Revisitation Rights

I'm sorry but I'm going to have to revisit a topic about which I previously posted a while back.

I was listening to the radio this morning  and I was informed that Prince Philip had been released from hospital in England (the British don't say "the" hospital, they just say "hospital".)  I was also informed that Nelson Mandela remains in hospital in South Africa.

Let's pause for a moment to ponder those two facts.

Two old men in and out of sick bay.

One is a world hero responsible for a cultural shift that liberated an entire country from the shackles of institutionalized racist discrimination and terror and will be remembered throughout history for his struggle and achievement.

The other has done nothing but follow his wife around wearing too many medals and will be forgotten soon after his death.

I understand the British need to celebrate their monarchs.  They are saluting their "noble" past and the wonderful things they have done.

Colonialism, occupation, death, destruction, terror, torture and oppression.  Oh and the Mini Cooper and Spotted Dick, whatever that is...

I know, they survived the Second World War and Churchill was their hero.  As is David Beckham, The Beatles, The Spice Girls and James Bond.

But the fact that these people do nothing while the rest of the "real" world and most of the English, I might add (I did add, actually...), work their asses off for a fraction of the Royal allowance, to me, is a sin.  A SIN I tell ya!

The very week that the inspiring Mother Theresa died, the vacuous Princess Diana died.

We read a line, or maybe two, about the probable saint and we are STILL talking about "Di..."

"Never say Di" is not in our lexicon, apparently.

But now we talk about her in the context of discussions about her sons and, soon to be, grandchild.

Granted, the younger son, what's-his-name, seems like a regular guy, a selfless soldier and a party animal...but all of the rest of them seem to be lazy freeloaders.

And Charles. 

Poor Charles.  With his requited love and the elusive throne.

His mother will probably never die.  She is probably taking pills, paid for by the Exchequer, that will give her eternal life.

Charles will wait until hell freezes over, or until the Colonies revert to the rule of the Crown, whichever comes first, before he assumes the "big seat..."

The Royal Family irritates the crap out of me.

But I am fully aware of the fact that I am merely jealous of their wealth and lifestyle.  I admit that.  Who isn't...really...if you tell the truth.

And I, personally, think I'd look great wearing a tiara.  My mother always said that I had a "hat face."

And the medals.  Bring 'em on...!  All of 'em.  Especially the OBE. 

I wan an OBE.  OBE wan Kev OBE!! (Star Wars reference...get it?  No?  Lame joke...?  Ok...you're right...)

If I had one then I'd almost be a Beatle.  John, Paul, George, Ringo, Pete, Billy and Kevin. 

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

Je Refuse...

Question:  What do you have if you give a small shore bird to a group of convicts?

Answer:  A tern for the worst.


Sorry folks...I couldn't help myself.

Which brings me to my point of the day.  What is it with growing old?

I am reminded everyday of my age and, therefore, my mortality.  You see, I have a teenaged daughter, sixteen years old to be exact.

She is finishing her sophomore year in high school, has a wonderful boyfriend, a job, a learner's permit and is on the High Honor roll.

She is still my little girl, as you would expect, but she is fast becoming a woman.

I am now the passenger in the car when we go to school in the morning or work in the evening.

I sit and wait while she visits the ATM to deposit her check or to withdraw money.

We're talking about college and we even talk about what it could look like when I'm much older and she is, possibly, forced to care for me.

I say possibly because it is not a fait accompli that I will need her help.  I may be healthy enough to care for myself.

I may be too egocentric to let her help me or I may be dead before the question comes up.

But however it turns out I am becoming more aware of what I have always known to be true.  Whatever it is, it is all in the mind.

When I think of myself, I see, in my mind's eye, a young guy full of energy and the sense of possibility.  One of my favorite expressions when I was coming up was, "I can make that happen for you."

I applied that idea to everything from getting gigs as a musician to getting girls for my friends.

I saw a challenge and instead of running away from it I embraced it.  I just couldn't, or wouldn't, hear the word "no" or entertain the notion that I couldn't achieve the outcome I was after.

And I proved it over and over again.

I have fixed up friends, some of whom have ended up married for a long time.  I have created business opportunities when there weren't any openings.  I have even found, sometimes literally on the side of the road, the things I was looking for, from a bandana for my girlfriend's hair when we were on a motorcycle trip in upper Marin to a working kiln...a working kiln...for my pot-throwing former wife.

Intention and a sense of can-do possibility were the guiding principles that motivated my life for as long as I can remember.

But, not too surprisingly, of late, my energy has dimmed and my ambition has slowed.

I no longer daydream of being the next Grammy winning singer songwriter to be played, endlessly, on the radio.

I don't envision myself as a wealthy man retiring to my summer home in The South of France (although I will live there some day...)

I probably will not ever finish "A Tale of Two Cities" much to the chagrin of my late mother who almost never missed an opportunity to wonder whether I had or would any time in the near future...

So lately, I have been content to putter in my garden and to watch my delightful daughter grow into a smart, funny, sensitive and capable young woman.  It seems as though, now on Social Security, that I am happy to just wait out my days in the growing tedium of The Golden Years.

But that very picture of my life today is what has me agitated.  Screw that I say...!

I'm not ready yet to throw in the towel and call it quits.  I still have dreams and energy and ideas and the sense of what is possible.

I talk about the latter almost everyday when my daughter will suggest that she can't do this or can't do that.  I tell her, repeatedly, that she can.  She can do anything she wants to do just as long as, in the words of my hugely successful winemaker friend Dario Sattui, she really wants to do it.

So if I still think that's true than I must not have lost the juice to get it done.  I must still have what it takes to realize my dreams and accomplish my personal goals.

It is okay if I have trimmed my sights a bit.  I may not win a Grammy but I may not be trying to either.  I may be content to sit on my porch, surrounded by the splendor of my pastoral bird and flower filled (thanks to my beautiful wife...the flowers that is) back yard and perfect the melody from "Ain't Misbehaven'" on my 1967 Martin 00-18 guitar.

Truth is, I ain't misbehaven' at all.

But I'm sure thinkin' 'bout it again...!


ps...

Question:  What are you doing when you're driving by a car full of criminals in Prague?

Answer:  You're passing Bad Czechs...

I'm Sorry

I must most sincerely apologize for my absolute lack of any enthusiasm for politics these days.

I mourn the past with a great deal of emotional pain.  Gone are the days of George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Bill Clinton and even Willard Romney, although all of the above make occasional forays into the news from time to time.

But the fire is out.  They all brought excitement.  The current crowd is tedious, self-absorbed and boring!

I remember feeling that, as a result of reading "Advise and Consent", the fabulous faux-fiction opus by Allen Drury and The Watergate Scandal, I could never trust the Republicans let alone be one.

I confess that my first legal vote was cast for Richard Nixon in 1972 but that was as much a result of the fact that my father was a Republican as that I was.  I hardly knew how to shave let alone form a cogent political thought.

Then the Clinton Lewinsky mess tempted me a bit but that was all about sex and Ken Starr's obsession so I gave the notion no never mind.

I also will confess that I voted for Barack Obama both times.  First because I was afraid the formerly sane John McCain, with whom I spent New Year's Eve on the campaign in New Hampshire bin '07, and who was a genuinely likeable guy, would die in office and leave us in the hands of the seemingly incompetent and scary Sarah "The Moose" Palin.

The second time was because I couldn't stomach Willard and Mrs. Willard and the thought of them running the country reminded me of the jerks I knew at boarding school (yes, my friends, I am a Preppy...) who got away with everything simply because their fathers were rich and who had everything simply because their rich parents were in absentia and thought that presents and money equalled love.

As to that last point, I'm here to tell you that money does not equal love in the slightest.  My parents didn't have very much of it and I have never been as loved in the way that I was by them.

But now being of one party or another means little or nothing.

Both parties are corrupt and both are only concerned with getting and maintaining power and don't give a good God damn about the country, its' citizenry or its' future.

None of the men or women currently in Washington have ethics or courage or honor.

They vote according to the dictates of their patrons and the rest of us be damned.

They wave the flag, weep crocodile tears and bemoan the fact that the middle class has evaporated all the while voting themselves pay raises, avoiding sensitive votes and investigations and sending our babies off to war.

So I started out as a Republican, became a Democrat, morphed into an Independent and am now just bored to tears.

Which, by the way are just about all I, or most of us, have to give.  We have given our blood.  We have given our sweat.

All that's left are our tears.

Tears for fears...

Timing is Everything

Chapter One

 

Timing is everything.  Brinnie knew that if she could wait until the end of the recital she'd be alright.
She also knew damned well that if she gave in and sneezed right then she would create a disturbance and ruin the evening.

Brinnie was not in the habit of playing by the rules.  She had spent her life, so far, doing pretty much what she wanted, whenever she wanted without much regard for the consequences.

She had been raised by her mother and her four older brothers.  Her father had left them shortly after Brinnie was born and they never heard from him again.  Her oldest brother, Mike, said once that he thought their father was in the Navy in San Diego working as a machinist but no one bothered to find out if that was true.

Brinnie could have found out easily if she had wanted to.  She knew where to look and who to call but wasn't that interested.

Mike had been like a father to her and she figured that finding the real thing would have only been confusing.  She didn't need the headache. 

Mike had always been there for her.  Her first period.  Her training bra.  Her Senior Prom when he chased Albert Conswiker all the way to his house after Albert had tried to kiss her.

Actually that pissed her off a lot as she had wanted Albert to kiss her but Albert was painfully shy, much more so than Brinnie.

When Albert put his arm around Brinnie and leaned in to kiss her he accidentally stepped on her toes.

She was, uncharacteristically, wearing open toed shoes as a part of her prom ensemble and when Albert landed she screamed.

Mike had been nearby talking with some friends and when he heard Brinnie cry out he, naturally, thought that Albert was getting cute and came running.

When Albert saw Mike approaching at the same speed he had exhibited as a star end on the football team, Albert took off toward his house which was not that far away on Hillside.

Brinnie lived on the other side of town in an area known as The Marshes.  It was an odd name given that the closest marsh was 100 miles to the south near the ocean.  The developer thought it was a clever name to give to the subdivision and even gave the streets nautical names like Dune Drive and Seagrass Circle.

Mike caught up to Albert and was just about to pop him one when Brinnie came limping up, yelling for Mike to stop.  She explained that Albert had done nothing wrong but the damage was already done.  Albert never did kiss Briniie.  In fact he never spoke to her again and she never forgot, even though she, as always, forgave Mike.  She certainly gave Mike a piece of her mind as he drove her home though.  If nothing else, Brinnie was definitely not shy.

She left home shortly after the end of school and has not been back to The Marshes since.  Mike still lives in the family house.  He married Natalie after college and their kids go to the same high school he did.  Mikey has tried to get on the football team but he's not very strong and no where near as fast as Mike was.  Coach made him a trainer for the season but Mike is still disappointed. 

He tries not to show it to Mikey but Mikey knows it anyway.  That may be one of the reasons why Mikey is gay but neither Mike nor Natalie know.

Brinnie knows but she would never tell Mike.  She is really more of a mother to Mikey than Natalie and Mikey confides in her, mostly because he knows he can trust her.

Brinnie grew up taking care of herself, pretty much.  Her mother, Margaret, was a good mother but somewhat aloof when it came to mother-daughter relations.

Margaret found it difficult to understand what Brinnie needed.  Margaret had been the only child, albeit adopted, of a very wealthy couple and her father was rarely home.

Margaret's relationship with her mother, Grollie as the kids called her, was strained at best.  Grollie spent all of her time at "The Club" right up until her death at 92.

As a matter of fact Grollie died at "The Club" right after lunch one day.  She just passed away in her chair at the table.  The waiter found her slumped over shortly after he had brought her coffee.

She had eaten the salmon and decided to have a small piece of Key Lime Pie before her coffee.

That was the last meal Grollie had.  Broiled salmon on rice with asparagus.  Key Lime Pie and coffee.

Brinnie hated Key Lime Pie.  She found it too sour.  She could tolerate it when Grollie served it for dessert but only because of the whipped cream.

It was real whipped cream with a lot of sugar added.  Alba, Grollie's cook, made the best whipped cream around and often gave Brinnie the spoon to lick if Brinnie happened to be in the kitchen when Alba was making dinner.

Brinnie loved Alba but didn't trust her.  Brinnie had seen Alba stealing from Grollie's pocketbook once but didn't say anything to Grollie.  She didn't want to get Alba into trouble.

Brinnie figured that Grollie could spare the $20 and if Alba needed it badly enough to steal it than what the hell.  No harm, no foul.

So Brinnie decided "what the hell" and let go a whopper.  It was a four-parter and went from a huge inhalation to a dramatic earth-shaking finish.  Four separate times.

Once would have been bad enough but four times? 

It actually saved the evening for Brinnie and almost everyone else in the room.  The music had been deadly boring and not well done at that. 

Mozart is often delightful and Brinnie loved almost all classical music but this performance had been tedious from the outset.

The recital had been made even more unbearable because Brinnie had been forced to go with Jackson DiLoretta.

Jackson thought of himself as a man of the world.  He was, after all, her boss but he was an incompetent when it came to personal relationships.

Brinnie had originally found Jackson very attractive but after she had worked for him for a few months she began to see him for what he really was...a poser.

Jackson had been a legacy at Columbia and that was the only reason he had gotten in.  He desperately wanted to be a WASP but his Italian last name made that impossible.

His father had pulled strings to get him an interview at The State Department and after he got his first assignment he quickly started going after what he really wanted which was a position at The CIA.

Brinnie had been recruited right after high school.  She was beautiful, tough as nails and unusually smart. 

When the recruiter approached her in the park across from her house that early July day she had no idea what the future would look like. 

She would find out very soon thereafter...

PC Be Damned!

I will take heat for this post but I don't care.  I'm feeling ornery, cantankerous and grumpy today so watch out...!

I think Republican female politicians and pundits are more physically attractive than their Democratic counterparts.

There...I said it.  Let the hostile, angry, foaming comments begin.

What?  Nothing?  Nobody?  The sounds of apathetical silence...

But really.  Sarah Palin, Michelles Bachmann and Malkin and Ann Coulter are, by traditional western standards of beauty, pretty darned good looking.  "Darned", for the uninitiated, means "damned" in the "non-cursing" crowd.  It is often replaced by "danged" or "goll-durned..."

Anyway.  Who do the Democrats have who can compete?  Hillary, Rachel, Barbara, Dianne?

I don't think so.

Palin is a babe.  Take those glasses off and she's every man's fantasy.

Bachmann is petite and coquettish and Coulter is smokin'...

George W. Bush had the reputation of being the sort of guy you'd want to have a beer with (or a near beer seeing as how he's a recovering alcoholic...) even though you may not like his politics.

The same can be said about Palin, Bachmann and the like.  They are attractive women even though their political positions are contrary to almost everything some folks stand for.

But then that raises an interesting issue.  Attraction is a combination of the physical and the mental.
I've been attracted to many women over the years who, once they opened their mouths became as ugly as the north end of a southbound dog.  As my beautiful wife is wont to say, "Don't speak..."

So maybe Sarah Palin is attractive just standing there but the unfortunate thing is that she and Bachmann and Coulter and Malkin and Matalin and all of the rest of the Republican women on today's political stage can't keep their mouths shut.

Maybe I should have given Bella Abzug a second look when I had the chance, may she rest in peace.

After all, you've got to have something to talk about after the fact aside from, "was that good for you...?

Yes, We Cannes...

WARNING!

This post starts out in a very pompous, name dropping, sort of way, but redeems itself later on.
I just couldn't help myself.  Sorry...

A few years ago my beautiful wife and I were driving through the South of France returning to Paris from the Cannes Film Festival which we had been credentialled to cover for The Associated Press.

While we were there we had made a side trip to Tuscany to stay with a friend at his converted 10th century monastery in Rigomano.

We had rented a small car for our trip because we were carting gear and needed the flexibility.

The morning we were leaving Tuscany I came out to find a flat tire.

It took me about and hour to find the spare and the jack.  It was all hidden in secret compartments in a very clever, space saving, way.

I finally located the stuff and, in no time, changed the tire and we were on our way.

A few days later, as we were passing just north of Avignon, we pulled into a rest stop, an "Aire" as the French call it, to take a short break from the road.

As we were leaving we passed an older woman next to a car similar to mine, with a flat tire.

I pulled over and got out to ask if I could help.  She, with some hesitation, said "Oui" and I proceeded to change her tire just as quickly as I had changed mine a few days earlier helped by the fact that I knew where to look in her car to find the requisite tools.

"Merci, Monsieur."

"Il n'y a pas de quoi, Madame.  Bonne Route."

Fast forward to yesterday.

I was driving on the highway when a full sized pick up truck flew past and then, abruptly, stepped on the brakes.

I saw the passenger window coming down and I thought it was a friend slowing to say hello to me.

I sped up a bit to pull along side.  I had a big smile and was ready for a big "Howdy Do."

It wasn't a friend, after all, but a cigar chomping somebody gesturing to my truck and telling me, unintelligibly, that I needed to know something.

I looked back with puzzlement and he just kept pointing.

I waved and mouthed "thank you" and he drove off.

I had to decide whether to pull over on a stretch of road in the middle of nowhere or continue on to the next exit where there would be services.

I was on a deadline and was afraid to pull over on the shoulder for fear that if I had a big problem it would be more complicated to fix and I would be late.

I drove on, slowly, to the next exit a few miles ahead.  I pulled into a gas station, parked and got out to look.  Sure enough my front, driver's side tire was almost flat!

I pulled up to then air compressor and filled the tire.

The payoff for which you have been patiently waiting and for which you suffered the opening pomposity...?

Kharma my friends...Kharma.

Sometimes generous actions don't return to you in kind but sometimes, as in this case, they do.

"What goes around comes around."

Remember that the next time to treat someone poorly.

Their Kharmic representative may just decide, Cuban in hand, to pass you by...

Happy Motoring!

Hot Dog!!

I am breaking my self imposed "lack of things to say" with the following missive:

"You go for it Boy!!"

I am, of course, referring to Anthony Weiner's announcement that he is running for Mayor of New York City.

Why not I ask you?  Why the hell not?!

Look, if Martha Stewart and O.J. Simpson and Oliver North can have thriving, post scandal, careers than why can't a guy, who has never been convicted of anything (except in the hypocritical "Court of Public Opinion"), try his hand at a second chance...a comeback.

Richard Nixon did it.  So has Mark Sanford.

Is it because Weiner is Jewish?  That's a familiar card that some have already played.

Is it his last name?  Maybe...especially since it is pronounced like the "hot dog" not the "complainer", which would only be slightly better after all.

Let's give His Honor a break why don't we.  Let's judge him on his background and ability, both of which are strong.

He was a good congressman and would be a capable mayor.

I met him once on assignment for NBC News.  I interviewed him in his office in Queens.  I had taken my, then, 6 year old daughter and Congressman Weiner took the time to respectfully allow my little girl to conduct an interview, much like the one she had just seen.  He then gave her a signed document attesting to the fact that she had visited his office.  She was very proud and I was impressed.

I may have been naïve but he didn't have to do anything more than shake her hand with a phony smile and politician's pat on the back.

He wasn't like that.  He was sincere and I appreciated that.

Not as a proud father but as a voter (albeit not his...) and an American.

What we don't have enough of in modern politics is authenticity and a genuine concern for the needs of the citizenry...no matter how small.

So Anthony Weiner preened and sent questionable Tweets.

So what.  Who hasn't?  Entire show business careers have been built on far less...or more, dependent upon your perspective.  I have two words for you...

"Kim Kardashian"

Need I say more...?