Better Than That
The guys are gone. The empties are lined up like dead soldiers. The instruments are tucked away. The cables are bundled and hung. I’m watching the sun set.
Chris, Tony, and Ryan left a few minutes ago, and with them a kick drum, hi-hat, cymbals, upright bass, electric bass, and acoustic guitar — all of which was crammed, along with us, into my tiny bedroom.
Late in the aftrnoon — after Chris and Tony tracked “Wide Awake” and “Downer,” after Chris, Tony and I put away two pitchers of Bud and three hamburgers, as Chris, Tony, Ryan and I drilled for Saturday night’s show, Tony turned to me for a perfunctory check-in on rehearsal.
“You ok?”
“Dude, I’m drinking beer and making music with my friends in my bedroom,” I said. “I’m better than that.”
All Kinds Of Time
“Do you remember Allie Kershner?” Samantha asked. I looked skyward, struggling to remember. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You didn’t date her.”
I met my friend Samantha in August of 1989 — the very first day of our freshman year at Syracuse University. Our dorm, Lehman Hall, was a ratty, seven-story walk up on the northern edge of campus. The four person suites were typically reserved for upper classmen, but the class of ’93 was unusually large. We were the overflow. Where other dorms had common spaces and social mixers, Lehman had doors upon doors. It was isolated, dark, and depressing.
Worse, I began my freshman year feeling similarly isolated, dark, and depressed. I was terrified. An assault the previous summer had not only left me with a shattered jaw, but also shattered confidence. I expected to be disliked. I expected to be unpopular. I expected to bullied.
Lehman Hall was The Island of Misfit Toys. My roommates and I made for a strange quartet: Steve D, the vertically challenged jock with a penchant for “Cheers” reruns on VHS; Dave, the good natured, oddly-featured Queens native apparently clueless to his constant, unquenchable stink; Steve B, the effeminate, flamboyant Buffalonian; and me, just me — whoever I was then.
On the first night of college, I threw up on my new rug and wet my new bed. On the second, an SAE pledge dumped an entire beer on Dave’s head. I don’t remember the third, but it took some time for things to improve even just a little bit.
I studied ceaselessly freshmen year. I relished my classes (Logic, Spanish, Geology, and English Textual Studies), earning a 3.6 in my first semester (by far my best academic performance to date). But I loathed everything else. I missed home, and my friends there. I hated the snow, which began falling in September. And I hated my existence: late nights smoking bowls with Tim Bateman and Conan O’Brian. It was utterly forgettable.
Little wonder, then, that I scarcely remember first meeting Sam. It seems like she was always there: giggling with her friends Anne and Eileen, rolling her eyes at my stoner antics, rallying the disparate elements of the dorm to gather for some sort of well-intentioned tomfoolery, but always accepting me for exactly who I was — whoever I was then.
On St. Patrick’s Day, when I began drinking at noon and passed out at four, Sam, Anne, Eileen et all scribbled on my naked torso in magic marker. There’s photographic evidence somewhere.
We traveled in the same circle through school. She dated Steve B, who later lived with Chris D, who often-hosted Smokey Junglefrog shows in his attic. She kissed her now husband, Seth, on the way home from one of our shows. And on graduation day, she somehow found me amidst the five thousand graduates and their families in the cavernous Carrier Dome. I still have the picture. We’re smiling. We look so young.
Samantha now works for the Associated Press on 33d and Tenth. I work just a few blocks away at 44th and Broadway. Still, entire seasons can pass without seeing one another. Which is a shame, because she’s a total sweetheart.
Sam and Seth have been married for well over ten years. They moved from the West Village to Bridgeport, Connecticut, two years ago. They have two beautiful daughters, Isabella and Eva. Until tonight, the last time I saw her was at a picnic in Connecticut. Sam’s sister Kim picked me up from my Hell’s Kitchen apartment, and whisked me away to their lush, green suburbia. They had kids, equity, cars — the whole thing. Sam was still smiling, still giggling, and maybe even rolling her eyes once and a while.
I’m not sure why Sam still counts me among her friends all these thirteen years later. She’s seen my at me worst numerous times: drunk, stoned, stupid, selfish. I skipped her wedding for no good reason at all (well, Erin had just dumped me). I’m terrible with birthdays and anniversaries. And there’s always drama of some sort (usually related to a woman) in my life. But it doesn¹t phase her.
“People aren’t friends this long for no reason,” she said tonight, tucked away in the corner booth at Haru. “You’re a good guy, Ben.”
I’ve always believed in Sam. She’s a solid presence; no pretense, no shtick. I guess she’s always believed in me too — whoever I was then, whoever I am now. Maybe that’s what friendship is all about.
The Finest Worksong
I called Abbi as I stepped from the fluorescent hum of the office into the neon buzz of Times Square. It was nearly nine o’clock.
“I just don’t think I can make it over tonight. I’m plum exhausted. Plus, the guys are delivering a new fridge at eight tomorrow morning.”
The MTV was a blur. I was switching between redesign meetings, planning meetings (the best of which was a creative meeting about our forthcoming Bryan Singer interview), appraisal meetings, faxes to senators (for the Mr. Rogers doc), phone calls to organizations (same), emails to the band (to schedule recording and rehearsal), and the usual line of questioning that forms at my door.
By the time the subway dropped me at 79th Street, I decided to ride over to Abbi’s anyway. It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be challenging. And with challenge, comes reward.
But first: more challenges. My cell phone rang. Britney had confirmed her pregnancy on Letterman. The story was already on the site, but the video tape was at the Ed Sullivan Theater. Both coasts were on ovetime. What did I want them to do?
This is my life.
I’m socked in tight for the next few weeks. In some cases, I’m double booked. There’s a lot going on. Work. The doc. The gig. The recording. Consulting on my friend’s website. And even a few social engagements.
Excepting a few amateurish originals, my high school band, Neoteric Youth, mostly performed covers by Rush and R.E.M. This odd combination of music was largely a result of the varied interest of the band’s membership. Drummer Wako Iwasaki liked Rush (And why wouldn’t he? All drummers want to play ten minute solos.). I liked R.E.M. So we did both: “The Finest Worksong” into “YYZ” into “The One I Love” into “Closer To The Heart” into “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” It struck me as odd then, and still does today.
Dodging traffic on Third Avenue this morning, though, I think I figured it out: Rush and R.E.M. is what life is all about. We hurry, hurry, hurry, then we dream.
Somewhere around 89th Street, I was cut off by a double-length bus. I slipped through the center lane, past a gray Range Rover, and pulled a hard left into Central Park. The traffic and noise and danger disappeared, and I coasted a moment in the quiet. In that slipstream of silence, I heard a new song in my head. And for that instant, I could sort of see how it’s done.
Giving Up The Ghost
My father recently asked me how The Nadas were doing. “You don’t write about them so much anymore,” he said.
True enough. Six months ago, a friend emailed me, “If you blog one more time about The Nadas, I’m never visiting your site again.” She was kidding, I assume. But it’s true; six months ago the love affair was in full swing.
And why not? Here were a coupla guys living the life I’d always hoped to live. Here were a coupla guys who went for it: full-time rocknroll, complete with tour bus. Better yet, here were (here are) a coupla good, honest, sweet, hugely creative Midwestern boys. And best yet, they opened the homes, their hearts, their stage, their label, and — sweet! — their tour bus to me.
So as you know, I spent two weeks with ‘em last year: a week in July, and again in December. They were very different experiences. July was exciting, beautiful, sun-soaked and awash in green. The road was new, and thrilling, and romantic. December was cold, monochromatic, and depressing. The road was long, and dark, and left me with a wicked hangover.
What had changed? Not The Nadas. Not the road. Me. I had, if only just a little bit.
I’ve dreampt of the cover of Rolling Stone since I was eight-years-old. I’ve been in bands since I was sixteen. I’ve been releasing records since I was nineteen. I’m thirty-four now. That’s a long time, a lot of dreams, and a lot of pavement beneath the tires.
By the time I met Jason at the Sundance Film Festival last winter, I was pretty close to throwing in the towel. Though I have what I consider to be numerous creative successes, I’ve never broken through. I appreciate every email from Berlin to Sydney and beyond. But the process was approaching diminishing returns. Until this year, I’ve spent most of my vacations on tour. I’ve spent every season writing, recording, and releasing a new CD, each one invested with all the hopes, dreams, and fantasies of all that had come before. But somehow, it has never been enough. Their were too few sales, too few people in the audience, too little press. I was a tiny tree falling in a huge, empty forest.
Jason seemed to feel similarly. They’d come awfully close to breaking through plenty of times, most recently with a profile in a major national magazine just days before September 11, 2001. But they hadn’t. And he was tired, and frustrated, but hopeful. Eventually, he invited me along for the ride, and injected a fair amount of hope back into me as well. At the end of the road, though — sick, exhausted, crestfallen — I couldn’t sustain it. I couldn’t spend any more vacations on the road. I needed a real vacation, one with a beach, and a beer, and a woman I love (hence Honduras in February, and Bonaire in July).
Fast forward to last week. My father says, “What’s up with The Nadas? You don’t write about them so much anymore.” So I IM Jason. Not like we never talk (I like to email them whenever one of their songs hits my iPod at an auspicious moment), but to catch up.
The Nadas are still at it, busy as ever. They spent the winter pushing “Listen Through The Static” to radio, with some success (#36 on XM Cross-Country, #32 on the Roots Music Report). They opened for Bon Jovi in Des Moines. Bassist Jon Locker (who produced “Heartland”) produced The Josh Davis Band’s excellent debut, “The White Whale” (best album cover ever). They added Bob Hillman to the Authentic Records roster. Drummer Justin Klein bought a motorcycle. Mike Butterworth shaved his blond locks, and continues to perform solo shows. And the band got a full summer of dates, including their usual tenure at the Iowa State Fair.
The bad news is, the bus died as the band headed home from its New Year’s gig. The engine finally gave up the ghost two-hundred miles east of Denver. (Somewhere in Kansas last summer, Jason told me that the bus had over a million miles on it, but that it was on it’s third engine. This particular engine had logged over 300,000 miles.) The band has returned to its Econoline van, but hopes to raise the $25k necessary to get Meat Loaf’s old bus (“That’s right, Meat Load, motherf*****”) back on the road (you can pitch in here).
As for me, well, I wasn’t sure I was gonna play any more shows. I’m grateful for every single person that makes it out when I do perform, but it’s a little heartbreaking to rehearse, sweat, and hype a show that is scarcely attended. But I’m back on the horse, at least for a minute. Tony, Ryan and I are performing at Alphabet Lounge next weekend (Saturday May 20th at 9:30). I’m looking forward to it. Audience size notwithstanding, I do love to make music with my friends.
So, Dad, The Nadas are well. And so am I. The road goes on forever. And whether we have a map or not, we’re gonna keep on keepin’ on.
Chasing The Moon
“Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Benjamin found the moon!”
It was Family Weekend here at Benjamin Wagner Dot Com. Abbi and I hopped an an early Amtrak out of the city Friday. One frosty cold Sam Adams and a bag of pretzels later, we pulled into Wilmington, where we were greeted by her parents, and whisked away to a delicious dinner. It was, come to think of it, my first solo meal with Abbi’s parents. Which is to say, there were no siblings or friends to distract them for goofy ole’ me. It didn’t feel like an audition, but it’s difficult not to think of it that way. And auditioning for anything with an allergy-clouded brain is not ideal.
Saturday morning, I ran in the Brandywine Valley, trying in vain to shake loose my nearly-debilitating allergies. They’re bad in The City. They’re worse in The Country.
Later, Abbi and I drove to Delaware Park to meet her 89-year-old grandmother for lunch. Mrs. Dick (aka “Mom Mom”) is the Queen Bee of the track. She has a prime table high above the finish line, and gracefully engages all comers. She bets two bucks on every race. “It’s just as much fun,” she said.
Abbi walked off to wager, and left me alone with her grandmother. It’s a situation that’ll make any bachelor nervous. But instead of grilling me, or lecturing me, she smiled and said, “I’m so lucky. I just love all of my grand children.” (She did grant me her blessing as we left. “You may continue dating Abbi,” she said with a wink.)
Later, Chris, Ethan and I were sitting by the creek in my mom’s back yard. Frogs were croaking in the stream. The sun had dipped below the trees. We were dressed for dinner at the country club. Ethan was scanning the sky for stars and planes. I walked inside to leave father and sun alone, then spotted the moon just above the trees.
“Ethan!” I shouted. “I found the moon! Can you see it?”
“Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Benjamin found the moon!”
If only I had. If only I could. If only I could find him the moon, wrap it up with a bow, and tuck him in with it. We would do that for each other, wouldn’t we? Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, we only want the moon for each other; a bright white beacon to keep each other from getting lost.
I tore through Paul Reickhoff’s “Chasing Ghosts” this weekend. His book really is a triumph. I wrote him first thing this morning.
Paul:
As context, you should know that I’ve read many of the “classics” that precede Ghosts: Jarhead, Dispatches, Band of Brothers, Flag of Our Fathers, and many, many more. For me, only Ghosts puts me as close to the situation as possible (shy of having been there with you). First person narrative goes a long way, and you’ve used it to its most powerful. Likewise your candor, clarity, and integrity. Congratulations on a compelling, challenging, moving, and inspiring read.
I have already begun proselytizing to families and friends to purchase a copy, and consume it with the same zeal I have. Additionally, Gideon and I spoke about potentially using your interview for an on air brief, and an online brief. I’m going to pour over the transcript of that interview, and determine whether it’ll serve us online. If not, I’ll be callin’ for more on the book specifically. Meanwhile, thanks for the great work. And I hope to see you Wednesday night.
Best, Benjamin
It’s difficult to imagine Paul’s parents staring up at the moon, worrying about their beloved son thousands of miles from home in harm’s way. It’s difficult to imagine Paul staring up at the moon in Baghdad, worrying about his girlfriend in Brooklyn. Heck, I worry about Ethan when I lose sight of him for two seconds.
I’m sure Paul’s family are proud. I imagine Abbi’s family is proud. I hope my family is proud. I know that I am.
Chasing Ghosts
“Don’t feel guilty,” he said. “Feel motivated.”
It’s January. I’m in Park City, Utah, covering the Sundance Film Festival for MTV News. I interview three Iraq War veterans on a snowy rooftop in the center of town. One, Paul Rieckhoff, is clearly more of a media-savvy sound bite generator than the others. This becomes especially apparent when he reels of the key quote of the interview, the day, and the festival — heck, maybe of the year.
“This war is more important than these guys snowboarding, or Paris Hilton, or any of this other crap.”
Rieckhoff’s a smart dude. He’s set up Google to email him whenever his name, or the name of his organization, Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America (IAVA), is published online. When I write about him in my January 22 post, he reads it…
Weirder still, in the middle of the interview, I found myself feeling kinda guilty. And I’m not sure why. Because I haven’t done enough? Because I haven’t spoken up enough? I’m not quite sure.
Within hours, Paul emailed me from his Blackberry.
“Don’t feel guilty,” he wrote. “Feel motivated.”
It became clear to me after trading just a few emails that this guy was something different. He’s engaged, he’s proactive, he’s assertive. And he’s a nice guy.
His organization, IAVA, is non-partisan. Those yellow stickers on your Hummer? Paul’s fighting for them. He’s putting his money where his mouth is, walking the walk, not just hanging a ribbon. IAVA is creating support groups. They’re advocating for policy. They’re looking after their homeless bretheren. they’re doing something.
Paul released his memoir, “Chasing Ghosts,” on Monday. He coordinated the release date with the anniversary of George Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” speech.
What a douche bag.
Not Paul, Bush.
Anyway, Paul kicked off his book tour in New York City tonight. He read a few passages, and answered a few questions. Once again, I was struck by how articulate he is, how knowledgeable he is, and how indisputable his experience is.
WMDs? Oh really? Body armor? Hmmmmm. Shock and awe?
Puh. Lease.
I bumped into Paul last weekend at the Tribeca Film Festival. He’s difficult to miss: six two, two forty, bald. His was sitting on a wall just watching passers by. I paused and reintroduced myself. After a few minutes catching up from Sundance, he handed me a postcard for his buddy Harold’s film, “When I Came Home.”
“You should come to a screening,” he said.
Dude’s got a novel coming out in thirty-six hours and he’s pitching someone else’s thing.
I still don’t know what to do about Iraq, or Bush, or and of the other seriously fucked up things (Walmart, McDonalds, SUVs) we’ve got goin’ on here in America. But I do feel motivated. And I do feel honored to know someone who’s asking the right questions, and walking in the right direction.
Favorite Things, Volume II
I grew up outdoors.
As a kid, we played kick the can, whiffle ball, and tag with the neighborhood kids. We drafted touch football teams — complete with uniforms crafted from t-shirts and magic markers — and faced off against rival blocks (“Woodbine Street vs. Forest Avenue!”). For vacation, mom and dad took us fishing in Minnesota and Wisconsin.
As a teenager, I hiked and biked through Valley Forge Park. Though dotted with Revolutionary-era buildings and encampments (complete with canons), my interests there were simple: rolling green hills, babbling brooks, dense forest and scenic vistas.
In college, I spent my summers roaming these United States. One summer, armed with just a tent, a sleeping bag, and a few hundred dollars, I drove my red Nissan Sentra from Philadelphia to Sa Diego and back again. I camped in the Bighorns, Tetons, Sangre de Cristos, and San Juans. I lived in Telluride the next summer, where I summited Mt. Ajax, jogged Big Bear Pass, and mountain biked in between.
After graduation, I lived with Chris in Saratoga Springs, a small town on the southern edge of the Adirondacks. We spent afternoons on Tongue Mountain, evenings exploring the trails behind town, and entire weekends at Pharaoh Lake.
I like the outdoors. I like quiet. I like the longview.
Moving to New York City in 1995, then, was something of a problem. The entire island is paved. Vistas are only available from skyscrapers. And a bike ride can be fatal.
Sure, there’s Central Park. And what an amazing park. But the loop is always crowded with roller bladers, bikers, joggers, carriages and cabs. And the sidewalks are choked with tourists, dogs, and strollers. But there is a place you can sneak away…
The Ramble.
The Ramble is a 38-acre “wild garden” (as park designer Frederick Law Olmsted called it) sculpted from a rocky hillside. It’s man made nature, sure (the creek that flows east to west is turned on and off with a water tap). But man, they did a great job.
The Ramble begins just north of Bethesda Fountain, and stretches to the Great Lawn.
Its intricate paths and dense woodlands were designed to reflect the rugged beauty of the Adirondacks, while ushering city dwellers from the frenzy beyond the park’s borders. The terrain is ideal for birds, and is home to over 200 species.
And on any given morning, it’s home to me.
If I’m running in the park, odds are, I’m running through The Ramble. It is the only place on the island of Manhattan where the island of Manhattan disappears. It is quiet, save for the birds and the breeze. It is tranquil, all shadows and light. And it is always a few degrees cooler and sweeter than the stifling, stinking streets. On a good day, I can squint and forget the choas, the cacophony, and the crazed resident of the city
A few blocks later, I’m back in my apartment, then off to work.
Tribeca Talks
“I don’t know of any great secret films, do you?”
That’s Steven Soderbergh speaking. He looks exactly as I suspected: bald, bespectacled, black t-shirt and jeans; a hip Freddy Krueger sans burn scars. And he’s speaks as I’d suspected: clever, dry, smart. I like him immediately. But I always have.
“Sex, Lies and Video Tape” had early buzz at Berwyn Video, even in 1988. Of course it did. I was fifteen-years-old, and it had sex in the title. Imagine my disappointment when I found the film to be all talk. Still, it was interesting talk: clever, dry, smart. And it got me thinking, ‘Hey, maybe it’s not all about cops and robbers.’
My first film was all about cops and robbers. Well, kind of. Chris and I wrestled dad’s 8mm camera from the closet, and shot a remake (can you remake a television show still on the air?) of “The Greatest American Hero.” I played the lead, not quite a cop, but certainly the hero. Chris played the bad guy.
Following Soderbergh’s been a bumpy road. “Swimming To Cambodia” hardly counted: it was a Spaulding Grey monologue with cool staging. “Schitzopolis” took me years to screen. I still haven’t found my way to “Kafka.” I fell asleep during “Solaris.” But “The Limey,” “Erin Brokovich,” “Traffic,” even “Oceans 11″ — something was going on with this guy. Something was amiss. First, there was the film stock: all the saturated colors and textures. Then there was all the talk, the glorious — ok, I’ll say it — clever, dry, smart dialogue.
Even if its unwatchable, everything Soderbergh does is interesting. Like “Bubble,” the first film to be released in theaters, on DVD, and HDTV on the same day. Or “K Street,” the Beltway docudrama combining actors with actual politicians. He produced some of the last few year’s greatest films: “Syriana,” “Good Night, And Good Luck,” and the forthcoming “A Scanner Darkly.” And check this out: dude’s got eleven films in the hopper. Eleven!
That he looks like me (or I look like him), well, that was just icing on the cake.
So when I read that he was on a panel at Tribeca… well, sign me up.
The subject was the digital revolution in film. I’ve always paid attention to digital film, being a movie fan, and a dot com kinda guy. Heck, the whole digital thing brought Chris and I to New York in the first place. His company, Broadcast News Networks, was early adopters of the DV predator (producer/editor). I saw Ken Burns speak to it three years ago (he wasn’t a huge fan). I derive a significant amount of hope from the fact that I can get my hands on a DV camera and Final Cut pretty easily. And I have a fair amount of ideas. Then, as Soderbergh said, it’s all about talent, not the format.
“Cinema is a language,” Soderbergh said. “I’ve seen thirty second commercials that have it, and two hour movies that don’t.”
Chris and I ran the New Jersey Half Marathon yesterday. It was a beautiful morning. Neither of us had run all week, but we did ok, primarily, I presume, because we had each other. We talked and talked and talked. Primarily, we talked about our documentary “Mr. Rogers & Me.” I told him about The Pitch I’ve been circulating, the one that says we’re going to interview Michael Keaton (whose first job was in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood), and Katie Couric (who counted Mr. Rogers as a friend), among others. We talked about tape stock (“16mm would really be nice,” Chris said. “Yeah, but DV is practically free,” I replied.), and shots (“No camera gymnastics,” I insisted). And generally passed the miles. Talking. In cinematic language.
Will our film be a secret? Not to you.
