien to me and I'm not much motivated by material things. I'm not political. It's too easy for me to see all sides of a situation or a problem and still not be able to offer any kind of resolution. My fashion sense is questionable. This is not a young man... in any sense.

You'll notice that paragraph was lengthier than the one preceding it. I also elided. A lot.

Still, I see people in lasting couples all the time. I hear how it's so sad or even a crime that I'm single. I have so much to offer. How can no one appreciate all that I am?

I think women do. Women enjoy me. As friends and as lovers. But women don't settle with lovers. They have fond memories and sometimes tells stories about lovers. Lovers aren't husbands. Lovers aren't forever. I think no matter how much a woman may love a man, if he can't offer up security, stability and safety he will be relegated to lover. He will be an ex.

Realistically, I'm probably not couple material. Not for a traditional couple. Not for the women generally drawn to me. Maybe this is why musicians write love songs and artists paint their muses. I don't know. I honestly don't.

But I can tell you I believed what I was taught as a boy and lived most of my life according to those precepts. I was well and truly middle aged when it became clear that most of it was horse shit. We're taught what will lead to a comparatively safe Petrie dish as we all mingle like germs. It's why we're taught ethics in the conditional tense and then once those ideas sink in we're taught about the legal consequences of crossing the lines.

And like a moron I still believe in love. I still fucking hope for it. Why? Because it's about the only thing that makes life worth living. Do I enjoy artistic achievement and touching people's lives in a monthly magazine? Of course! God, these things are incredible! People have told me about my influence on who they are and what they do. That's an honor on a level I can't communicate.

But I climb into bed alone. I wake up cold. My phone seldom rings and most are cold calls.

This isn't to say I'm miserable. Not by any stretch. Nor is my life empty. I have better friends than I deserve and more love than I know what to do with. But no one rolls over in bed, kisses me softly and tells me she loves me. No one's hand folds into mine when we start walking together. I can't remember my last hug.

Hindsight is 20/20 and getting older is, if we're lucky, accruing wisdom. I've had great love (read Great Love) and it's been unreal to be the one chosen in the moment when powerful feeling was heaped upon me from someone I felt it for. The problem is that love is forever with an artist. Every loss is crushing. The fact that they are so rarely foreseen or explained is brutal. Solitude may be a balm but it's also an unflinching reminder that 'this is it, dude.'

Do I think there may be love again? Sure. Am I predicating anything upon that? Hell no. And while I would love to inform anyone who's made it this far into the text that next time I'll be wiser, that I won't be the same head first and question later dingus, I'm pretty sure there are some things I can't change. I don't even know that I want to.

It would be nice to meet someone who can actually communicate, though, and who knows her mind or what she wants.

Yes, I know that's asking a lot.

See? There was no design to it and nothing is any more clear than at the outset. But this little excursion has helped to settle my mood and give me the strength to get back out in the world.

I hope there's no one cute working the check out line.

Becoming Invisible

It isn't bad. It certainly isn't what I imagined. Considering how much of my life has been consumed with a fear of being mediocre, being consumed in anonymity is actually almost reassuring. I thought it would be like drowning, but it's just the opposite. I feel free. Invisible but free.

As a kid I was paralyzed by shyness but craved attention. Both my parents worked and we moved often enough that I didn't have many friends. I've never made friends easily. So I was alone a lot and lived more in my imagination than in the real world. This was fine until those chemical changes started and my drives shifted.

The shyness and desire for attention both became stronger, but so did the poignancy of my being alone. Luckily this was about the same time that we settled down for a few years and I came into a group of friends who accepted me and encouraged my imagination. My shyness was removed from the equation and I was getting attention.

But it was adolescence and I was on my way into young adulthood. Sadly I believed things I was taught and so was ill-equipped when it came to love, romance, sex and the general melee of the man-woman paradigm. Love was all I needed but no one explained that it's only the beginning of what a woman needs to stay with a man. If anyone had told me as a boy that stability and ambition count for a lot more than being a great lover or being a poet, I probably would have just focused on my art and not wasted what's amounted to decades in pursuit of what has only been a satellite to my own life.

Don't get me wrong: the women who've been in the picture have brought color, depth and resonance to my existence. I am grateful and appreciative that they were a part of things for the time that they were, I just wish I'd know that none of them would be sticking around.

It also would have been nice to know that the pain of a woman leaving would always be fresh and brutal.

So now that I've landed in middle age and stepped away from the fracas, removed myself from most social media, I'm left with simplicity. My shyness dissipated long ago and attention is about the last thing I want. A few years ago there were thousands of people following my interweb and career efforts, posting to my pages and reaching out to me constantly. I would get hundreds of notifications daily about things. Women from all over the world thought me interesting enough for all manner of banter and some even broached the possibility of starting something in the real world. My ego was overfed and glutted. I had carved a niche for myself in the musical community and was being invited to perform and to speak in addition to holding down a couple of jobs.

How could I let that go? Why would I??

It was easy. And it was time.

The internet can be lovely. For someone like me who will never make an entrance like Cary Grant, it was a goldmine. One can craft the image he or she wants, develop an entirely different persona than what people see at the day job and there is the luxury of being able to filter communications. Distraction and entertainment are everywhere. Porn is more accessible than data and appearance is more significant than accomplishment. It's a Fellini-Dali dream come to pass.

And it was too much for me. "Be careful what you wish," the wise man cautioned, "for you will surely get it."

I did. And as is the case so often, it wasn't what I thought. All that attention left me more painfully alone than when I was a confused teen. The flirtatious words connected with the enticing photos, real time chatting and the flurry of activity to try and keep up with it all left me cold. I'd shut down the devices and look around me to find no one there with me. Those who moaned and rallied when I announced it was time for me to leave the zoo rarely made any effort to keep up with me. Maybe that last part is what's amazed me the most.

My friends dragged their feet when I embraced social media. By the time they began to find in it what I had, I was over it. I didn't need or want to play games, take surveys or find out what character of (fill in the TV show or movie title) I was. I knew who I was and I know who I am.

I don't have conversations about what's happening on Facebook. The latest wave of hate has no more interest for me than whatever video of a cat or child is making the rounds. People are talking politics and it's getting heated? That's fine.

Maybe someday I'll return to that milieu. I think if I can tone it down and stop the notifications, there might be a time I resume a virtual presence. But until then I will glory in no one writing to tell me what an awful being I am or to demand I give them free things. In real life most women don't initiate contact of any sort so I don't have to reject anyone.

And I'm good with this. No one takes a second look if I'm out walking or standing in line. My phone isn't ringing and the number of texts I get in a month is nominal. It isn't a point of contention that I don't do hands-free calling while I drive. In fact no one is curious when or if I drive. My whereabouts are of no interest to anyone but me. No one seeks out my relationship status. Those things about me which are broadcast to the world are not from me and are all but overlooked.

On some level it would be nice for this blog to find an audience, but I'm simply glad that the documentation exists. That satisfies my vanity and insecurity more than anyone 'liking' something posted online. Let this be an archaeological anomaly, some odd token stumbled upon long after I'm gone.

In the meantime I'm gonna be in the world, wandering unseen between beauty and horror, waiting for sunrises and counting blue moons. It turns out invisibility is everything it's cracked up to be.

The Death of Empathy

I don't know when it happened. No idea if this is a global phenomenon or something unique to the States. I have survived the 'me' decade of the 70's and the cocaine fueled self-centeredness of the 80's, but never have I witnessed anything like what I see daily around me.

I suppose it's one possible outcome of humans being subjective creatures, an illogical inevitability of short-sightedness and conspicuous consumption. Even having changed my life to minimize contact with my fellow bipeds, giving up TV and walking away from mainstream social media, I see it every day. Every fucking day.

I see it in the way people drive, in how they act at coffee shops, in the things I overhear where I work and live, in so many communications I receive. Empathy is gone and compassion is on life support.

This doesn't mean there aren't incidents of loveliness or heroic acts, but these things are becoming more and more rare. I can't remember the last time I heard someone or read about an individual putting him- or herself into someone else's shoes and trying to understand their feelings, choices or actions. No, we live in a time of hair-trigger judgment. Preconception is now as valid as fact. Opinion is king in the land of the self-important. Cruel statements are lauded as brilliance, especially if worded cleverly. And worse, I am now seeing people made fun of for trying to be kind.

As a boy I was cautioned that kindness would lead to people to take advantage of me and ultimately take me for granted. For a long time I never cared because I liked making others happy, seeing them smile and if it was possible, making their lives easier, even for a few moments. But in the last several years I can count on one hand with fingers left over the number of people who have asked how I'm doing. This is not an exaggeration.

Do I think there's a solution? Not one I can imagine. Making the world less pleasant has got to be one of the strangest trends I've seen. This from a man who remembers pet rocks and Billy Beer.

None of this is to state I'm a particularly pleasant individual. Ask anyone I've dated. I'm moody, intense and prone to all manner of less than lovely things. But I try and keep my mouth shut when I could spew bile. Venting spleen now is something that happens only when I'm alone or with my best and closest friends. I don't meltdown in public and online. I don't attack strangers. When I'm attacked, if I can't rise above it or confront it with reason, I walk away.

Am I a pacifist? For the most part. But I was taught to fight. And I have friends who tell me I should be in the world and fighting every day. From their perspective this makes sense. From mine it's alien. This is partly because I'm alone and damaged, and partly because I have fought so much. I'm no longer a young man and I'm not wealthy, so I want whatever time I have left to be of quality. Once I reveled in triumph, in victory. That was an accomplishment. But for someone to win, someone else must lose. I don't deny that there are times for conflict or that there are things that are wrong. But I'm an artist and a lover. If people don't like what I do that's fine. It makes me sad for them if they feel the need to belittle me or mock me, but that's their choice. I'd rather just make music and write. If I never perform or publish again it makes no difference. It feels good to me, even if no one hears the sounds or reads the words.

And we live in a time where people don't read. I have a Twitter account mostly as a barometer of what's going on in society. It's getting to the point where I can make neither head nor tail of what people post.

But as I've stated, I'm old. I'm from another century. The values instilled in me are antiquated, anachronistic. This realization has not escaped me. But it saddens me that to be a hacker or an anonymous bully is somehow a badge of honor. In fact, I'm no longer sure the word honor has a place in my country.

Every day I see fewer and fewer decent things, decent in the sense of treating one another like fucking human beings. People make fun of the homeless and lose their minds when it takes two minutes to make their obscure espresso drinks. I don't recall the last time I saw two people holding hands. This is a time when people put their children on the roofs of their cars to open the doors and drive off without putting those kids inside the cars. There are more and more things I just can't grasp in human behavior. Does anyone remember the word humane?

It's heavy-handed and outdated, but there's an episode of the original Star Trek entitled "The Empath" and I encourage every biped who claims to have a heart to watch it. If possible watch it with someone significant to you. It's as simplistic as so much is that attempts to tackle something substantive in a short time, but it's worth the watching. Even if just to plant a seed.

There's an expression I was taught long ago: don't mistake kindness for weakness. As a culture we've lost sight of that. People give compliments as the overture to manipulating and exploiting others. Some days I feel I walked onto a playground where all the kids are pulling the wings off flies. Others I literally wait to see any sort of kind gesture between strangers.

What floors me about this is that all the people who are callous or even cruel will bitch about how no one is kind to them. But I think kindness is not something done for the expectation of reciprocation. That isn't what it is. Giving is giving. Giving to get something in return is something else, something darker.

Maybe I'm weak. I don't think so but I'm wrong a lot. But this may be one of those cases where I don't want to change something in myself. I still feel good when I can make others smile or laugh, if I can ease things even for a moment or two. I will keep trying, even in a world where no one asks "How are you?" anymore.

I'll keep asking.

More of It, Hopefully Not Morbidly

I was a nomad as a younger being, first when my family moved every few years for my father's work, but then later on my own. I went where life led me and would have to think hard to remember how many times I've driven across the country. There's no way I could recall how many times I've flown. But that rootless lifestyle allowed me many experiences, meeting people, seeing things, just experiencing. Like anything else, it had its upsides and its downsides. One becomes adaptable, which can be very good. A certain elasticity in perspective and in the way one chooses to be seldom hurts.

But today I recall a visit to my grandmother as I was relocating from California to New Hampshire. She was in Texas then and I hadn't seen her in a long time. We'd actually begun corresponding and she wrote great letters. I got to see sides of her I hadn't known as a boy and she wasn't ginger in her words.

At that point I'd been a musician professionally for a few years, having dropped out of college to go to music school. To the chagrin of many, I never graduated there either simply because I'd opted not to take any of my tests. I bring this up because she was the first member of my family who asked me to perform. My parents and my brother had heard me practice for years (sorry, guys!) but none of them had heard me in a band or asked me to play a song. She set out some snacks while I hauled in my amp and ran through my warm-ups. It's something I'll never forget.

What was unique about that visit, though, was a conversation we had over dinner. This was in the early 90's, nearly 20 years after her husband had died. I didn't -- and don't -- have many memories of my grandfather but have been told a lot about him. I remember his height, his eyes and his smile, but I don't remember his voice or anything in particular he said. She, in the years since, had never been with anyone else as far as I knew. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked her about it.

"Oh, I've been out with a couple of men but I'm still in love with Mac. Never stopped. And I talk to him all the time."

"Really?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Of course. Just because he's dead doesn't change that."

It's been almost 25 years since that exchange and it continues to resonate. I'm sharing this now because my uncle, one of the few members of my small family, died yesterday. The brain cancer was inoperable but it was complications of pneumonia that did him in. Even so, the suddenness of it took me off guard. I was hoping to visit this summer.

Rory was a bigger than life character, an Irishman who'd played rugby professionally and had one of the quickest wits I've ever known. After the cancer was pulled out of his skull the first time, there was a shift in his perspective (of course) and he went from a wisecracking scoundrel to a positive and concerned individual. Always a great storyteller. An ineffably sweet soul.

As the news hit me yesterday I thought about how long it's been since we'd seen one another. Through a bizarre set of circumstances I'd missed his wedding to my aunt, even though my family had flown cross country to be there for it and I was slated to read at the ceremony. While I still wince at this and it still stings that I wasn't there for one of the biggest days in their life, he never once mentioned it. And he loved to tease. Lovingly. Always lovingly, but he adored teasing. Of all the members of my family, both by blood and marriage, he knew more about my nature than most. And he was the first to defend me when people spoke ill of me.

So am I sad? I'm gutted. Leveled. My first thoughts after the news were all the things I wouldn't be able to say or hear anymore. I thought, like an ass, of myself. It's human, I know, but it's ridiculous. Has his impact on my life been diminished? Have his words been taken from me? Are all those stories gone?

No. Absolutely not. He is still larger than life. In fact, now that he's slipped its bonds he's truly larger than life. I feel like crying but I'm smiling as I can hear his cadence and that little pause while he waited for me to catch up with what he'd just said, seeing if I would laugh and pushing on before I had the chance. This was a man who believed life was for enjoying and that we're all here to learn and support one another, someone for whom family was probably more precious than anything. He was a spectacular friend and a cherished husband.

As I sit before this screen, the early stages of grief creeping over me, I recall my grandmother's words and those of the poet Henry Scott-Holland. Rather than blather further I'll simply leave you with someone else's eloquence.

Love the ones in your life, even when life leaves them.

Overdue. And Grudgingly.

The hope was to drop the kind of piece that you read with a wry smile, the kind that makes you feel smarter and that you might reference casually in a conversation with cool people you've just met. Alack, to quote Jeff Altman, I'm blank as a fart. So instead I'll deal with some of those things I've mentioned previously. Thus I blather on weird, normal and the horror of the conditional tense.

I've been called weird longer than I can remember. Maybe it's the same for you. But I've never seen this as an insult or even as an observation. It's always struck me as the clarion call of someone who clings to one of the more odd words in this language: normal.

I've never understood normal. It's never made sense to me. Someone once told me it has a place in the world of statistics, but I was also told that there are three kinds of lies -- white lies, black lies and statistics.

From the time we're tiny we're told about our uniqueness, that it's what will lead us to success and maybe even happiness if we can embrace it. We're called special and those qualities which do not conform to statistical norms are often praised.

But I think for most of us, we're pummeled and browbeaten with 'normalcy' almost as long. So what the hell is it?

Most people who use the word tend to fling 'weird' as a weapon. It's a quick way to point out, "You're different from me and that makes me uncomfortable." But I think this is odd. This may be one of those times that my cockeyed upbringing and vagabond life allows me an alternative viewpoint which may -- or may not -- serve to illuminate.

Our house was a wild place when I was growing up. My folks are from different races, countries and cultures. Dad's a cowboy with roots in Scotland and Texas who spent time in the navy and has been a corporate titan for most of his adult life, a man who has denied himself little in terms of experience or adventure. Mom's an elegant yogi and gourmet cook who grew up in India under British rule but left her homeland to work in American magazines before she was out of her teens, by which time she's already graduated university. They are both brilliant in very different ways. And our home played host to the most incredible cross-section of humanity.

No one was ever called weird. This was our normal.

We lived on the East and West Coasts, in the Midwest and in the South. My brother and I attended public schools and private schools. We made friends and dated. We spent a lot of time alone. We were taught to pursue whatever we believed in as long as it was sincere and not something done for some frivolous reason. Whether we were into photography, cars, film, collecting comics, roleplaying games or what have you, it was all fine. Curiosity was encouraged as was tolerance. The word hate was frowned upon as was any kind of condescension. Learning was important to my parents, but understanding was paramount. Dad taught us practicality and logic. Mom never let us forget that the arts show us all humans aspire to be.

Consequently we were culture shock for many, just as we encountered culture shock in many of the places we moved. British raised Mom had a hard time assimilating into 70's Southern California. Moving to Kentucky from Connecticut when I was a teen provided me with a lot of challenges, but my younger brother embraced it.

You live and you learn. Very few of us can predict what our path will be, and that unexpectedness gives us the chance to be more than we are. We can grow and change. Wisdom may actually occur.

But then again, how many of us are weirdos?

I have marveled at the things I've been called and about the assumptions people have made of me. Hearing "Sand nigger!" screamed at me and a half full bottle of beer hurled along with it during the height of Operation Desert Storm/Desert Shield while walking back to work from lunch in Westwood was surreal. Being told that people thought I was a cult leader and a male prostitute were nothing I could have imagined. Having people spit on me when I was a boy because I looked different or because of who my parents were was baffling.

But I'm weird.

So maybe what I consider normal is weird to some. To many? Weird to me is intolerance and closed-mindedness. The exclusionary is not what I want to be normal. People who believe hate resolves anything, that hate is 'normal', scare me.

Don't worry, I'm not going to resolve anything or draw any conclusions. But I am going to meander over to another pet peeve of mine. Yes, the conditional tense. Would, could, should, supposed to... EVIL!!!!

The conditional tense is wonderful for teaching ethics. Knowing what you should and shouldn't do is important in a world where bipeds must interact with one another. The problem is the real world where things are done or not done. What could have been done is moot. Someone knowing better means nothing.

I don't know about you but I can't count in the course of a day how many people moan about things in this nebulous abstract realm. Is there actually any point in talking about hypotheticals in one's day to day? If you're alone and balancing options to make a plan, maybe. Sitting with friends and analyzing a political speech or the choice of an athlete, though? Mm-mmm. Nope. Making a joke? Totally. Killing time and filling the air with meaningless words? No thanks.

It's easy to look back at something that happened and wonder about a different course, another decision. But you know what? It already happened. If you're thinking about what you might do next time, cool. File it away in your cerebral rolodex and speak of it no more.

I realize these are idiosyncrasies and neuroses, that most people don't get hung up on adjectives and verbial forms. But you're reading this which means you accept I'm a nut bag and you're reading anyway. Thank you for humoring me. Rant done.

For now.

Holidays, Half a Century and a New Year

Yep. It happened. That thing that makes middle age definitive. I turned 50. 

I could carp and kvetch about how old I feel or how life is just not fair or anything along those lines, particularly in light of the last several months leading up to the event itself, but why bother? Is it going to change anything? Will I somehow magically feel better about the state of my life and me smack in the middle of it?

Nope. Not even a little. So instead, I'll do what I've been doing for these posts since I returned to the blog: ramble extemporaneously and hope that something cohesive comes from it!

Or something.

I don't live extravagantly but I do allow myself indulgences. Sometimes that means food. Occasionally it's an instrument. Once and a while I take a sanity day just to stay on the mountain and enjoy the quiet. But the fabric of my life is nothing too fancy for the most part. Nope, I try to stay down to earth. 

But for the 50th, marking two decades of life I never expected to see, I wanted to do something nice for myself. A little vacation in the midst of the inevitable end of the year craziness. So I researched for a couple of months and found a place not too far, not too expensive, but beautiful and with a chef reputed to be one of the best in the area. Huzzah! Plans finalized, reservations were made unreservedly.

Which meant getting the flu the night before I was to leave. Of course. Not the end of the world, certainly, but still a bummer. So rather than enjoying new vistas and gourmet fare, I plied myself with juice and water while going through unbelievable amounts of tissue paper. How a human body can produce so much gunk without completely shutting down is beyond me, but as a writer I suppose it's good to know these things. Regardless, the fever and ache reduced me to getting around like a nonagenarian, unable to read, write, watch TV or do much more than wheeze. And think. 

I thought a lot. 

Yes, it would have been great to get away with someone special and enjoy the indulgence but just turning to my window reminded me I'm surrounded by beauty. Cards had come in the days before the malady and on the day itself there were texts and emails. For a guy huddled and freezing under three layers of winter clothing, the cockles of my heart were indeed warmed and warming.

In 50 years I've had great love, legendary romance, ridden a motorcycle absurdly fast, been on the cover of a magazine, become a part of a community and heralded as a voice in it... the list is long. And it is absolutely more than I deserve considering the drama monger I've been for the majority of my life. 

But the beauty is that we don't get to decide how we're seen or what comes our way. Life does. Others do. For all the time I spent hating myself and thinking I'm not good enough, there have been others trying to convince me just the opposite is true. For the decades I worked hard to be respected or taken seriously, when I stepped away from all that to instead just do what I love, what makes me happy, that validation came. 

I would love to say that this means something and that I have wisdom to impart to you (assuming anyone's reading this), but I think it just comes down to doing what you believe in with no thought of anything more than doing the best you can. For your own peace of mind. Maybe you'll be rewarded. Maybe you'll live and die in obscurity.

And at the end of the day it doesn't matter. Can you put your head on your pillow before falling asleep with a clear conscience? If you can, you're in good shape. If you can't you're not likely someone who'd be reading this anyway.

It's not hard to get caught up in the expectations of others, in a life spent second guessing rather than just acting. That's human. And we are all human. Sometimes we see things clearly and other times that's about impossible. We can be as giving as we are selfish. But it's about doing the best we can and not tearing ourselves apart when we don't succeed in the ways we want. 

My life has kindly offered me moments of wonder, incidents that pulled me from my own limited view to see that others see and feel things very differently than I imagined. Once was a crying fan in Whitefish, Montana who thanked me for bringing good music to her town. She was talking about the band I was a part of but I am so grateful every day of my life since that she chose me to convey her message. Another time was a message from a musician in eastern Europe who wrote at length how I was his musical hero. None of us knows who we are to someone else. 

Would I live differently if I never had either of those moments. Yep. Absolutely. I do what I do to stay sane. Being alone, the priorities are different. But I am so thankful that those moments, and more than I can easily count, have happened. Not because I feel special, but because they ground me. They humble me.

When I was 15 and had not been playing bass too long, I was listening to a recording that my teacher had recommended. It was a kind of music that I'd never really heard before. I wasn't sure what to make of it intellectually. But at one point I started feeling... funny. I don't know that I have a word for it even at this point. But something was different than it had been before. It took a few seconds before I realized I was crying. I was weeping, right there in my parents living room in the middle of a weekday afternoon. I could tell you the song and what point in the recording, as well as the personnel in that session, but there isn't any reason. I had been touched emotionally and in that moment I knew I wanted to be able to do that same thing. I didn't know if I would be able to, but that was what put me on the path. 

And even when it was tough and sacrifices have been made, when I didn't achieve the things I wanted when I wanted them, I have no regrets. Zero. Just the one decision, the one realization, made it possible for me to strive. For me that's what it's about. Success is lovely. It's great. So is getting paid. But I'll tell you flat out that nothing has come close to hearing I'm someone's hero, to having a fan tearfully thank me for something that I was a part of. 

I hope there are more birthdays, with or without others to share them with me. I hope there's sex and romance and laughter and a ton of stuff. But I'm pretty good with what I've seen come to pass so far.

No, I'm really good with it. I'm honored.