Essential, 2.

That was the week that was, was it?

Wednesday night the cast is burning extra electricity for the opening of Essential Self Defense, the excited energy goosing certain moments of the performance. The audience applauds us the minute we take the stage, and cheers the karaoke singers before they sing a note. Dad and Millie are there. Traci. Rob and Jessica. Kev and Ali. Anthony Rapp, Lili Taylor, Sam Rockwell. Through Traci's eyes the moment of walking into West Bank Cafe and taking pictures for the (press?) was pretty sweet. My favorite part of the evening was Dad meeting everyone, including Paul's girlfriend Annie, whom Dad is particularly fond of from her year on Law and Order. At the bar, the bartender gives me two Makers on the house and says "Great show". I turn, two fisted and Carolyn and Tim are posing the question : what about a cast recording? Well...lets see if we can't talk about that sometime next week, K? Things are looking good.

The next day Mike and Amy are in town. They, me, Dad and Millie are at Mud coffee talking about what other shows they might see while in town. I spot a Times on an empty table and excuse myself to the bathroom to dig through the pages. Sitting on the pooper could not have been a more appropriate position from which to discover the Times' review of Essential Self Defense. A man by the name of Isherwood spent no amount of economy to TRASH the play, and in particular, Adam and Paul's performance. Artifice! Artifice! Artifice! he yelled from the tower, making sure that any plausible response he had to the play would be easily dismissed by his thorough and complete refusal to consider the mind of the piece. He hated it, pure and simple. It was not his idea of what a good play is, and it was easier for him to speak from the conventions of theater that the production is very purposely driving against than to consider what new ground the work is striving for.

For a few good moments of reading, you could look the review up online and then go to Lucas' My Space site (myspace/lpfunk) where his e-mail to Isherwood (and Isherwood's rebuttal) are posted in his blog section.

As for my response, later that night I would mourn for the greater group of us the fact that Isherwood's review killed any real chance of the play extending. But in those moments on the pooper I found my artistic sanity restored - what I had been so nervous about was someone saying we failed at what we were attempting. THAT would have stung, but ultimately, such criticism belongs to me and my collaborators. It has been our joy to take a risk on what for us has been new territory in staged art. We will, in time, have great wisdom from this experience that will carry us to the next endeavor. In the meantime, reading the words of a critic who invested no time in actually starting a dialogue about our work but simply wanted to shut it down is not gonna make me lose any sleep. It even made me a little proud that we'd affected him so. It made me consider the play as one of Yul's Easter Eggs (for those of you who have yet to see the show, sorry for the inside reference.) I did feel a little more protective of Adam and Paul - if either of them didn't already have a career, this review could have killed them, too. But they both showed up to Less practice the next day with no signs of bruising. Adam was a little upset at how Isherwood attacked his character, but he shrugged it off.

And then the kicker: the next night we had a transcendent performance of the play to a sold out house of under 30 year olds. Afterwards, Less, LP Funk, and Run Run Riot played in the lobby of the theater. There was beer, hot dogs, corn, and mac and cheese. The night ended shortly before 2 a.m. It was the way the whole live experience should feel. "You guys are saving theater," one person said to me, and I felt that he might be right. At least I knew that for me, while still so new to NYC theater, a struggle had been identified and I knew where I stood.

Essential

Yesterday I finally emptied my voice mailbox. It was a record - full for over a week. It had 26 messages. And it was the 26th. Crazy.

One of the calls that couldn't get through - Lincoln Center. They were trying to reach me to ask my permission to include "Essential Self Defense" in their archives. They eventually reached me through one of the other writers. (Ray blows on knuckles and rubs them on his chest.) It seemed I was too busy or stupid to be bothered with their request.

So many great moments have occurred in the past weeks, muted ever so slightly by the consistent onslaught of work to be done. On the eve of opening night for the play, I feel like a little blogation is called for...

The greatest gift - sharing an amazing process with a cast and crew of immeasurable character and resonance. While I could focus on many folk, Guy Boyd seems to be at the epicenter of many things great, so I'll start with him. On Sunday Guy claimed to have had a love bomb go off in him in the last scene of the first act of the matinee and everyone has been feeling the fallout very since. Anyone that works with Guy becomes his friend, as evidenced by Mattew Modine and his daughter, who came to the matinee to see Guy and then took Guy and Chernus and Joel and I out for Thai food. Guy worked with Matthew on the first film he ever did, (Robert Altman's Streamers in 1982) and they have stayed in touch ever since. It would cheapen things to call Guy a legend. He's not. He's a treasure of a human being. This is why he has so many friends and so consistently and effortlessly throws little asides of his amazing life into the conversation - he was friends with Warren Zevon, he has a character in the Star Wars family (The father in the Ewok movies), he's worked with Sam Shepard, Tommy Lee Jones - tons of stuff I've forgotten and tons more he hasn't laid on me yet.

All this sets up my favorite story of the show so far - Saturday's matinee was attended by John Guare, the playwright who wrote, among other things, Six Degrees Of Seperation. Paul Sparks did Guare's Landscape of the Body last year with Lili Taylor, so after our show it was Paul that Guare approached first to see if someone could explain to him what he had just seen. While Guare did not seem to be dissing our show, he outwardly claimed to not get it and did so with enough vigor that Paul and Heather Goldenhersh (our leads) were fucked up for hours afterwards. Presumably after Paul and Heather had run off, Guare turned his feelings towards Guy Boyd. "I didn't get on the train," Guare told Guy, using one of those creative dismissals all the greats seem to have at the ready. To which Guy replied. "That's too bad, John. Because its a punk rock party train and you should have been on it."

(For whatever reason, a few hours of reflection seemed to help matters for the Pulitzer prize winning writer. The next day Guare e-mailed a self-described love letter to Adam and Carolyn about the play, praising the production and calling Paul and Heather's performances "chilling". Pretty cool.)

There's so much more to say, but I'll end by taking my temperature. I am proud to say that I have not been so anxious about how a project is recieved in a long long time. In a world that is driven so strongly by reviews (a good review can make or break a show's longevity) I usually manage a healthy distance from being shaken by such things. But because I love so much the play and people in it and the great work that has been put into it, (and because I want to do more of it in the future,) I'd be lying to say that I didn't hope the reviews were good. But with Dad and Millie, and soon Mike and Amy in town for the weekend and tommorw's opening, none of the worrying will keep me from celebrating the fantastic story that we've put up on the stage.

Drafting on Exile

Writing my play Clinic Concert has been a 2 1/2 year ordeal. Each time I go back to it, I simultaneously feel that it is "right there" and so far from finished. The worm turned for me last week when I finished making notes on my most recent draft and then went back to my very first draft of the play to discover what i was writing about in the first place. (Mucho thanks to Bill who referenced Shopenhauer's The Will in his notes.)

In the Fall of 2004, what started as a kind of love letter to my actor/musician friends in New York became a play by the end of the writing. It is about a member of an extremely recognized psychedelic rock band returning to a town where his band played their last show and then everything going crazy. In the Spring following my first draft I had a mind blowing reading that included the members of Less, Guy Boyd, Di Di O'Connell, Lucas, Lethia Nall, and Patch Darragh. I walked around for weeks in a daze at having heard amazing actors read my words, but even in my bliss I knew the piece was not formed nearly enough for anyone to take it very seriously. (As one director said who read it, "I'd love to talk to you about your play - or should I say Plays.") Put kindly, there was a lot going on in my mind and on the page.

Since then I have busted my fucking ass to understand the practical and magical points of playwrighting, the structure and poetry and cause/effect that drive all the great stage works. I still don't know what I am doing, but it feels more like the right kind of not-knowing: a lot of wandering through rooms with no clear purpose.

For example, on Monday, Traci and I cased Virgin Mega store so I could try and find some music to buy myself for my birthday. It had been so long since I had allowed myself into a record store, and I had developed a habit of talking myself out of any music purchase. Finally and with much dread, I made my choices. One was a record I had a copy of that I had lost: Smile by Brian Wilson. The other was a record I'd always known I would one day get intimate with but had thus far never listened to: Exile On MAin Street by the Stones. Needless to say, I'm glad I didn't talk myself out of the purchases.

I went straight to Exile, and by Wednesday night, the album finally unravelled itself to me, inspiring some powerful connections to my play that had remained elusive and suddenly I found myself plunged back into the heart of Clinic Concert.

Then, on Thursday I left my backpack in the back of a car on 42nd street. The notes are gone. But I am not deterred. It's all in me and its time to harvest. I know that before the phase of my first exposure to Exile On Main Street finishes, the draft will be done. I don't know how, I just know. So to prove it to myself, I responded to a birthday e-mail from my friend and mind blowing writer Ron Fitzgerald and told him I needed some advice. He asked me to send him the draft. Now I have to do it. And I have decided I am staying up all night until it is done or I pass out which ever comes first.

Pretty sure I'm passing out.

The first week of the thirty-sixth year

My week started with the best birthday I have had in years. The gumbo came out great, and great people came out to Bushwick to eat it. Leah, Rob, Lucas, Ali, Kevin, Amelia, Malcolm, Andres, Don, Laura, Jay and Sonia joined Traci and I at the apartment and were present for the unwrapping and christening of one of the greatest birthday gifts ever (from TRaci of course) ...my very own hookah. The Aveda soap bar in a pound of coffee was wikkid, too, and I am devouring the Geoff Emerick book. I was really stoked that Amelia was comfortable enough to take a nap before dinner, and that Don and Laura came. Also, turns out Lucas and Malcolm grew up in the same town. Fucking nuts.

Afterwards, we piled in cars to go to KAraoke on St. MArks. The only sad part of the evening was that Traci was too sick to go. I wish she could have been there to see the crew that joined us: Guy, Jason, Patch, Chern, Eric, Christine, Annie, Dana, Simon, LEthia, and two friends of Sonia and LEahs whose names I forget. At the end of the night the bill was staggering, and perhaps one of the nicest gifts of the day was allowing myself to be cool with the fact that everyone was willing to pay it, especially after Ali negotiated like a pro with the owners to knock 100 bucks off the bill.

Monday I got up to do my cleaning duties at Shala Yoga Studio and then Traci and I met at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square and did damn near next to nothing (I recall a great talk at a coffee place on university, but I can't remember what we said. Gettin old.) I hated for her that she was still sick but it was so nice to have a day where we could just wander and sit. We broke our day up so I could meet with Kevin, Lou and Co. for the first meeting for a project that Kevin and I will be recording and co-conceiving with the group. (Because of certain circumstances and because it is not a fully formed project yet, I will leave details out for now.)

Tuesday morning, I was at Playwrights Horizons for the first day rehearsal of Essential Self Defense. Meet and greet. We heard the designer's plans and did the first read-through with most of the staff present. Every day since has been continuing the process and I am very excited for what already is coming out of the work.

At night on Wed, tonight, and for the next two nights is Los Angeles by Julian Sheppard down at the Flea. It has been a cool challenge and a joy to work up the music with Eric, Amelia, Julian and ultimately Adam. It's also cool witnessing what was the inevitable event of Amelia and Adam finally being in a room together long enough to riff and realize that they are kindred spirits. But love for my friends aside, the real thrill is the actors. Granted I can still count on two hands and two feet my in-depth hands-on theater experiences, but I have never been so inspired by a cast as I am when watching the "Bats" tell Julian's story. Also, it is a new experience for me to be working on two plays at the same time. Thank God both plays are so awesome or I'd be suicidal.

God damn it's late. I must get to work or bed.

Seriously - anyone know a good manager/agent?

From the time I first worked on Essential Self Defense with Adam, I've been looking forward to it's premiere, which will happen in March. As the piece has developed, I have enjoyed my responsibilities for the world of the music of the play, which I ultimately share with Lucas, Adam, and the cast. Last week, my sense of responsibility in this realm prompted me to mention to the theater manager that it would be important to go over music credits so everything was correct and represented everyone appropriately.

Around the same time of the week the manager for Days of The New e-mails me the "spring tour dates", half of which are during the run of Essential Self Defense. I take a deep breath: the e-mail arrives THREE WEEKS after a conversation where I had reminded the manager that I had given him my available Spring dates back in December and I would not be free until the play ended. I send an e-mail reply expressing my disappointment. Later that day he leaves me a message telling me that he personally pushed the dates back until after the play's run. (Travis told me later that he made the manager do it). But before the manager finishes his message about the trouble he'd gone through to change the dates he adds," Just showing you how committed we are to you Ray." Sure thing, pal. So committed you neglected to pass my dark dates onto the booking agent. I called back and left him a message telling him I'm ready to talk commitment whenever he is. He hasn't called back yet.

Yesterday, I get an e-mail from the theater manager telling me that "this is how the credits have landed for Essential Self Defense". The word "landed" denotes a back-and-forth negotiation that transpired sometime last week between the agents of my collaborators. Now, I mentioned my responsibility in matters. Just to fill out the meaning of the term a little better, I've overseen the collaborative musical process and, barring any ditties that may materialize in rehearsals, I've composed the bulk of the material for the piece. You would think I'd at least have been invited to the table. The only indication I'd had that there was a dialogue going on about music matters was a single call from an agent last week that left no message as to what it was regarding (I got it on Friday and called on Monday). As for the information contained in the credits: significantly incorrect.

Now, I see little to gain in bitching or complaining at length about the plasma sucking moments of the world I have chosen to work in. The bottom lines are as follows: I love my collaborators very much and hold in high regard the work we do together. It's usually worth the headache. Near as I can tell, my friends have matched their immeasurable talent with a strong agent or manager who will do everything that is in their client's best interest, regardless of how accurately the results reflect the work that got them and their client to the point of needing to negotiate in the first place. Only under the very best of circumstances will the efforts of these business professionals nurture the creative environments that their clients work in, and the people they work with. And the very bottom line: I fucking want one. Manager, agent, whatever. A good one preferrably, but at this point, anyone willing to exercise some forethought upon my affairs - or offer protection - will do.

So, yesterday was one more deep breath, another call, and two e-mails. After one agent (a rather stand up fellow, actually) sends me to his client to resolve the matter (a 60 second conversation between friends) the incorrect credit information is rectified. Only today, as I replay the whole thing, I realize I was knocked so off-balance by the matter, I missed the fact that a second credit matter may have been overlooked as well. The urge to let it go seemed like the best and worst thing to do, so, free agent that I am, I write another e-mail to Adam and the director to get this one more issue resolved (it has been taken care of).

Anything worth doing, anything worth having - well, I tell you nothing you don't know: the shit don't come easy. To all my friends who worked their ass off to reach a point where someone else wanted to make a career out of representing you, I salute you tonight with warm nips off the Old Fo. I envy you as much as I wish you luck.

www.savetheinternet.com

www.savetheinternet.com

In the time it would take to read a blog you can read about Internet Neutrality. I hope it moves you to action.

The Java Men My Space Memorial is up

What a new world this is.

Because of My Space and I Tunes, souveniers and artifacts of the 12 year reign of Java Men will slowly be organized and available for your consumption.

www.myspace.com/javamen

My bio

I hate writing bios.

Part of what started me writing at all was composing bios for bands I was in who could not get a review (or could not get a review that, you know, really GOT what the band was about).

[NOTE TO ASPIRING BIO-WRITING BANDS: no one is needing to read how you are different from the other thousand post-rock, neo-soul, hip-hop bluegrass bands. Tell them who snores, who skips out on the bill, who gets the tail and how. Make them laugh. Entertain - it ain't about music. The music is about the music. The bio is about getting attention. That's why people drop names. It's not that they necessarily care who the people are, it's that they think YOU care. And you might - or you might not - but either way, you'll pay attention to them a little longer if they ate a bagel with Jennifer Aniston, even if only to throw ice at them.]

Ahem. Where was I?

Okay, so sure, yeah: I long for the day when someone will tout my genius FOR me and I can just walk in the room after everyone has been debriefed on my myriad accomplishments. But until then, I am very proud of the work I've done and I sweat each time I write a bio. I just don't know what I'm doing. I get overwhelmed. And I forget. A few years back when a.m. Sunday scored the music for "Touched" at the Kentucky Center for The Arts, it was pointed out that I'd made no mention of my musical accomplishments in the bio that was sent with the grant proposal and used in the program.

"Now Ramundo," I'll often tell myself, "why go through the trouble of moving to New York only to get modest when asked what you're about?" And I have to agree with myself on some level, but in the context of a theater program its confusing to me. What is relevant in 50 words or less? I list band names. Roles. Responsibilities. Donations (when I've had it to give). Play titles. Charity work (not really). Film titles. Notable directors (ones I know, anyway). Works in progress. I try to make the shit pop but without seeming desperate, you know? I'm always over in my word count. (Desperate!) But no matter how many times I rewrite the bio, by the end I realize I am still on some small level always going to be expressing how my brand of neo-realist hip hop post rock bluegrass crunk prose-ack jive is like noneother. For the few minutes I write my bio, I am brought to a place of self doubt, where I wonder if the perfromance they see will not be enough for them to know I am the Lord and Savior Only Son Of God, eternally begotten and returned in flesh and blood to play upon the lighted stage for their terrible sins. Hard, I tell you. It's hard.

Anyway, tonight, after I sent what had to be the umpteenth sad draft of my bio to a theater, I wrote what I really wanted to say:

"This is what I do. I sit in a room. Sometimes alone, sometimes with people I can't believe I'm lucky enough to be around. We think, we chat. We hit stuff, we make noise, we let things arrive. These things may be expressed into a guitar, a microphone, a recording console or a word processor. My role in the process might be classified as playing, nursing, arranging, writing, drumming, acting, singing, producing, witnessing, or cooking. Thank you. (myspace.com/chezrizzo)"

1978.

In Alexandria, Virginia, a paved bike path connected the Stratford Landing subdivision to Fort Hunt Elementary school. Beginning behind a cul-de-sac of homes, the path led for probably 300 meters through thick dark pine and oak trees before reaching a clearing where a wooden bridge carried grade school kids over a creek choked with cattails, dropping them at the foot of the school playground.

In the denser part of the wood, at a time long before I discovered the path as a firstgrader, trees were removed and veins of dirt trails were worn in the steppes for dirtbiking. A few of the trails completed circles through the low ground of trees and honeysuckle, but most of them started at the top of cliffs and ended abruptly with dirt ramps of varying grades.

After school my brother Mike and I would get our bikes and head to the trails where I'd work out enough energy to be able to go home and focus on Super Friends. All the other kids had Mongoose bikes and they made fun of me and Mike because we had matching Huffys. (But it was Ronny who's handlebars cracked after his jump and sent him home crying with a bloddy nose.)

There would always be a point in my trailblazing when the excitement filled me with energy too ticklish and aggravated to contain in my Toughskins and I would sing my song - it is the first song I can remember writing:

Motherfuckin tittie suckin two-balled bitch
everytime I see you my tittie balls itch!

Then I'd scream "Big Balls!"* and throw myself over the cliff and into the rush of unknown danger and previously unattained velocity.

Occasionally my battlecry would get the attention of the Mongoosers. They'd look over from their pack and scream "Huffy Fag!" But I rarely heard them. My pulse had quickened to a point where my ears were shut off to outside ambience. Every atom in my brain was responding to the gnarled branches and rain divots in the trail. I was using all faculties at my disposal to gain as much speed as possible before hitting my mark on the ramp. If I caught good wind, this would only be the beginning, and I'd aim my vessel for the void in the trees that led deeper into the woods.

-------

This blog is a toast to last night's recording session at Kevin's which was one of only two times I've tried to record songs I've written over the years. Following in the spirit of "Huffy Cry, 1978" the songs that resounded most strongly during the session were the ones that started from a flood that could not be contained, an energy strong enough at the time to make me forget that I didn't really "know how to play" guitar/piano, etc. But more than the songs (which may or may not suck) it is the willingness to jump again for the first time into the void that I am humbly grateful for. I don't think it would have been nearly the evening it became had I not had the earlier opportunity to read for an absent actor performing in Julian Sheppard's play. Thanks to Adam and the cast for the opportunity, and thanks to Kevin for the great night that followed.

* followed by a wickid guitar riff.

Christmas Eve

Traci is sleeping on the couch behind me. I'm propped up on Dad's laptop with Christmas Story on the T.V. Fa Ra Ra Ra Ra sing the men in the Chineese Restaurant and Traci wakes. She wants to go up to bed like Dad and Mike and Amy have done, but I asked her to stay down here with me while I write. I like her sleeping next to me.

Yesterday's drive to Louisville was intense. We hadn't slept enough for the 13.5 hour drive, but this provided us with some needed steam blowing and reconnection after such a busy November and December. It also provided Traci the opportunity for her first 3 hours driving a stick. (Special thanks to Steve and Estella Salett for the wheels that brought us home. Traci did really good with the clutch.)

It is a tradition that every Christmas Eve I sit up and write. Because it is the end of a day spent with family, and because Christmas still manages to elevate itself above the rest of life as usual, I tend to have a lot on my mind. I'm usually upset, vowing things to myself like never be fake in the presence of loved ones again, quit wasting time, spend the next year saying what I mean, or suggesting some new romantic approach to my life endeavors. The passion with which I write of my atonement is usually fed by anxiety and alcohol on a full stomach. I can't belittle the means, however, because it gets the thoughts out of me and I advance better off with the words having been written. But I tend to find that when I write these things, I have a pretty poor appreciation for what I have been up to thus far.

My best memory of Christmas Eve atonement involved finding some hidden key to my personal matrix from chapters in a Dr. Phil weight loss book.

This year - or tonight anyway - is different. No Phil. No conundrum to decipher. I'm pretty peaceful. Being fake is not an issue. It is true, there are things on my mind to take into the next year: increased lust for life, more time with Traci, more brilliant execution of designs, make an assload of cash. But on the whole, I feel things moving forward. The first part of the year looks to be fruitful from the minute the ball drops on New Years Day. Music will be coming out of me in many configurations and situations. I'll have a reading of my first play. Adam's "Essential Self Defense" will premiere at Playwrights Horizons in March. There is no shortage of stories to write, and if I'm lucky, this will be the year for Motherlodge. (www.motherlodge.com)

Tippi is my Dad's Persian Cat. He is before me now whining to be pet in the same way he has done for the past 21 Christmases. (21!) This will be my last year to appease Tippi. Sad, yes, but there is a yin to the yang: this is also the last Christmas with the Rizzo house that won't have a little one roaming about. Our gift to Mike and Amy was a maternity shirt and a door knob for the child's room.

If it's a girl, they will name her Mary. Queen of the Sea of Bitterness.

If it's a boy, Nathanial. Gift from God.

Merry Christmas.

Undisputalble Elfidence, Theory, Proof

Well, that's what I get for getting worked up on my soap box and chastizing the parents: I become example ..1 of what-not-to-do.

See, two weeks back, Jude and Ilona came to see Santa with Traci. YEsterday, their Father told Traci that the part of Santaland that Jude keeps talking about is Ray saying that "one of the Santas was mad at him".

Yep. They listen.

Such a dumb mistake! And it was in the first moments after they arrived - before they even went into see Santa! I was sitting with the kids in Au Bon Pain and Traci asked me how things were going. i told her I feared a certain Santa was not approving of my style. Immediately we both grew eyes as big as quarters and changed the subject. but it was too fucking late. i had delivered the awful wisdom to Mr. Jude. Good thing the kid is Jewish. But still.

Today another kid stood at the peek window and looked at Santa. in a loud voice that was meant to reach his father's ears, the boy said," Nope. it's not possible. He's too big. there is no way he can reach all those houses in one night and get down all those chimneys. nope. It's not possible."

His Father gave me a glance to let me know that he was proud of his son's deductive reasoning, to which I said quietly, "Quantum Physics."

That's right, kid. Every elf must know the basic spirit behind quantum theory before donning the hat. Nothing will turn the ears pointier than a few verses in String Theory. Infact, Santa insists upon it, because it is in this realm that he can deliver the biggest presents, if you know what I mean.

....I hope the kid grows to ask himself, what is the point to disprove Santa? For that matter, what is the point of exposing the shortcomings of a Department Store's attempt to join commercialism with goodwill and (for some) spirituality? I think we know most of the outcomes of these things. The question that I am much more interested in is, when does Santa exist? How? What kind of witness to mankind can Santa help us to be? Little glimpses upon the answers have been the real fruits of this 10 dollar-an-hour seasonal gig. When I have a minute to catch my breath, I'd hope to honor the best parts that have yet to be written about.

(Some) Parents jus' dont understand

With a little over a week left at Santaland, I thought I'd impart to parents and guardians some wisdom I have gleaned from my time elfing.

If your child is crying, dispondent or otherwise non-plussed when he/she is waiting for Santa, finally laying eyes on the red man will RARELY change this. And forcing your child to sit with Santa when they don't want to is one of the cruelest, dumbest things you can do this holiday season.

Just imagine please: when was the last time you stood an hour in a line with your loved ones waiting for some presumed big experience (seeing a doctor or priest for example), and then once in the room were subjected to every one of your closest family members turning and barking orders at you about how you should respond to the situation.("Smile!" "Don't you have anythiong to say?" "We waitied all this time, etc. etc.") It is ridiculous how quickly parents let an awkward moment for their child turn into a nightmare by piling on more pressure with their demands. Some Santas will simply refuse to sit with an upset child whose parents are forcing the issue. The last thing Santa wants is for a child to be traumatized by their meeting. There is always next year.

This isn't to say that upset children don't take photos or that kids who are excited to see Santa won't lose it once they get to the doorway (many do). It's fact that sometimes upset childrten can calm down enough to take a picture. Some key details of such transformed visits.

1) PArent will sit with child and Santa for the first photo, then, if things look better, may step aside so the second photo can be just Santa and kid.
2) SOme Santas will produce their special santa gift earlier than usual in the visit in an effort to win the child's trust.
3) PArents who do sit with upset child and Santa will angle the child toward the camerA in such a way that they do not have to lookat Santa.
4) A kick ass Photo Elf like myself will time the photo for the exact moment when the child needs to interrupt their wailing in order to catch their breath. The face at such a moment can, with the right light and luck, almost look like the kid is laughing with Santa.

Another thing: don't ask the elves or Santa to let your child know they have been bad. Unless they are acting like idiots during the minutes that they will be with Santa, we simply don't have time to care. If you cannot parent your child without manipulating them, fine. Just don't expect us to be a part of it. Your kid is a jerk? Well they had to learn it from somebody, and judging from the way some of you act in line, maybe your kid isn't the only one on the naughty list.

Oh, and this is key, too: your kids and all of the other kids around you in Santaland? They LISTEN. The difference between them and you is they are not stupid, and they hear you, even if you think they don't. So if you want to start asking questions and theorizing about the realities of Santa while in Santaland, know that we elves have been instructed on how to tell you to shut up and not be an asshole. it sounds like this:

There is only one Santa Claus.

Finally, (And I'm only stopping here because I'm tired. I could go all night)... no one is happier than MAcy's Department Store that you have come to let us take a picture of your child with Santa. But for Gods sake, let your child sit and talk with Santa for a minute. IF Santa is in a rush, he'll handle it. Otherwise, don't try to usher your kids out as soon as the flash goes off. There are toys to discuss. And school grades

December 7th

M&M World is impossible to miss, even being to the north end of Times Square, they have managed to stick out. On either side of the building on 48th Street, 100 foot television screens show dizzying psychedelic graphics of M&M's moving like the infinite cells that structure the universe. I use the screens as best as I can to help me wake up for the next ten hours of work.

(more story to follow. sorry. tired.)

December 6th

I wake at 8:10 a.m., before the alarm goes off. A first since starting my job as an elf. Sophia got the benefit. In the morning when I have the time and put my mind to it, I can scratch her back in a way that makes her eyes roll into the back of her head and looking for things to lick. It freaks Traci out, this trick, but the cat seems to like it.

I stop at Rosario Food Mart, the bodega at the end of our street and get a 1.5 liter of Poland Spring, some Dentyne Ice and a proud cup of their weak coffeel for 3 bucks. The J train passes overhead as I walk to the station at Kosziusko, but I'm not worried about being late from missing it. I am protected from worry this morning as I walk down Broadway, filling with joy and sugary coffee-infused milk. We are living, Traci and I, in New York, getting by, and THIS is MY neighborhood. Christmas Lights on the tall pine in people's park, the woman sitting outside Lucky's CLeaner's with a glass display table selling calling cards. A woman by the deli at Kossuth asks if I have any change. I don't. It is really cold.

The book I am reading on the train is Argument Culture: Stopping America's War of Words by Deborah Tannen. In the first 50 or so pages, she seems to make her points slowly and with repeated examples. This is gooid and bad for me. Tannen is easier to read than Foucault, but not as unearthing of matters to me, but then, I don't think I've made it a whole 50 pages into a Foucault book. (I don't even know if anyone else would find them comparable.) In fact, many of D.T.'s points about the saturation of warfare language and the media seem almost too obvious to spend so many chapters on. But then, just as I reach the West 34th F Stop, she lays a good one on me - without reading the book you'll have to excuse my broad summation: over half of journalists polled who cover politics feel that politicians are trustworthy, upright people and it is actually the average citizen that the journalists don't trust.

I clock in at 10:32 at Santaland and am directed to one of my favorite jobs: Gatekeeper. I am the elf that greets everyone before they enter Santa's Village. I find out how many are in the party, and usually have time to ask the children if they know what they will ask Santa for Christmas. Today there are whole classes on fieldtrips to see Santa Claus. Groups as big as 35 are sent to the small 10'x8' room where Santa is waiting. Munchkin, Freckles, Jitterbug, and the other elves that escort the classes don't even flinch at the volume of people. Dawn Landes and her Father come through to see Santa just like they said they would.

At break, a manager and other associate ask if I got my name from Midnight Cowboy. Not many people make that connection I say. "I guess not a lot of people around here watch X rated movies", says the manager, and cordial laugh is shared between us. Heh heh heh...Elves watching porn. Seriously.

My next assignment is the Peek Window, where people can look in the window and see how Santa is doing. This is also a fine position for an elf. Despite the tediousness of having to remind people which way is the exit, I get to look in on Santa's visits and also enjoy the commentary and reactions from people who are looking in with me. Between his visits I see Santa belch and blow it to the side before he smiles at the next young one waiting at the door to see him.

My lunch is called very late in the day (4:02), but I don't mind - it will make my shift after lunch seem like nothing. Although I planned to nap for the second half of my break, I'm excited when Traci calls to tell me she's entered the building with Jude and Ilona. I meet them for a moment in the café and then rush back to work early so I can find them in the maze and visit Santa with them. I love seeing Traci - something about her seems full and alive in a way I haven't seen. She has an inner glow that makes her appear to be my old friend and lover and also like no one I have ever known. It's thrilling, and I like walking the maze with her and holding Ilona's hand as we walk. Ilona seems to like it, too, and tho I can't say for sure, I think at one point she tries to offer me some of her candy necklace.

Santa is in a great mood and Candy Cane takes, I am sure, great photos of Jude and Ilona. Later, I see Santa leaving wearing his street disguise so no one will recognize him as he walks through the city. Eyes darker and cap low, he says, "You have a beautiful looking family, Yo Yo." I thank him, but tell him that Traci and I were just borrowing the children. But it feels so nice to imagine if it were true.

After work, I realize I've worn the wrong shoes for the next job which starts in 5 hours. So I train it back home where I nap with Traci in the front room, wake and stuff cheese and crackers down my gullet before heading back to Manhattan.

At midnight I am standing before the M&M's World store. My next job begins

Vibrations

I am tired tired.

Yesterday, for an instant, I held the aroma of a fresh cup of coffee in my nose and noticed that my body was completely relaxed. I could not remember the last time I had started sipping coffee with so little anxiety. Most days, as I anticipate the caffine's effects, I already have a restless electricity buzzing through my limbs, drying out the moisture in my meat. I was surprised to admit to myself that this affliction (if I can call it that) hasn't felt too bad.

Today I worked at Heller Gallery on 14th street with Kenny and his dog Shadow. The gallery shows and brokers glass work from all over. I held pieces in my hand that cost more money than I have ever made in a single year. A few pieces in the current exhibition were sheets of glass that had varying grades of color running horizontally across them. (Okay, I'm too tired to fully explain them and I don't remember the artist.)

I write about these pieces because the textures of the glass and the deep color grades would make them literally vibrate in the eye. Staring into one of them, I felt as if I was looking at the physical form of a song or a voice. It was a sine wave making a personal appearance, a cameo of the electricity from deep inside peering at me under a muted surface of cloudy, gorgeous ice. It looked just like I thought a soundwave would look like if ever I met one. It also recalled for me Dylan singing "The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face" in "Visions of Johanna" a song that, even two years into living here, is the greatest song I have ever heard about New York City.

I wanted to purchase one of the glassworks for 9,000 dollars. But I'll have to work a few more days at the GAllery to make that kind of money.

As I swept up the sidewalk one of the managers of the gallery came out to give me a dust pan.

"This is what your parents sent you to school for," he said to me in a pleasant voice. I didn't feel the need to tell him that after the Fall of 1989 when I spent 7 of the 11 thousand dollars I had for college on an 84 Ford BRonco that never ran right, I paid for school myself. (Who cares, really.) And I certainly didn't have time to explain to him how a job like sweeping or packing and unpacking crates of artwork can, aside from paying rent, be a welcome change from doing work where you are rarely sure that the work is DONE. At least here I could see and know what I'd done and not worry about anyone seeing it much differently.

Um, sleep is winning this one. I'm too tired to go on

Watching

A friend of mine recently produced an album for a band from the Midwest and more recently participated in an intervention for the band's NYC-based manager, who has had difficulty kicking his latest binge. From what I could gather, my friend's role consisted of driving the 50+ year old guy to the airport and sending him off to detox in the presence of his 20-something age band. It's a story that I like to think is indicative of the next era of music making where the habits of the music business of the late 1900's are brought back to reality by the music makers themselves, but that's prolly just the rose colored glasses talking.

Anyway, my friend was taken by surprise with a comment made by the manager's wife, who rationalized the crisis in terms of good television. "Just imagine the twist," she says to him, "A reality T.V. show about a rock band where for one episode the band nurses the manager back to health!" She comes by the idea honestly: she has worked closely with her husband who has had past success producing film and television (reality shows) before embarking on the job of managing kick-ass bands.

She probably has some other ideas for her husband's recovery but regardless, her comment is further proof for anyone who still needs it that the future has arrived. From here on out, we should expect an ever-shrinking line of distinction between natural human responses and what is seen on television.

Dire as that might sound, I have to think it can't be all bad. I'll at least consider that in suggesting her husband's detox as a reality show episode, this woman is exhibiting a creative, proactive outlook in her dedication to her husband's health. Certainly he would feel the love in where she's coming from. The effects of television as an agent for human change might prove more penetrating for them than the average therapy session.

We may have much to gain from the uses of reality t.v.... greater insight into human behavior and more imaginative and exciting ways for people to participate as we kick drug habits, have babies, get married, get laid, make a living, foster hermit crabs, legislate, and so on. It seems reasonable to think, too, that we'll develop a completely different criteria by which we seek and participate in the creative act.

But I also think that as humans become more comfortable with the ease of divulging one's guts to a microphone, camera, or live audience, we will lose some things. In a response to this problem, a man named Driver Jim is in Louisville, Kentucky at this very moment working on a manual to help people speak to each other once e-mail and technology has destroyed our ability to communicate in person.

I better step down before my soapbox cracks beneath my genius for stating the obvious.

Howz It Goin? (Pt. 1)

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Today Traci and I head back home to Louisville for a surprise birthday party for her Mom. (As popular as My Space is, I don't worry about letting the cat out of the bag here, but if you know Traci's Mom, shut your buzz-killing trap, Okay? It's a surprise.) On the J TRain last night, thinking about the visit and conversations that could happen, I worked out some things. Serious things, not the least of which was the usefulness of String Theory. But let me start from a place with a more natural beginning. Naturally, going home leads to giving the ol' update on life, which is something I enjoy immensely, even though the agony of the FAQ: "So, Ray, how are things going?" Truth told, I can give a smile and say "Learning how to live in New York City" and I wouldn't be lying, but that's not really what's going on. Then again, if I said I'm dangling with all my dearest posessions by the thinnest of threads which is both terrifying and intoxicating and occasionally good for intimacy with my wife, well, that's too much for the average "How do you do", now, isn't it? Before you jump to your own answer, consider that the enduring the experience as I speak to you a live, in-the-moment response to your "How do you do" question calls for a completely different investment than what's required for you to read my blog. Getting the story from me doesn't come easily 73% of the time. You are most often subjected to the well-intentioned narrative spirit of a guy who read 15 pages of Joyce and thought he "got it" and then speaks with the word usage of a dyslexic scrabble player. Matter of fact, getting to the bottom of seemingly innocent questions like "How's it going?" or "What's up" can really ruin my day. I mean, do people really think that's a conversation starter? Do they know what they're asking of me? Have they no regard for my time and energy? How dare they be so callous and insensitive as to ask me - soooo casually - "How's things"? HOW'S THINGS? Well FUCK YOU, TOO, BUDDY! Okay, so anyway, I'm working this out as I ride the J Train because I feel that my Father In Law deserves a decent response when he asks me how things are going. I want to tell him just like I want to tell you the truth to "How's it going", but I haven't got quite the angle yet. But that's not to say I'm without a paddle. There are a few key developments that have happened here lately that I know will impress upon him that things in New York have definitely taken a turn upwards. I got a job. With a big player in the industry no less. Perhaps you've heard of them. Macy's. Only that's not what I call them now that I've been in the door to sign my name on the line. I don't have to be so formal anymore. I have real people's names that I can use like Bob and Candi. These are the names of my soon-to-be employers who worked with me at length over the negotiations and paperwork. The care with which we measured up the pros and cons of the merger between me and their organization proved to me beyond a doubt that they were really invested in me not just as an artist but as a person. We inked the deal. I'm gonna be an elf. Yes. I know. Santaland Diaries. Everyone tells me to read the story of how the guy who worked his way up from being a Christmas Elf to become a successful published author and public personality. I'm hip. And so is Bob, my boss, who was very professional when I mentioned Santaland Diaries. "Yeah, about that," Bob said, hands on his desk so he was facing me head on. "The thing is, Ron, what happens in Santaland stays in Santaland." Bob is a cool gent of 23ish who recently moved to the city. As an elf under his direction, I aspire to only bring merit to his act of hiring me. I understood immediately the situation he was in and told him no problem. What happens in Santaland stays in Santaland. I can't promise what happens in my mind will stay in my mind, but I'm not out to be a booger in the ointment. Besides, why on earth would anyone want to dis Santa? And I'm not being cute or nostalgic here - every year I ride my rusty sleigh through the pervading temper of Christmas Dismas. Bob and I discussed how there are many a soul who run around acting like the Christmas Season is the most terrible atrocity ever to be inflicted on the soul. Commerce, greed, lies about Santa, whatever....look. I'm gonna say this now and probably a few more times this season. YOU GOT BIGGER FISH TO FRY THAN CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE. Give it a fucking break! Evils of capitalism shattered dreams commercialism scam...Christmas? Horseshit. Maybe you're frustrated that you've grown too busy to enjoy yourself? I'm with you, but don't take it out on people who can, K? (And by taking it out on others I mean thinking that your shitty Chritmas opinion belongs anywhere outside of your My Space blog. Shut it!) If you've never siezed the opportunity to consider the people close to you and actually give them a gift that says something about your feelings for them, I relate - that can feel a little, well, less-than. Just don't blame the season. That's for pussies. And you ain't a Christmas Pussy, are you? My friend Steve said this to me one year. He said, "Christmas gift giving is the time when we see how well we don't really know the people close to us." Know what Steve got me for Christmas the next year? A holiday tin of fucking Altoids. I'm still working through that one. But I don't think "knowing the people close to you" is a fair thing to lay on anyone. I mean if you're a friend of mine and you can't get past "How's it going" with me, how are you going to know what to get me? That's why people like me make it easy and we tell you what we want. We make a list. We hint. I won't be upset if you don't give me something that resonates with every fiber of our relationship. I love gift cards. Just don't dis Christmas, okay? Because I am an elf with CONNECTIONS and you don't want to make me angry. Christmas is not a time to start bitching more, K? Where was I? Oh yeah. String Theory. Another time perhaps.

Season In Flux, Acid Reflux, Travis Redux

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Season In Flux, Acid Reflux, Travis Redux I walk through the Fall air lit up from the inside. Some of this is emotions, some of it is acid reflux burning my throat. Traci has managed to tell me in the past that life could feel like this, but for most of the first part of 2006, I was too scared to see it. Thank God for her and her eyes. One month ago I returned from the UK with Less the band and I had no idea where my next job would come from. Not a week later, calls started to come. In the past month I 1) Played drums for two musicals 2) Played children's music 3) Ran lights, sound and video for Laura Poe's One Person Show "Mothers OF Invention" 4) Played with Oxygen Ponies, Opus Ditty, Lucas and Kevin, The Reverend Vince Anderson, and the coolest wedding band that included Steve Salett (formerly of King Of France) and Jamie Krentz (formerly of French Kicks, bassist on their totally ill "Young Lawyer" recording). It also included Sara and Kenny who rock. Music has taken me out of the city two weeks in a row to see the Fall colors. Bonus. First it was Edensong rehearsal up in Long Island, in a house somewhere on the sound. Then the wedding, which was in the Catskills. Last week, my friend Travis came to town. He and I played together for four years in Days of The New and off and on over the last 3 years. We have loosely kept in touch while he and I have travelled to places where we've needed to go in order to remain close to the source. All week, the act of working up some of Travis' music has served to help us learn where we are and what we have retained from our previous time together. Travis joked that it's kind of like a boyfriend and girlfriend working out their manners after years apart but I think its better than that. We are forcing ourselves to confront how well we know one another. I think most anyone would laugh at how detailed our explanations are ("what I mean when we say such-and such is...") but that is the real work that helps identify the new language. Neither of us is sure yet what we're supposed to do with what we're discovering, but that stuff will work itself out. What pleases me most is that we have managed through illness, distance, addiction, and frustration to still see each other in the light of friendship. I'm very happy about that. And when I think of this, I think of Nathan. In a way I really can't put into words, I think he really did something for Travis and I that will stay with us for the rest of our lives. I also think of Dawn who yesterday told me that she just wanted to play music with people who knew her when she was seventeen. I know exactly what she meant. Being around people who realize the power of creating stable environments in which to be mad is the thing I am most grateful for this week. And again, I thank my lucky nose hairs for Traci, who knows me best of all.

Recently at a show in France, Dawn Landes and I agreed that the band name "I love you but I've chosen darkness" is only good if the band deliberately picked the dumbest name they could think of. Know another band name I think is dumber than dumb? ---oh, I better not say. They might be on my My Space friend list.

But I'm also a guy who's band names have been:

Less the band
Yow
a.m. Sunday
King Kong
Days Of The New
lovesauce and soulbones (lowercase letters as a kind of mission statement)
Goodnight Maxine
Janitors Of The Apocalypse
Edensong
Orbits
Java Men
The Bellarmine Jazz Trio
A.K.A. Dino
Bloo Zoo
L'Woo
Shades Of Jade
Coffeehouse Comatose
Escape (Journey Cover band!!!)
Dow Jones and the Industrials
Love Jones
M
This

....Also, if you've been looking for me here, sorry. I was out of touch for a bit and have been blogging on my My Space and less the band's my space. But I must admit. Having blogged elsewhere for a spell. I like blogging here better. The colors are softer and the mood more pleasant. Also, I'm not as sure people can find me, which is a plus.

Watch what happens

The title of this entry is one of my favorite titles for a jazz song or any song for that matter. It is by Michel leGRande. He played piano.

In the next 7 weeks, the critical jobs at hand are

1) keeping the bills paid and money tucking away
2) rehearsing with Less the band for the music portion of the Edinburgh Finer Noble Gases
3) recalibrating with a healthier orbit pattern, with more time spent on the ground
4) Completing a readable draft of Clinic Concert for a reading
5) Organizing a blowout Less show
6) Organizing four or five Europian shows in conjunction with Edinburgh
7) Launching the second Motherlodge installation
8) Organizing pr and LLC membership agreement stuff for Less

Things that will happen during this time:

1) Coat checking for the summer crowd at Lotus
2) Playing a show with Rev. Vince Anderson (June 30th)
3) (possibly) playing for a reading of a hip-hop Musical called "Kingdom"
4) Visiting Ursula and all in Maine
5) Spending a week in Cape Cod doing Essential Self Defense
6) Playing a show with Opus Ditty (June 17th)
7) Playing 3 shows with Lady Rizo and the Assettes (July 20, 22, and 23rd.)
8) Playing SIn-e with Dawn Landes (June 25th)

...All accomplished while enjoying summer with Traci, making and sharing sweet-ass love and good meals. (Tonight was pork and mango slaw. Ridiculous!)

If you're feeling kind you can wish me luck.

Ray

The children of Louisville

Danny told us of the two great things that happened at Mc Donald's, with a best friend's soon to be ex-wife, and their fifth child John Paul. There was a book handed to Danny, she had found it at the goodwill. The transferrence of spirit through stellar atmospheres and his father's handwriting inside the jacket. "You should read this," he used to tell Danny. Then, in the middle of Playland, the hand of John Paul on his shoulder, three years old and an ageless grace: "I'm doing great."

I have never known living people with the names Kaden, Tristan, or Baxter until now. It is not foolish to learn of a thing by putting it in your mouth.

My Dad is dehydrated. Could have been the oysters, he says. I drive his car from the hospital to our house on Shelby Park. Napkin (not real name) answers the door and tells me that Daniel will have to explain why there is wood in the door where there was once stained glass. I believe that blacks being killed every week in the neighborhood is too difficult a matter to sum up in conversation with family, but I tell my father-in-law I am certain that part of it is because we live in a world where it is much more acceptible for black men to die.

I'm sitting at old Louisville Coffeehouse. A band from Brooklyn is in town and playing with a local band. Peter, the owner, is a deeply supportive merchant for the indie scene. The first band (from here?) is better in the first 20 seconds of their set than 90% of the bands playing in New York City.

The mental leap of recorded rhythms in a live act is going to be easier to grasp when the effects of RFID's on warfare become common knowledge. We are progressing down the channel in microscopic sparks. Life is fine and worth the effort to enjoy.

Tonight is the last Open Air Transmission Jam session at Rudyard kipling. I'll be bringing it to the end with Scott who has taken the event into a direction that is deeply personal to him. I don't know what to expect but I am sure there will be more than just music to explore tonight. I hear there is a sexual element to it, and I know from many years of playing with him that Scott's deepest expressions come with a cathardic explosion that can challenge even the most open-minded participant. I'm looking forward to the exchange.

Bushwick in the Spring

Last night Traci and I were up until 4 after having our first sedar meal at a friend's home. Although she only got 2 hours of sleep before her intense day of work, I was sure that after the talking, gnashing of teeth and crying that it was the best 2 hours of sleep ever. Before she dozed she said, "I feel like we're a family." If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand.

Tonight I fixed a dinner of baked chicken, spinach, and deviled eggs and with windows open, we ate and watched "Dog Day Afternoon". We were seeing the film for the first time as residents of Brooklyn. The mounting tension of the film combined with the yelling from the street below unnerved us. I think this is because we could see in the film all the grades of madness that we see transfer from vessel to vessel in these parts. It may also be that we do not yet know what the thawing out from winter will turn our block into and tonight was the first night that the neighborhood was expressing its Spring side.

When the film finished, the voices outside were at their loudest, some cursing, some just shaking winter dust off their throats. Then the music started in the apartment below. Usually a thing of weekends and thereby much more tolerable, I am sure the good weather insisted they start a day early. In place of the usual latino dance mix came thunderous rap/metal basslines and deep voices intoning some pep cheer for misbegotten boys turned men. Through the walls it was as unintelligible as the spanish coming in from the street, but the feeling was intact: the natives are restless. Brooklyn had descended upon us.

Traci told me of the madmen she has encountered in the morning going to the subway. The first stared her down and spit "Morning BITCH!" in her face, while today's dandy encounter had no direct eye contact but violent tendencies. Traci said he nearly flung himself off the platform and onto the tracks.

Tonight I missed Louisville with specific desires for where I would be if I could be. On the porch, with a bourbon, listening to the quiet street of St. Matthews. Or Buckner. Or Shelby Park. A train, please. Not a subway.

Baby talk on the Vanguard

Words that look nice

Words that see God

gone in the transcription

A meadow, a medal, a meadow, a medal

The new melody goes ,kasjfcqkwjfeccsuidhfakwenfckjfhlakhfv;mlakwfeemc

Sleep in the fur of the wounded

lose your extra weight

align

I don't know why it is that I cannot sleep, or that when I find myself online, all the intriguing things I'd considered looking up are shot from my mind. There is toothpaste in my head many hours of the day. It makes the lucid moments special.

We are
believe
something special

Terrible document
What do you mean?

I push against you like another dimension
And harden from the friction
There is no satisfaction
a more elegant hunger
is all

(Carriers upon the rock
Are named Carrie or
Something after birds)

We are not all thieves, we are not all liars
We might put back everything we take
We may abandon, but we do not forsake
(Words of John, Joni and Willy the Shake)

Nothing has changed upon this rock
All the words seek recognize
What is passing - designs of
treelines
windchimes
beelines
lunchlines

The Great Eye Soaking In Fredonia

Norther of here, and close to borders
The signs are less frequent for drivers, divers
Feeding on bread from after hours
The leftover slam: hand, dough, heat, throw
I got these pink boots for free

New-clear crystals of snow
They claim the countryside
For joggers in pink spandex
Their hats pastel. Detuned guitars
Everything coming in the room is a birthday present
Everyone coming in the room is a birthday present
Happy birthday

Where will you land tomorrow?
Detuned traveler, sight of phoenix spinx, venus
Risen and taken like bread from the cupboard,
And edible roots from the fridge
It will be late in the day and you’ll be long away
Before they’ll recognize what’s missing
If anything

If anything you’re my partner. Not a boy or a girl.
You’re my happy birthday
The best I got

Now in the crest of the approach
On what was the forbidden trail
North from northers a pace so funky your eyes blink in cartoon frames
If a child is the best we can do, we can do anything
But if a child is best
If only a child
I may be lost
Upon the crest

Crisis
Christ is
my sis-
ter
like this?
Miss her
likeness
Cries this
psychic
Mister
light chest,

Hold my hand when I’m crossing the street
Hold my hand we’re crossing the street

Today LEO Weekly in Louisville KY printed a memorial I wrote for my friend Nathan. Below are some writings that I did in preperation for the piece. Combined, they mark the time I have spent mourning and enjoying my friend after learning of his passing.

Enjoy.

Two words: Come together. A month after his death, Nate Robinson’s friends remember

BY RAY RIZZO

I cannot tell you about Nate in 500 words. I will try to find him in a few haikus printed in a paper that I am pretty sure he never read. Not that he disliked LEO. I think Nathan appreciated LEO because his friends and the musicians he spent his time working with read it, if only to see their names written inside.


Nate Dawg Robinson: “S’up?” Photo by Todd Smith
It is good for the paper — hell, this city — that Nate’s friends are among its community.

It is good of this paper to give 500 words to Nathan Robinson: sound engineer, musician, friend, brother, son, grandson. All over the city this week, many of Louisville’s Most Eccentric Observers can gather upon this memorial, smoke a Red or a Green, toss back some Makers and ask our newest space traveler, “S’up?”

It isn’t good that we’re here and Nate is gone.

For those who didn’t know him, Nate would like you to take these 500 words and rearrange them in any manner you see fit so they may work for someone you know who might leave this world loved but with not as much in print.
Now you know.

For those who did know him, 500 words aren’t enough. And yet — Nathan: one word opens a universe. Nathan, a memory: “Let me eat it!” Nathan, a sign: “Peace!” Nathan, a sound: “The bass tone is the fuunk!” Nathan is reaching beyond his body now. That is some wild shit, Nate. It’s crayyyzy!

You better cut this out and put it on your fridge. Because any place of Nathan’s was a place worth gathering. Dog shit on the floor, ashtray runneth over, fuck it. In Nathan’s home, pizza from last night’s crew was daily bread. You bet your ass I gave thanks to have it. Nathan showed me there was nothing in the loaves, ya dummy. It was the people you broke bread with. He also tried to talk me out of eating stale pizza.

Nathan never sat at a table, a bar or recording studio where he didn’t take you in as a friend. I believe the ledger of Nate Dawg balanced all debts, graces and minor thefts in the currency of essence. Now, Nathan would be first to say that “essentials” like friendship, sonic alchemy and laughter were not as good as cash when you are starting your own recording business, but he was just starting to get calls from people who understood his worth. In his presence I always felt lucky.

I’ve thought about Travis Meeks a lot this week. The day Nathan died, Travis told me he saw Jesus once. In Los Angeles, late into an emotional night. Travis looked upon his couch to see Jesus sitting, smoking a Marlboro Red. When he outed Jesus from his disguise, Travis says Jesus sat back on the couch, got real quiet and grinned a shit-eating grin until the sun rose.
Nathan, the word in Hebrew: “God has given!”

One more thing — I’m sure I’m over my limit, but this is important. I’d like to tell the other driver, on behalf of at least a few of Nathan’s friends gathered here at this memorial: There is nothing you need forgiveness for.

But if it helps, you are forgiven. I mean, I am sure if Nathan could have got up and kicked in your bumper and cursed for a month, you would have heard nothing like it, laughed your ass off, and eventually become cool. If he were here, Nathan would tell you that this is just some fucked up shit that happens. I know you don’t know me, but here it is in Nate’s 500 words.

Or you could take Travis’ mom’s word for it. When she called Travis, she said, “Goddammit, Trav, I know that boy, and when he went into critical condition I knew he’d take one look at the other side, look back at us and say, ‘Fuck y’all!’”

Ray Rizzo is a Louisville writer and musician living in Brooklyn. Contact him at
http//motherlodge.blogspot.com

Peter Donald, a New York producer who knew Nathan said that the last time he spoke with Nathan that Nathan was down. Nathan told Peter he was in a bad way. "I feel like something bad is gonna happen," Nathan had said.

I like this story. Because in all the joy there is to remember and keep alive with Nathan, it deserves mentioning that Nate Dawg could easily get down about things. He felt life very deeply and when he felt bad, he felt BAD. But when he felt good, he felt GOOD. I know everyone close to Nathan saw his dark moments, but I honestly don't think that a post-mortem sense of accentuating the positive is responsible for most everyone talking about the good times. The motherfucker knew how to feel GOOOOOOD. Nathan rode manic highs and lows to their fullest. I liked being around him during both. Nathan was great company for my own manic swings. His presence brought me compassion for my own dark moments.

Did Nathan see a car coming full speed at his vehicle? Maybe. He was imaginative like that.

A computer system called Pro Tools can, in the hands of the right person, become an instrument itself.

Because Pro Tools concerns itself with the recording and engineering of sounds made by many other instruments, the keen operator must be more than an instrumentalist. This person must be a conductor, a conduit. A reciever and administrator of collected energy.

When you walked into Nathan Robinson's basement, certain sights and smells might grab you - the ashtray filled with Marlboro butts, the negative transferred image of the Jimi Hendrix screen saver and the sticker mounted to the screen just below it: Work free Drug place. If you were lucky, the air might be filled with the sweet green scent to which the comic sticker referred.

When the music work started, you knew you were in the presence of a conductor.

There were Metallica posters, the photo of Johnny Cash giving the camera the finger. Bottles of Maker's Mark (usually empty). There was a couch at perfect listening range from the monitors and a cup filled with working pencils and Sharpies.

There were other things in the room - a tie-dyed poster made by Nathan's mother. Above Nathan's head where there was an exposed light bulb, Darrick and Suki (of a.m. Sunday) had made an exotic shade from a carboard box. Everywhere reminders that this freaky lion was loved.

Scattered about were guitars and pieces of equipment that Nathan openly accumulated from his work with many people around town.

Now, music business is littered with stories of mistrust and misappropriation of goods. It stands to reason that looking upon these certain pieces of equipment in the basement someone who didn't know Nathan (or even a few who did) might, under a certain mind, use the word, well, "stolen". This word might come up if you weren't able to grasp the code by which many a living breathing artist lives by, that of transferrence of energy. Some may even say Karma. Whatever term it is, it denotes an arena of ledger-keeping that only those who accept full responsibility for their lives can weigh in on. In this universe, there are, as we know, givers and takers.

Nathan was 100% a giver. I guarantee you that anyone who knew him will agree that he kept the most balanced karmaic ledger of anyone in town. He was a gentlemen to ladies and men alike, he had no hesitation to encounter people from any walk of life and call them friend. When he came to New York, it took less than 10 minutes at a bar before Nathan was having drinks bought for him and New Yorkers were telling him to move to their city.

Nathan left too early, but he chalked up many great moments before checking out. He and Travis sat in producer Rick Rubin's house and cried as Rubin played them the last song Johnny Cash ever recorded. Nathan and the members of Digby treated Billy Bob Thorton and a lady friend to a late night dinner at Waffle House. On another trip with Travis, Nathan experienced his good friend becoming convinced that he, Nathan Robinson, was Jesus Christ.

"The way I see it," Travis recalled recently," if I think you're Jesus, and you think you're Jesus, you're JESUS."

Nathan sat on the couch, grinned, and was silent for the rest of the night.

At an a.m. Sunday mixing session Suki mentioned that she was investigating string theory. Nathan immediately showed that he was versed in the ideas of Quantum realities. He said String Theory was some "fucked up shit". Then his head recessed back on his shoulders and he squinted his eyes. "It's like, you and I could be the tape on the tape machine." He shook his head "Oh yeah. It's crayyzy."

This is the universe I know Nathan. I am tape in the machine, and he is operating the channels. Occasionally, he burned himself onto the surface and changed the pitch - and my nature - forever. I don't ever want it to stop.

Nearly a year and still there is water

I started this blog at the time when my wife and I moved from our home in Louisville to New York City. Under The Flood was a title that inspired by the mystic grip the tital wave of Christmas 2004 had on my psyche as I experienced a life of 20 years endure a transformation that felt as destructive as it was creative. Since my last transmission, New Orleans has flooded, and I find myself in the timeline of things looking at incredible photos of flood wreckage in department stores and kids bedrooms where mud-wracked colorful clothing spills and dangles in primitive, postmodern beauty. This reminds me of a quote from the Village Voice this week: the cities of tomorrow will be build with mud and sticks.

Many moments have ripped new holes in me. The latest is the loss of Nathan. If you didn't know him, you have no idea. Many people in my life have an admirable capacity to appreciate interesting and compelling individuals who are at work on this earth. Nathan was such a person, but in knowing Nathan, you found yourself stepping past the point of admiring to wanting to see the world in the way he did. My walks in Bushwick (where Traci and I have finally have a home) have all week been in the company of Nate Dog. I may, in a free moment, try to share it with you.

For now, in honor of Nathan, who was a genius music engineer and even better human, and in honor of my sad self, who walks with his shadow, I sign off with the words of my neighborhood: develop, do not destroy.

I signed a petition for Ted Kennedy

I like Ted because he was the Kennedy that couldn't party and get laid as successfully as his brothers and he didn't have the balls they did. And as a result, we still have him here to be a fair and sensible voice in politics. I don't know that anyone is taking him seriously, but whatever. I think he's cute.

The e-mail said "William Myers and the Republican leaders who are trying to seize absolute power by changing the rules of the Senate in order to silence their opposition. Join me in opposing their bausive tactics:

www.tedkennedy.com/NoMyers

I signed my petiton and had nothing to add in the comment portion, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity, right? So I wrote:

"I am a citizen whose only option to speak to powers that be much less inact change in the system is by e-mail. And we know how useless e-mail is. HEll, I don't even know the motivations of the people I'm aligning with here, I just know that in this day any concern for voicelessness is a concern of mine. If anyone reads these comments and has any consciousness about matters that leads you to think we are headed for a horrible horrible rift, consider what you can do to make things better -in your personal life, at work, where ever. Do it now."

I only preach to politicians, and may I say there was a bit of role playing. (I would never say "hell".) Because e-mail is not the only way to make change. It's just what I think the majority of the disenfranchised country is doing: watching the Daily Show, petitioning with Move On. For a country who likes results, this is a start, but I for one am already tired of it and am leery that it will take steam away from people who need to be using their mind power to enact and envision the next step of real change. Somedays I think Move On is a government plot. An opiate for the people.

But I still sign.

Segismundo's response

I may be just dreaming,
even though I think I'm awake?
I'm not dreaming because I feel and believe
that which I was and that which I am.

And, even though you regret it now,
there's not much you can do about it:
I know who I am and even if you sigh
and grieve, you won't be able

to undo the fact that I was born
heir to this crown;
and if you saw me formerly
a prisoner of my shackles,
it was because I didn't know who I was;
but now I have been informed
as to who I am, and I know that I'm
a hybrid of man and beast.

(Segismundo (prince) to Basilio (king)*)

*of Poland

Mad Mission

NYU campus is intoxicating. Today students completing three years of graduate studies begin their thesis presentations. The air in the halls is an electricity I have not yet experienced. (Possibly due to the gathering of a significant number of faculty who are here at the same time to be shown the mind of the students. Role reversal!)

Stacey's thesis is "Life Is A Dream" by Pedro Calderon de la Barca. I open now to a random page (somewhere in act two):

"You're an insolent barbarian: heaven has kept its word;
and so, it is to heaven that I appeal,
you prideful, conceited man!

"And even though you now know who you are,
and the delusion has been lifted from you,
and you find yourself in a place
where you take precedence over all others,
pay close heed to my admonition
to be humble and tractable,
because you may just be dreaming,
even though you think you are awake!"

I spend lunch in Washington Square Park meditating and writing on my life as a prayer, consumed by forces bringing my own new life to me. All around me the women and the men are beautiful, bright colors all, coarsing with energies of new life. Seated in a place to witness and not merely observe, I consider how my awakening has come with such force that it is hard at the moment for me to contextualize humility... I love each of these people and cannot be here without my connection to them, and yet, if I do not focus on myself right now, all is lost to me. They are fragrances floating by.

Am I the soul of the character being spoken to, or am I a new form, teeming with wisdom from such classic works, experience and the whisperings of my blood? In any event, I suspect I remain humble and tractable, and certainly more aware that I may be dreaming an idea of me.

The fact is, I suggest to myself, such great realignment after 34 years won't be handed lightly. And pwimp tho' I may be, I like a good body slam. I am comfortable being run dizzy through the rinse cycle. For now contemplating my own equilibrium is all I can do. I will faith that this doesn't compromise humility. In fact, as I think of it, I have lately been acting upon a much greater capacity for compassion and attention to the lives of those close to me.

I ponder my new health and realize a strange dysfunction with the idea of walking in the ways of the Buddah, the Christ - such actions are as radical and taboo as anything one can contemplate now. I am simply daring myself to do it.

MAd Mission. I got the ambition. Sign me up.

Back to work, I stopped at the cafe in the commons room for water. Three girls were in front of me, giddy and colorful, making everything they observed between them an event. It was a cute and short enough exposure to not be tiring. Then I saw them waiting for the up elevator.

I got on and asked if they would press three. One of them did so, and then another of the girls - the who had been most interested in my reactions to them in line at the cafe said to me, "Third Floor..is that design?"

"Yes," I said.

"What do you design," she asked.

"I sit at my desk and work on a computer and watch the designers walk up and down the hall," I said.

"Fun," she said.

"Yup."

By the end of our exchange I was off the elevator and almost to my desk. As the door closed I could see that she was still interested in what I was up to. Did she suspect? In that slippery second, I rewound to Her question of me.

"What do you design," she says again.

"My life," I reply.

http://chezray.blogspot.com

The Cosmic Mass

From a web site linked to Creation Spirituality...

The "The Cosmic Mass" (TCM) is a conscious effort to reinvigorate Western ritual by deconstructing the forms of worship we have inherited from the modern era.(such as sitting in benches and being read to, preached at or reading from books including song books). We reconstruct these forms of worship by going back to the pre-modern practice of dance. Dance gets us into our first chakras again; dance takes us out of our heads and down again and connecting to the earth again. Joy results. Dance demands breathing and so it fulfills ancient teachings that connect breath with spirit. This connection is found not only in the Biblical story of the Creator breathing the divine breath into the clay to make it a living human but also in the ancient languages of Africa where the word for "dance" is the same as the word for "breath" which is also the word for "spirit." ("Breath" and "Spirit" are the same word (ruah) in Hebrew as well.) The African spiritual teacher, Malidome Some, tells us there is no community without ritual. Thus renewing ritual lies at the heart of bringing community back to our consciousness and experience. The modern era with its emphasis on ruggedly individual atoms, practically destroyed a sense of community. Renewed ritual can and does bring it back. And today's science with its emphasis on interconnectivity lays a groundwork for the return of community. But it needs ritual to make it happen. At our Techno Cosmic Masses people dance to techno music as well as live music; DJ's provide the musical ambience and VJ's or video jockeys provide images through slides and videos that tell the story of the theme celebrated. The theme might be "Gaia our Mother" or "The Return of the Sacred Masculine" or "The Return of the Divine Feminine" or "Kinship with Animals" or any number of themes that unite us spiritually today. In the "Return of the Divine Feminine" Mass we collected 500 slides of the Goddess from all the world's traditions (including the Black Madonna and Mary from the West). And we danced in the presence of these images, bringing in the spirit of the Divine Feminine. At each Mass we have a "via negativa" or grief experience where we grieve and lament together the loss or pain we are feeling in our hearts from abuse about the theme of the occasion. Grieving is such an essential aspect to getting over anger and into our creativity. We also have communion or sharing of the sacred bread and wine that unites all beings in the sacred act of eating and drinking divine food and drink. Early in the Mass is a fifteen minute "via positiva" dance or dance of Joy and Delight and Celebration. At the closing of the service is a fifteen minute "via transformativa" dance or warrior dance which prepares us to go into the world and back to our communities as healerss and strong defenders of compassion. A variety of ages is always represented as well as many kinds of artists and people from diverse religious backgrounds ranging from Christian to Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim and Pagan. The worship is so pre-modern in many respects that many find a home there. Beauty is everywhere present. And, one might say, magic.

It starts with a simple question

(THE FIRST E-MAIL FROM ADAM)

ADAM: Can you beleive this?

(FOLLOWED BY A LINK TO A NEWS PAGE)

News in brief from eastern Pennsylvania

4/15/2005, 8:46 a.m. ET
The Associated Press
 
SHICKSHINNY, Pa. (AP) — A familiar presence is missing from a Luzerne County bed-and-breakfast, leaving the owner and his neighbors to searched the woods for a $400 department store mannequin nicknamed Belle that has decorated the porch for years.

The figure was always dressed for the season and attracted waves from people passing by the Blue Heron Bed and Breakfast on Bethel Hill Road, owner Jesse Turner said.

Belle was wearing a summer dress, hat, scarf and white gloves when she disappeared from the porch late Sunday or early Monday, Turner said.

So far Turner has found only the arms and some of the mannequin's clothing. "It amazes me that someone would do something like that," he said. "It's unbelievable. It's just some malicious thing."

TOWANDA, Pa. (AP) — A woman accused of stealing more than $500,000 from the Canton Borough Water and Sewer Authority pleaded innocent to charges of forgery, theft by unlawful taking and tampering with public records or information....(snip)

ALLENTOWN, Pa. (AP) — The city signed an agreement to lease Earl F. Hunsicker Bicentennial Park to a Gilbertsville company that organizes youth baseball tournaments for $72,000 for three years...(snip)

READING, Pa. (AP) — The Muhlenberg School Board voted unanimously to remove the novel "The Buffalo Tree," by Adam Rapp, from its curriculum, citing explicit sexual references and vulgar language.

The book had been part of the approved 11th-grade curriculum since 2000, but a few parents told the board that its graphic sexual content was inappropriate for high school students.

Muhlenberg junior Brittany L. Hunsicker, who had complained to the board, read excerpts at Wednesday's public meeting, but board members stopped her after a few paragraphs.

"If this type of book is in our school, then why not have Hustler and Penthouse in the school library?" board member Otto W. Voit III said.

Dr. Joseph S. Yarworth, Muhlenberg superintendent, said copies of the novel were removed from school library and classroom shelves Thursday morning.

The author, reached by telephone, said he was shocked that the novel, describing the life of a young man serving a sentence in a juvenile detention center, was banned. "This is a story about friendship, about survival and about kids trying to make it in the world," Rapp said.

Though it deals with difficult subjects, students can often hear about the same matters on television or the Internet, he said. "I am stunned to think it would be banned in 2005 at a school district in America."

(END E-MAIL)

RESPONSE TO ADAM:

You know, last night Traci and I were toasting you after we got word
of this, but this is horrific.

You were four stories down in a column that led with story about a
molested department store mannequin.

ADAM'S NEXT RESPONSE:

I just received this from a teacher from the school where this went down...

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Glen Martin
To: Adam Rapp
Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2005 05:32:29 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Buffalo Tree - book banning

Mr. Rapp,

My name is Glen Martin, and I am an English teacher at Governor Mifflin
Senior High School near Reading, PA.  We are a neighboring district of
Muhlenberg, whose board voted Wednesday night to ban your book The Buffalo
Tree from its curriculum.

Though I have not read your book (and, admittedly, was not familiar with it
until this furor arose), I am troubled by the events in this case.  The
school board of Muhlenberg School District listened to a couple of passages
out of context--the favored m.o. of evangelicals who challenge books--and
immediately voted to ban the book.  Though it had been approved several
years ago for inclusion in the 11th grade curriculum--and despite the fact
that a process exists whereby parents can challenge books--the board
professed to be outraged by its content and took this unfortunate action.
Many 11th grade classes were in the middle of reading this book; after the
board's decision, the books were taken from the students and placed in a
vault (I'm not kidding!) to protect the students from the books' purportedly
corrupting elements.

Our department had a similar situation several years ago.  Several
conservative Christian parents challenged Maya Angelou's I Know Why the
Caged Bird Sings for a variety of reasons, but mostly because of the scene
in which Maya is sexually assaulted at a young age.  They, too, read
passages from the book out of context and tried to play into the board
members' fears and sense of overprotectiveness.  But ultimately, and
fortunately, our board followed our procedure for challenging a book, the
English department had a chance to defend the work, and the book was allowed
to remain in the curriculum.

I'm writing for two reasons.  First, I want to reassure you that there are
passionate anti-censorship advocates at both Muhlenberg and Governor Mifflin
High Schools who are struggling to ensure that students are exposed to ideas
that may be uncomfortable, but are ultimately essential to developing
critical thinking skills and a broad worldview.  Second, I want to ask your
advice: Have you heard of your book being challenged or banned in the past?
What strategies can you recommend to combat this phenomenon--in which a
small, but determined and vocal, group of evangelicals challenges the
slightest "inappropriate" content in a book?  How can we continue to
introduce compelling literature dealing with the sometimes discomfiting
themes of sexuality, drug abuse, incarceration, etc., into our curricula?

Thank you for your time.

Glen Martin
Department of English
Governor Mifflin Senior High School


THE LAST WORD BELONGS TO JESSE TURNER:

"It's unbelievable. It's just some malicious thing."


 

Computer Lab

The picture on the monitor across the room from me is of two polar bears in the front yard of a snowed-on lower-income suburb. One bear sprawls on his back against a snowdrift, his legs wide out in front of him and belly high, staring off at something that I can imagine is a ball game. The other bear has a more traditional polar-like stance, also looking on with mild interest. The house behind them is one of a row of post WWII ranch homes, and they are blocking a driveway where sits an early 60s red and white trim corvette-like vehicle.

The copier next to me has been making 23 copies of 8 pages for a while now, the rhythm lulling me into dream states. Traci hits the alarm and returns to the room wet from a shower. The mannequins in the hallway of Tisch School are dressed for Shakespeare. Music that will never be heard by anyone else builds vast archetecture in front of my eyes. Hair creme, cigatettes, autistic aliens. Roast pork and wontons. A curbside on 9th has a crack like Guatemala. Orange.

I rock back and forth to the pulse of the xerox. When I drift further to sleep my head does a free fall and I wake with a jerk with the gentlest awareness of where I am, returning to the bear lounging in the snow.

Reading on the job...

I have been working for nearly a month now at NYU. I am the administrative assistant at the Tisch School of Design for Stage and Film. I am a secretary. A receptionist. Both of these roles have taken an excruciatingly long time to adjust to, but now that I am more confident in my duties, I am a sponge.

Recently the students here were honored by a lecture by Jean-Guy Lecat, co author of "The Open Circle" which is a book that chronicles the theater environments of director Peter Brook who has a production going on in Harlem this month.

Some excerpts (quotes from Brook):

"People have said repeatedly that my recent work is 'simple', and this has become a very friendly cliche. The warning I would always attach to such statements is that the road to simplicity is extremely long, and I discourage anybody else from trying to start with the notion of simplicity, because it is something that arises as a result of diverse, sometimes convoluted processes.

"An ethical idea of simplicity as a point of departure can be revealing if it involves discarding everything moot, whether it is a protection or a defensive reflex, and seeing what happens."

" We've never worked to a budget. Micheline used to say, 'Do what you want and we'll find a solution', and we would feel our way, try something, and if it was too expensive cut down on something else and sometimes get into debt...Sometimes newcomers from the outside can't understand our approach: they want to know what their individual budjet is, how they can operate, but the process for us is sort of a jostle, negotiating things as we go along, arguing our priorities, rather like breaking a horse."

The School of Design

Design students who desire to stitch fantastic clothing and arrange physical space with furniture and light for theater works come to the Tisch School at NYU where they draw and paint their fucking asses off. This is because at every step in reaching their great statements in costume and set design, they have to visualize the end result and more importantly, communicate that vision in a way that everyone involved in the collaboration can understand. I am always awed and astounded by the ways ideas are concieved and developed, and witnessing the energy of it happening here is kicking my ass.

This is one large lesson for me as a music maker because collaboration with a band can suffer from not drawing pictures clear enough to demonstrate what can be. Often what is referred to as "vibe" is the result of having left much to chance and hoping for the magic to just "happen", which is one reason why many records feel half-baked. It takes great skill and the work of a focused group to make doors big enough for God to walk through, which is the kind of collaboration great producers and directors are capable of. The skill rquired, as near as I have found, start with great meditation and preparation, and not a kind always made obvious if its done well. By time a recording has started, all the preparation should be distilled into a gesture as simple as plugging in and rolling.

Of course, in the realization of the art, the results always become something of an odd potato toss, with the best parts never planned, and some disapointments arising from what was expected to be the high points. Always at some stage you find yourself outside the vehicle using a tire iron for a broomstick. At these moments, the objective needs to remain clear and communicable: where are you headed? Visualization is a living thing. Even as it remains connected to the original intent, it has to change as the work comes to life. And as they say in the army: no plan survives first contact. Everyone has to stay connected. I have discovered this to be one of my greatest challenges - how to ride the incoming waves and also communicate direction and changes to let everyone know what is now, at this point in the journey, possible to achieve. Sometimes I want to say, "okay, so this is really what we've been doing all this time" but that would sound like I was masterminding it. As Peter Brook says, the experience of finduing your way to the end is something more akin to breaking a horse.

One thing is for sure, though: when communication stops you are dead in the water, and the worst experience is to feel like you are the only one pulling. Moments like this can inspire great epiphanies of hindsight, realizing that you may have been focusing on things that left you unprepared for the place you now find yourself. Regroup. Move forward.

Demonstrate. Design. More now than ever I seek to learn the tools and languages to make the art of music making happen more fully. Pro-tools and effects and microphones and mic techniques are part of the bag of instruments that I have learned little about up to now, and I at least need to know what I don't know. Records and friends and books and experience are the resource. Nothing can be assumed, I tell myself, at all times speak simple and directly to the matter. Avoid the urge to make grand sweeping statements. Above all, give great attention to the inner voices of everyone as they are communing at all times with the emerging life being created.

Yeah, sure, right? Or so I think anyway. But I finish this post dissapointed at my focus. To begin with, there are far greater collaborations than bands. Wives, family, and friends all deserve at least the same attention. I suspect if I ever absorb the wisdom of these lessons, I will not be so consumed by a need to declare my findings or distinguish the media and discipline entailed. But for now, like the great souls awake in these halls, I am weighted by the sense of all I haven't learned yet. Like them, I yell for an echo. Like them, I advance with ambition and the few tools I have, in every way a student.

And like them I get back to work.

Hassel between the gutter and the tassles

Tonight Traci and I walked from West 3rd and MacDougal south into Soho, across Little Italy and Chinatown, returning home through the Lower East Side. Spring in New York...being in a new place..... the blood pumps. We have come to New York to be lucky (luckier?) We've come to do something. To begin. It amazes me to think of how much we have been willing to risk so that we may go for a kind of life that pleases and finally get some shit straight. It amazes me that we are willing to be lucky. Stuff is happening, but slowly. We've managed to pay our bills for the second month in a row, but we have about a week of food money right now. I feel anxiety all the time and wait for the ball to drop, but we are eating well, have a drink everyday, and thanks to the kindness of friends have books and some weed to last a while. I am worried, but I don't stay paralyzed in this state. I keep moving, dotting "i"s and crossing "t" s. It is my only saving grace. Being scared for your life is a special kind of motivator.

This town is everything people say - a constant struggle just to stay here. But it's also everything else they say - a place like no other which will, in your darkest moment, give a little nudge to keep you moving. Case in point:

Yesterday Traci and I walked into 10-64 CoffeeShop in Long Island City. When I ordered my drink the Barista said I looked familiar. I said it was probably my Mossy Oak cap. (Mike, you left it in the upstairs bathroom at Dad's - now it's mine.) But then she asked if I was "Rizzo". By time we left, I had a free latte, and had been asked to play drums in the barista's burlesque show that she is putting together. The barista offered Traci free drinks and bagels and pasteries too, but she had just eaten.

Traci called it Serendipity, referencing the pulp books she'd bought me for my birthday and how I had always said I wanted to play a burlesque show. I was all the more pleased that she was pleased and we both agreed it didn't matter if it ever happened - it was just some good Ju Ju to keep us pushing through.