“When I pretend to touch you, you pretend to feel.”

Back around this time in 1997, a package arrived from Lombard, IL. Since March of ‘96, such clandestine deliveries were a regularity at 22 Bacon Street in Westminster, MA. This particular padded (boy is there symbolism in that…) envelope contained “Squeezing our Sparks” by Graham Parker.

I brought the tape with me to my moms house in Wells Beach, Maine that weekend and popped it in my Walkman while Megan and Kyle splashed in the pool. From the first chords of “Discovering Japan,” I was hooked. Other highlights of the record include “Love Gets You Twisted,” and of course “Passion Is No Ordinary Word.” It’s my favorite Parker song mostly for the words. A old friend once remarked that music affects you differently depending on where you are in your life… Yeah.

“It worked much better in a fantasy,
Imagination's one thing that comes easy to me,
But this is nothing else if not unreal,
When I pretend to touch you, you pretend to feel.

Passion is no ordinary word I think I love you
Passion is no ordinary word I think I think
Passion is no ordinary word, ain't manufactured,
Ain't just another sound that you hear at night.”

On the first link above, you can read a few rave reviews including one from a guy who claimed seeing Parker and the Rumour tour for this record was the best live show he EVER saw, and he’s seen hundreds… He wrote, “They played as if their lives depended on it.”

So now I come back to Dave, my friend. Music and Dave… His life does depend on it. Graham Parker is one of his RnR saviors. On June 24th, Dave got to meet the man and catch him live. I love reading Dave just go off on music…

“I'm telling ya (yeah, I've raved before about GP, I know), Graham Parker and the Figgs show last night at the Double Door in Wicker Park was one of the best RNR shows I've ever -- EVER -- seen! That makes two GP & The Figgs shows as two of the best ever for me! It just doesn't get any better. It just doesn't. The Figgs are one of the tightest pop-rock bands I've ever seen, and although I'd seen them three times before last night, they showed that they're in their prime now as just the Figgs. But backing GP is a whole other story...

I know you guys like GP, or some of GPs stuff, but I also think you would never go out of your way to see him play live. As great as he is solo, if ever you get the chance to see him with the Figgs anywhere from Boston to NY, GO! GO! If you don't come back thinking you just saw history made in a live show, and that you rocked as hard as you ever have, soaked full of (expletive deleted) sweat, incredulous at what you've seen, and ears ringing for a day, I'd reimburse ever (expletive deleted) buck you spent...I promise. Think Jason & The Scorchers in Austin at SXSW at Liberty Lunch. Only there's 1/4 the crowd and GP, at 56, is (expletive deleted) in your face with a band half his age playing as hard as any rock band can!

Yeah!

D”

Inject Emotion

Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity)
Oil on Canvas April-May, 1890
Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo - The Netherlands

I felt the anguish of this picture today. This morning I heard both my mother and father crying over the selfish self-destruction of their child. Speaking of lack of appreciation and ignorance, I never really “got” Vincent Van Gogh until today when I saw this while browsing Barnes & Noble with Kyle.

I know it’s not titled a self-portrait like so many others, but it is one. This image perfectly captured Van Gogh’s state of mind for much of his ten year career. Though a young man, he felt old, suffered greatly and longed for the exit.

On July 27, 1890, Vincent and his demons walked out into a desolate field. Wanting to silence them after many years of torment, he put a gun to his chest and pulled the trigger, but even suicide would not be easy. He missed his heart and died from infection two days later. He was 37 years old. His brother cried for him then.

“When I am painting I have a general notion as to what I am about.”

Recently a trove of paintings was found in a warehouse on Long Island. Some believe they may be the work of Jackson Pollock. Here’s one of them. I don’t remember when I first saw a Pollock. I mean one of the swirly, drippy ones like this image that he’s famous for. Whenever it was, I was unimpressed. I felt like any child could do what he did. While that may be true, at the time, Jackson Pollock took expression with pigmented oil to a place it hadn’t been.

Ed Harris, a marvelous and underrated actor, mezmerizes in his portrayal of the artist in the 2000 film he also debuted as a director. It works. He is Pollock. His facination began in 1986 when his Dad gave him a Pollock book for his birthday. In those 14 years he continually studied the artist until he felt he could realistically perform the painting itself. The National Gallery has an online feature including footage of Pollock at work with his own narration. If you see the film, you’ll notice Harris nails it.

Ed Harris’ Pollock completely changed my view of the artist to one of awe. Pollock’s alcoholism and depression made it virtually impossible for him to get out of bed, but he did…to paint. The canvas was his counsel.

Puzzling Evidence

This space has received a few visits from this site, so I checked it out and found this cool animated gif.

No idea how he found me...

Who's Your Papi?

I woke up this morning feeling pretty good about this:

You know the story. For 86 years the Yankees got the girl and the Red Sox watched them dance. After experiencing nearly forty of those futile years as a fan, I still have a nagging sense of fear of the “Evil Empire,” but it’s waning. The Yankees have a $205M payroll and a barren farm. Last night they looked more like Pedro’s “granddaddies” in a loss fueled by ancient Bernie Williams dropping a routine fly ball. I can only hope their big “trump the Red Sox again” acquisition before the 2004 season becomes their “Curse of Arod.” It’s going pretty well so far.

So now I’m going to say it. The Yankees are done. The mental aspect of baseball is huge, and these guys are permanently damaged from their colossal collapse in the 2004 ALCS. They had the Red Sox buried and they let them up off the mat to get their asses kicked. The New York papers called it the BIGGEST COLLAPSE in the HISTORY OF SPORTS. So it lingers. They have doubts. Their fans have doubts. Roles have been reversed. It’s like the “Anti-George” Seinfeld episode… Hmmm… George… “The Boss.” I wonder how he’s feeling this morning?

A Day at Mapleway

Tomorrow is the first day of school vacation for Megan and Kyle. I can only hope they enjoy a summer like one of mine…

On the first day of summer vacation in 1969, a ten year old boy walked sheepishly from 10 Pine Street down to Mapleway Playground, his brown-reddish locks a memory, having been sheared off a couple days earlier by Russ the barber on Main Street, just a couple doors down from the Greenwood Pharmacy and across the street from the Post Office. Yes, his mother had sentenced him to a crew-cut before school got out for the summer, an indignity he no doubt remembers to this day. (He does…) After all, while the look might have been cool for punk kids in ’79, in ’69, a “skinner” got you numerous cuffs off the back of the head to “christen” the new do. Not to mention giggles from the ladies. Thanks, Mom.

The walk to Mapleway was a short one, just down Greenwood Ave and past the mysterious High Street that no one ever dared travel, either because it was too creepy or just too damn steep. Entering the stone gates of the park, he carried the only thing he needed: his prized baseball glove, a Yaz Triple Crown model, ready to track down anything hit to left field.

They played inning after inning that summer and the games blurred from one day to the next. No one ever went home for lunch, but they always stopped when they’d hear the familiar tones of Andy the Ice Cream Man arriving in his square Hood ice cream truck. He always got Italian Ice and made sure the last drippings substituted for pine tar to ensure an iron grip on his favorite wooden Mickey Mantle bat.

One day after break, some of the older kids asked him to pitch in a game on the Little-League sized field. What an honor! These were Little League all-stars or kids already in Babe Ruth. As he toed the rubber, he wondered whether to throw the nasty new deuce or just bring the heat. They didn’t use catchers, so he wasn’t getting any suggestions. After a perfect Jim Lonborg windup, he unleashed the fury. His next act was to grab his mouth and feel for teeth after the batter smoked a line drive right back to his kisser. Incredibly, the chicklets were intact and there was no blood, just a huge blood blister under his upper lip. Welcome to The Show, kid.

He loved to hit, and like the Mick, went up to bat looking to homer “every time.” Unfortunately, there were no outfield fences at Mapleway except for the one shielding the tennis courts in right field of the big field, but it was 350’ away and no ten year old right handed hitters were getting near it. Besides, there usually weren’t enough kids for all positions, so there was a “no hitting to right” rule for the rightys. They hit. They ran. They argued close calls. They climbed the backstop fence to retrieve stuck popups because it was their only good ball. It was an endless summer when every day was Saturday.

Then one day it was Monday, but after that summer of love, his hair had grown back and he could safely return to school for 6th grade.

Daisy…

The American Film Institute has released their “100 Greatest Movie Quotes of all Time.” At #78 is a simple request from the 1968 Stanley Kubrick classic, “2001: A Space Odyssey.” While it didn’t make the list, the dispassionate response of HAL9000 is still priceless, and maybe even more memorable.

For me, it’s a perfect film, blending thoughtful images, words and symbols. In the greatest film transition in the history of the medium, Kubrick brilliantly flashes us forward a million years by throwing us a bone. 2001 isn’t for everyone. It’s slowly paced and does require an investment of some gray matter, not a requirement of the majority of celluloid reels these days.

I still don’t know what happened to Dave at the end, but I still think about it. Isn’t that what art is for?

Does your tee-shirt define you?

About a dozen tee-shirts are currently in my wardrobe rotation, primarily adorned at the gym, but some face public scrutiny. Every time I put one on, I sub-consciously pause to consider its source and meaning. My South by Southwest Music Conference tee from ’99 means a lot to me, but why? It is because it symbolizes some indie-music cool I want to convey? Probably.

Of course that clashes badly with my KISS tourshirt from the 2002 tour I saw with Megan, but I had to have it, OK? It’s strictly worn to bed, but not when I have company, if you get my meaning. (Note: Wearing the KISS shirt to bed is currently on a Ripken-like streak…) So, tee-shirts do give us meaning by associating us with things, places, times, accomplishments, institutions or movements. After Massachusetts was the only state to vote McGovern in ’72, I imagine a tee-shirt proclaimed, “Don’t Blame Us.”

Needless to say, if it’s not 100% cotton, throw it away. One of my favorite tee’s is a faux-vintage Red Sox shirt. It’s really getting old and soft and it was purchased long before the historic 2004 season. It says I’m a long suffering fan, well-deserving of the world championship. Some t’s are like Reeses Pieces, gently dropped in time to mark where we’ve been. Even then, I buy in Martha’s Vineyard, but pass in Cleveland. I don’t care if the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame is there. It’s Cleveland.

I have quite a few old teez from my days with NEC. They came in those pressure compressed packages that take about 3 washes to become unwrinkled. They symbolize a job I was really proud of. My contributions to the AFIS division helped “put assholes in jail,” as one of our former customers put so eloquently in front of 1,200 peers…

Finally, always beware of t-shirt gifts. One I received is a personal favorite for its symbolism, but it misses the cotton test by 2% polyester… The gifter obviously believed the image conveyed something about my personality. I think she nailed it if not for that stupid happy face…

What’s your favorite T?

So it’s Father’s Day...

My kids went out for a photo shoot with their Mom yesterday and then Megan got creative with MS Photo Editor. The result was four very cool framed images that really capture their personalities, even for just a moment in time... So here’s Jessica, Megan and Kyle along with some words from Megan… Thank you. I love you.

“So it’s Father’s Day, and we’re supposed to like, worship the ground you walk on and be thankful for all of the awesome stuff you do for us. But I think that’s gay to just say thanks on one day of the year. So, Happy Father’s Day Dad, and thank you for all the times we forget to say thanks and remember how much you really do for us without even thinking.

We love you. Happy Father’s Day ’05”

Happy Father’s Day

Just like my my father and his father, I share the human trait of imperfection in the job. I have regrets of deeds and words that my children will either forgive or not. I’ve read the best way to love your children is to love their mother. Unfortunately, that feeling left me a decade ago. Is that an unforgivable sin? Should it be? Maybe it will pass with time, but in 2005 it still manifests as a weight holding a child under water from the air of success.

When she was small, say 3 or 4, she’d spring to action at the words, “Daddy’s home.” No matter where she was or what she was doing, she would dash to the “starting line” at the back door of the old bungalow, and race forward the 20 yards to leap into my arms. Father’s Day was joyous back then when I could do no wrong... Then one day I stopped coming home… Recently the house she grew up in was sold by her mom and step-father, but she didn’t get a final walk-through. “I just wanted to see the view from the back door one last time.”

Back then things finally came to a head with my father and me. We’d been in some conflict over pretty silly things that resulted in me writing “the letter” that unloaded some 30 years of grievances. It was harsh and cruel. I hope I never receive one like it. Maybe I was angry that the day came when I stopped hearing, “Daddy’s home.” The next few years were filled with silence for us. Finally, in the summer of 2003 the ice began to melt for good. We took Kyle to a Sox game. Three generations. The way it should be.

Baseball and the Red Sox was always the common ground we had. When we could talk about nothing else, we could still talk about the Sox. He took me to my first Sox game and also scored us tickets to see Vida Blue and high-school phenom David Clyde back in ’75. We suffered through the World Series that year, then the ’78 debacle, followed by the ’86 meltdown. Any relationship that could survive those was going to last… On October 27th of last year, I took a shuttle out to Dad’s place at “The Villages.” A work conference had ended that day in Orlando. We went out to dinner with my step-mom Caroline, then watched the Sox in game 4 of the World Series under a blood-moon. It was a good night.

Music is a tenuous strand that holds my daughter and I together. She loves Sloan and some of the other music I listen to. I like some of what she listens to, but not that stuff of “nigga’s, hoe’s and bitches.” I don’t get that. At times it seems the gap between us spans galaxies. The anger is raw and vocal, but what doesn't need to be said is, "Dad, please help me." At times, I feel I’ve failed her completely, but I won’t quit on her. She has limitless potential. She’s smart, has a wonderful personality (when her head isn’t spinning “Exorcist style”), and is so beautiful. All of these qualities she shares with her sister.

As for the relationship with my own son, it’s a work in progress. I got some feedback recently that I baby him too much and am not preparing him for the “real world.” There’s some truth to that, but the protective instinct is a strong one. He’s a happy child and says, “I love you Daddy” alot. I’ll work on the “real world” stuff.

There are times I wish I could wash it all away… The mistakes, the regrets… but that wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be life. My reality on this Father’s Day is that the shattered dreams of a child can become a very strong force for the dark side of hate. I can’t change the past, but I will continue to use love and patience and respect to positively influence the future.

The Good in Sloan

Photo By: Johnny Arguedas www.motion-blur.net

Now fully recovered from Sloan-induced sleep deprivation, I’m still glowing with memories of the show Wednesday night. These guys just ooze with talent and professionalism. Early in the show, drummer Andrew Scott’s drums had a big problem, but the band forged ahead and began “Coax Me” sans drums until about halfway through the song when Andrew slammed back in for a jolting finish. No attitudes or pouting, just bringing what’s good about rock music night after night after night.

Chimp Art

Recently, paintings by Congo the Chimpanzee were auctioned on the open market in London. In art circles, Congo was known as the "Cézanne of the Simian World." Picasso owned a Congo.

Can you tell which of the pieces below was crafted by the chimp, and which by a descendant of chimps?

After you guess, find out which piece was produced from Congo's pallette…

Hotness

The soggy heat hung in heavy layers like grains of colored sand in a clear, long-necked bottle from the local fair. Each layer weighing on the one below and smothering all air. Silent. Stifling. Motionless. It’s presence makes everything more difficult. Mowing the lawn becomes an epic struggle for survival, like climbing a mountain. I made it.

It seeped into the gym to assist those seeking to work up a sweat. I was soaking in perspiration only ten minutes into a 30 minute climb on the Stairmaster. It was hard to hold the handles as they were slippery with sweat, and there was nary a dry inch of clothing to wipe my soaked hands.

The heat whispered sweetly, “just quit. A nice cool shower is waiting…” No. I was determined to complete 150 floors, or 150 reps of “the 12-step club.” The music helped. It doesn’t feel the heat. Green Day rocked. The E-Street Band plowed through the sweat. I wanted to wring out my shirt like the Boss, but thought, “now that’s just gross.”

The numbers of the timer read 24.59. Five minutes to go. Ryan Adams shrieked, “note to self: don’t dieeeeeeeeeeee.” The five minutes blew by. As I stepped off the descending pedals, I staggered a bit, just like Mike Tyson last night before he quit what should be his last fight. But won’t be.

In New England, whether it’s the heat, humidity, rain, cold or snow, we bitch. Megan just walked in the door and said, “It’s disgusting out. It’s heavy and wet. You can feel it.” Yeah, but what about the beach and the grill and the Drive-In (yep, we still have one) and golf and baseball? Baseball... Gotta go. Sox at Wrigley in 42 minutes…

Nervous Ulnaris

A couple weeks ago, I began experiencing numbness in the tips of my pinky and ring finger of my right hand. I had been spending many hours manipulating a mouse on several Powerpoint presentations, and the repetitive motions had caused a flare-up of a long lived spasm in the rhumboid muscle on my right side. I thought that was the cause; that somehow the tension in my upper back was now affecting my right hand. It wasn’t painful, so I pressed on. As it got worse, spreading up the two fingers and into the outside of my wrist and forearm, I joked that if it began to affect my sex life, I’d go see a doctor… That was the joke that masked the fear. What the hell was this? Some had speculated arthritis in my spine was closing down on the nerve. MRI’s were discussed… Cortisone shots… Epidurals to the spine… Surgery??? I thought about how Lou Gehrig’s demise began with mild symptoms… ALS? I got a little freaked. What would happen to my children? I hadn’t gotten around to getting that Will done… I made a doctor’s appointment.

As I sat in the examination room, I reflected on the options again. The nurse broke a cuff on my arm, then said my blood pressure was “very good” at 118/86. I waited. It was hot and humid and the air conditioner must have called in sick. I could hear the roofers outside applying an new coat of grey shingles. The doctor entered the room and greeted each other with a traditional grasping of hands. I’ve now known George for almost 20 years. He is a decent man. Very much a “country doctor,” one of a shrinking tribe facing extinction. He checked my neck, arms and fingers. He said, “You have two options.” I cringed. “One,” he continued, “is that I can spend a bunch of your insurance company’s money and do more tests to confirm my thinking, or you can buy and wear an elbow pad for about a month.” “Hmmm… an elbow pad” I mused. “I’ll get one just like Big Papi.”

Constant pressure on my elbow from working the mouse and striking “The Thinker” pose had compressed the ulnar nerve and caused the numbness. The “nervis ulnaris,” as we say in the Latin Club, runs from the spinal cord down the arm all the way to the fingers. When you hit your “funny bone” and find how not funny it is, that’s Mr. Ulnar saying hello.

I’m relieved and trying to think a little less…

The Ombudsman

I was wrong. Hmmm… That’s refreshing, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if more people could simply say that instead of throwing up a flourescent green smokescreen of spin to obfuscate the truth?

In my June 1 post called “Dead Presidents,” I stated that Mark Felt, aka “Deep Throat” of the Watergate scandal, had uttered the famous line “follow the money.” In fact, he did not. Hal Holbrook, who played Felt in the movie “All the President’s Men,” did recite the line, but it was put in his mouth by Hollywood screenwriter William Goldman.

Frank Rich reports in the New York Times, “journalists everywhere - from The New York Times to The Economist to The Washington Post itself - would soon start attributing this classic line of dialogue to the newly unmasked Deep Throat, W. Mark Felt.” No, wait. That’s spin. I screwed up. I recollected (something the President’s men didn’t do very well during the hearings…) the line from the movie and attributed it to Mr. Felt. My bad.

Mr. Goldman also wrote the screenplay for "Marathon Man," and one of my all-time favorites, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

I’m sorry.

Cellular Degradation Disease (CDD)

The Star Trek series defines CDD as “A disease which continually breaks down and destroys the cellular structure of humanoid bodies.” The trekkie definition goes on to state, “Can be controlled through a complex series of fissure induced particle beams that are focused on the infected areas. There is no known cure.”

I’m concerned my cellphone is afflicted and Verizon is not focusing enough “fissure induced particle beams” on the affected area. Maybe it’s just me, but very often when I flip open my cellphone to make a call, the signal strength indicator quickly changes from this: to this .
It sometimes seems all I have to do is look at those bars to make them shrink into oblivion. Maybe I intimidate them. Just like humans, cellphones talk, listen, and can be incredibly irritating.

Often during conversations on heavily traveled routes 2 or 495, calls drop. In those cases, the little darling shoots three loud high-pitched screeching beeps piercing into my eardrum to announce “CALL WAS LOST.” Thanks. It is during those instances when I feel the urge to fire the little silver devil skipping across a body of water until the ending of inertia allows a slow sinking death in a watery grave. A “high, hard one” into a brick wall would probably also work in this situation.

Those impulsive actions of course would be stupidity, for if you ever experience a lost, stolen or broken phone, your friendly carrier will charge you full retail price to replace it. The $19.99 specials are such only when you sign your life to them for one or two year agreements. Full-retail is likely $199.00 or more. The wireless companies sell razor blades, not razors.

J.D. Power & Associates reports approximately one out of three cellphone calls had quality problems of some kind in 2004, including no signal, dropped calls, interference, echoes and voice distortion. Most problems are due to an inadequate number of cell towers and radios connected to the towers. Of course there’s a balance between perfect service and the cost to provide it that the carriers must manage, but the fact that most of them don’t allow “roaming” onto competitors networks hinders better service.

“Can you hear me now?” Uh, no.

Addicted to Oil

Although I enjoyed “Ellie-Mae” just like the next guy, and even was intrigued by Miss Hathaway, I now rue the day Jedd Clampett missed that little critter and struck oil. Sure, he and his kinfolk got a ce-ment pond in Beverly Hills, but you and I got the habit.

Recently, Boston’s WBUR and National Public Radio’s “The Connection,” hosted by Dick Gordon had a 3 part audio series called “Addicted to Oil.” Guests include Tom Friedman, foreign affairs columnist for The New York Times and Robert McFarlane, former National Security Advisor under President Reagan. It’s worth your time to listen.


Lying Down Oil by Gil Marosi

If it Feels Good, Do It…

Obviously, any fan of rock music knows that a band formed while some of its members were studying at the Nova Scotia School of Art and Design should not be missed. Well, Sloan is one of those bands and they’re comin’ to getcha. For me, seeing Sloan live is a recharging experience, kinda like what an electric car feels like after a nice long rush of AC current. The music of this Canadian band has been described as “Beatlesque power pop” and is filled with devastating Joe Frazier-like left hooks. Amazon.com music editor, Peter Hilgendorf calls Sloan “God's gift to rock and roll,” while comparing them to, “The Beatles, the Kinks, the Who, Led Zeppelin, Big Star, Kiss, Cheap Trick, the Clash, the Replacements, the Young Fresh Fellows, and the Beach Boys (when Mike Love was out at the dry cleaner's).”

Last summer my daughter Megan caught a left hook or two from Sloan through their record, “Action Pact.” 2004 became the Summer of Sloan, and it peaked when she got to see them live at the Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom. It was a great day full of fun. I long for days like that to return…

One of the bands mega-hits (yeah, it sold like a billion…) is “If it Feels Good, Do It.” It does, so do it. Go See Sloan!

Greenhouse Gas is Bad Not as Good as Once Hoped

The New York Times reports the White House chief of staff for the Council on Environmental Quality (the folks who advise “Dubya” on environmental policy), edited government climate reports to minimize links between greenhouse gases and global warming. This guy, Philip A. Cooney, was an oil industry lobbyist who used to lead their fight against limits on greenhouse gases. No, wait. He still does.

Your government looking out for the people…

Lost Luggage at Starbucks

They call it “the Starbucks experience.” Yesterday I visited the a new local Starbucks while waiting for a diagnosis of my Volvo air-conditioning problems. The folks at Starbucks strive to manage every detail of the customer experience; from lighting to layout to light jazz… The pendants hanging from the gold spraypainted exposed ductwork looked like egg-shaped Alien pods missing the bottom third so the stellar rays could emerge. The pods hung precicely by carefully choreographed electron transporters. The lighting, artwork and focus-group color schemes are all part of the “set” that is Starbucks.

However, on any stage, it’s the players that are the big challenge…the human element of the production requiring direction. As this once aspiring actor stepped into the spotlight, he felt an odd, but familiar glance from a woman in her late 50’s in the corner. She was waiting for her “date,” a similarly aged man decked out in jeans and a grey Red Sox tee shirt. I wondered if I’d still be doing the “meeting for coffee” thing ten years from now.

Taken right out of Starbucks Central Casting, the 20-something hipsters were busy behind the counter doing their cool Starbucks schtick. Nearby, one apprentice was meticulously cleaning, oblivious to the Splenda wrappers beneath his feet… I was so overwhelmed with the brilliance of the theatre, I didn’t hesitate to buy a $3.89 “Venti” (that’s “large” for those of you playing at home) Iced Latte.

I took my seat for the rest of the show. Mysteriously, both soft, green velour upholstered chairs seemed occipied. Not with people, but with some stuff… an application, a large steaming coffee, a pen… some rolled up paper. Maybe their owner was in the bathroom. Several minutes passed. The couple to my left continued their nervous dialogue. Traffic flowed onto Route 2 in front of me like a relentless river into the sea. To my right, a man about 60 sat alone. His hair was askew, but not on purpose like so many wear today. I sat. I sipped. Slowly, the older thespian rose and slowly walked to center stage. He wore a white t-shirt with a credit card ad and chinos. He picked up the large coffee that was no longer steaming. He took a sip, or maybe just acted like he did. He put the coffee down and began his silent, solo performance. He wore an “American Tourister” bag tag around his neck on a black shoe lace. His hands gestured adeptly and toward the State Police barracks 150 yards in front of us. He slowly stopped for another small, phantom sip. He then leisurely spun around, almost like dancing. He bowed down and picked up the Splenda wrappers. He was at an age that he knew what clean meant. He flailed some more. Then he put his coat on…a navy blue windbreaker, and walked outside with his coffee. The application stayed on the table with its partner, the pen. It was nearly 90 degrees out, but the man seemed to have no perception of the heat. Maybe he was preoccupied with the demons in his head. He sat. I wondered what happened to this poor soul to thrust him into this … solitary… lonely… state of mental illness. A divorce? The death of a loved one? Unemployment? I wondered just how far from that are any of us?

“About Five-Hundred Feet…”

So said the “English as a second language” guide at Heather Gardens. What we were looking for was Grange Hall, an old restored post & beam hall in the village of West Tisbury where a collection of “Jaws” memorablia was on display. So off we went, expecting the booty of buoy’s, spear guns and other cool props to be “just around the bend.” Well, after several bends, a couple long straightaways and a few hills, we were nowhere. This particular journey kept my interest with extraordinary old trees and the occasional outdoor sculpture, but Kyle wasn’t feeling the love. Not the the trek was all mellow for me either. Most of it was spent worried about Kyle’s positioning within the 18” walking path on the side of the “State Road” as cars and trucks whizzed by.

Finally we reached a bus stop and decided to wait for the next one. We waited for about 15 minutes, chatting with a couple brothers who had also come over for the “JawsFest.” Well, I chatted. Kyle was just clutching his Boston Magazine, wondering how this adventure had gone so horribly wrong. As the bus sped toward us, Kyle muttered, “Finally” as the bus whooshed by us with a big gust of wind. We were back to walking... After forty-five more minutes of silent trudging, we arrived at the village. Maybe that guy meant 500 kilometers... We darted into a little general store for pizza, a tuna wrap and some lemonade. We ate in slience, sitting on the wood bench in front of the place. We’d walked about three miles and weren’t too happy about it. The tuna was good. Just like I remember at the beach as a kid. Kyle erased two slices in ten minutes. The lemonade evaporated at a furious pace. Now, it was time to face the music.

The Grange Hall exhibit had everything. Well, they didn’t have the severed torso of Robert Shaw’s “Quint,” but what do you want for ten bucks…each? Hey, they had just about everything else, including “Ben Gardner’s” head, and Kyle was in Great White Heaven. Later, as we smoothly glided back to New Bedford on the awesome high-speed ferry, Kyle still had his Boston Magazine on his lap. He said quietly, “Thanks Dad. That was fun. I like Martha’s Vineyard.” Me too, Kyle. Me too.

A Thousand Words...

Day-Trippin’, Yeah

An old friend liked to use the cliché, “it’s the journey, not the destination.”

It is in that spirit that Kyle and I set out for a day-trip to Martha’s Vineyard for “JawsFest,” the 30th’anniversary celebration of the filming on the island. Really, I’m taking the one hour and forty-five minute drive to New Bedford and the one-hour ferry trip for one reason: to get a picture of Kyle with the big movie star. Yep, “Bruce,” as director Stephen Spielberg named him, is terrorizing the island once again!

We’ll arrive in Vineyard Haven around 11:00 and find our way to Heather Gardens in West Tisbury. Why a mechanical shark will be on display at an inland nursery and garden center is a mystery, but I’m going to relish it. Work it isn’t. The big mystery is whether Kyle will get close enough to the fictional great-white to snap a picture. He loves the crocodile from the Peter Pan films, but won’t go near the mechanical one at the Rainforest Café in Burlington… Stay tuned.

Another Ass-Kicking for Cancer

A friend of mine has cancer again. I think this is the 4th time. You would think this wretched disease would have learned it’s lesson by now, but no, it’s looking for another good old-fashioned ass-kicking. This cancer is "Wiley-Coyote" stupid. You know, keep trying over and over, but always ending up with an anvil smashed off your head. This is gonna be bad. I mean a really bad beating like those Richard Pryor used to describe in his stand-up act. Yeah, he’d tell about the “whoopin’s” he’d get from his mom when he did something really bad. He’d go on to describe in hilarious detail how she would lecture him and that the cadence of each word would be accompanied by a good, solid whack…. Same thing here… I can hear it now: “Didn’t…. I….. Tell…. Your…. Sorry…. Cancer… Ass…. Never…. To…. Come…. Back????” It’s gonna be “Rocky,” “Fight-Club,” and “The Thrilla in Manilla” all rolled into one with cancer lying dead in the ring when it’s over. I’m simply amazed that she comes into work, laughs, spits sarcastic humor and has incredibly loud conference calls all while kicking cancer’s ass. My favorite part is when she gets that Eastwood-esque glint in he Irish eyes, and says, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya… punk?” Cancer… Dude, give it up. You don’t want any of this.

Dead Presidents

Ted Sorensen was special counsel and a good friend to our 35th president, John F. Kennedy. On May 28th, he wrote an op-ed piece in the Boston Globe on what would have been JFK’s 88th birthday. Mr. Sorensen’s opinion speculates on what JFK might say to our leaders of today. I hope they read it. An excerpt:

To Vice President Dick Cheney on international organizations, alliances, and consultations: ''The United States is neither omnipotent nor omniscient. We are only 6 percent of the world's population . . . we cannot impose our will upon the other 94 percent of mankind." (University of Washington, 1961)

It turns out that an ex-FBI agent, Mark Felt, was the “Deep Throat” who guided Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein to “follow the money” as they investigated a ostensibly petty burglary at the Watergate complex outside Washington DC in June, 33 years ago. The two then young Washington Post reporters wrote a great book called “All the President’s Men” that later became an OK movie. Read the book, or if you’re lazy, rent the movie.