AAA
I received an email from a Canadian pen pal last week. It began with a request that I cover Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue” (which I may yet do), and concluded thusly…
My Toronto Blue Jays beat your Mets at home today. There’s nothing like just being there as a fan at a ball park eating hotdogs, peanuts and caramel corn while belting out “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” with a bunch of kids and old timers like you’ve been waiting to do it since your home team last won the World Series… uh, ’93?
While I share her interest in hotdogs, peanuts and caramel corn, and understand the imperative to reinforce civic rivalries, I had to reply truthfully.
I am, in fact, going to a Brooklyn Cyclones game on Thursday. But that’s more for the company and the beer. You’ll probably never meet a guy with less interest in pro sports.
I’ve never been into pro sports, not even a little bit. Which made the school cafeteria that much more difficult, and makes the proverbial “water cooler” conversations that much more awkward. (Worse still, I don’t watch any of the TV shows everyone watches).
It’s always been yet another thing that makes me feel set apart from other men. I can’t talk batting averages, trades, injuries, RBIs, team rosters — nothin’. I don’t play fantasy baseball, I don’t watch games in bars — none of that. Which is fine with me.
But I do love a summer night, a minor league ballgame, and a beer.
I think I caught the minor league bug at a Syracuse Chiefs game way back in 1993. Could be that it was the perfect cool, clear night. Could be that the field was the perfect shade of green. Could be that we got hammered. Whatever. I had a great time. And not because of the baseball. I have no idea what happened. I mean, I like the sound of a good hit, and the grace of a good play, but otherwise, I’m not really watchin’ the game; I’m drinkin’ beer, eatin’ hotdogs, and talkin’ to my boys.
I had a similarly excellent experience at a Newark Bears game five years ago. The occasion was my brother’s bachelor party. My high school buddy Jason Pierson was pitching for the Bears, so he got us great seats behind home base. The weather was perfect, the beer was cold, and we had a great time.
I’ve run past Coney Island’s Keyspan Park a half dozen times in the last ten years, each time promising myself I’d get to a game. What could be a better setting for a ballgame? Green grass, blue sky, the ocean… awesome! So I finally took matters into my own hands a few weeks ago and bought six tickets. I didn’t know who’d join me, but figured, ‘How hard can it be to get five guys to take the subway to a Brooklyn Cyclones game?’
As it ends up, it wasn’t difficult at all.
Five stand-up gents joined me last night: my brother, Christofer; my colleagues Robert (“Boom Boom”) Mancini and James (“Jimmy Mont”) Montgomery; and my buddies Jeff Domanski and Ron Lieber. These are some of my favorite guys: funny, cool, kind, and smart. They’re the kind of guys who would have a good time doing just about everything. And we did.
The third inning downpour didn’t dampen our spirits. Six hot dogs, six spicy sausage sandwiches, four plastic capfuls of Carvel ice cream, and countless Brooklyn Lagers later, we stumbled onto the F train. The Cyclones had lost to the Abereen Iron Birds, but no matter.
“Good game,” Ron said. “I saw some good fundamentals out there.”
I have no idea what he meant, but I had to agree.
Learning How To Die
I’m half-way through three books right now, and have cracked the spine on two more.
I would tack it up to coincidence, or some sort of Borders/Barnes & Nobles/Amazon harmonic convergence. But you know me: I look for meaning in signs, symbols, and patterns. All of the books are about bands. So it dawned on me quickly; something is afoot.
“Fool The World: An Oral History Of The Pixies” is just as advertised. Key players from the band to management to roadies to sound engineers take us back to the mid-Eighties when Throwing Muses, Buffalo Tom, Dinosaur Jr., and Pixies made Boston the place to be (so much so that, some eight years later, my college band and I wanted desperately to move there after graduation), and laid the foundation for what would come to be “alternative rock.”
If you’re a real music geek, you probably already know about Continuum’s “33 1/3″ series. They’re brief, little books on the making of various classic albums, like The Replacements’ “Let It Be,” The Rolling Stones’ “Exile On Main Street,” and REM’s “Murmur” — which is the one I’m reading.
I figured I didn’t have the bandwidth (pun intended) to read “Wilco: Learning How To Die” any time soon (given the above, plus the two Douglas Coupland books — “Eleanor Rigby” and “JPod” — which are also on deck), but, being a huge fan of the band, and a nominal fan of the author (Greg Kott), I tossed it into the proverbial shopping cart nonetheless.
All three books are compelling, if breezy reads. “Fool The World” is all first person, which is nice; no editorializing from an author who wasn’t even there. “33 1/3: REM’s Murmur” is actually great, geeky stuff like what sort of guitar Peter Buck was playing on “Shaking Through,” though none of it is essential learning (like, say, “Siddhartha”). And “Learning” reads like standard rock bio (of which I’ve read dozens), though I don’t know much about Wilco save the music (maybe that’s best?).
True: I was expecting to be on the beach in Bonaire this week (we rescheduled on account of Abbi’s sister’s loss), and nothing could be finer than a beach, a beer, and a good book. But why so many books? Why on the same theme? And why now?
(If this is where you expect major revelation, you may choose to stop reading now.)
My life more resembles a media executive’s than a rock star’s. And whatever sort of rock star there is in me is on some kind of musical hiatus: writing and recording but not performing (much). So, what’s a guy to do?
Read.
Which may sound stupid, or kinda ‘Duh!’ But the objective is to learn some lessons (what not to do?). The objective is to find some fuel. The objective is get inspired.
I mean, I already know Peter Buck played producer Mitch Easter’s 1956 Gibson LG-1 on “Shaking Through.”
Life In A Northern Town
Chris and I pulled into the Richmond Airport Hotel & Convention Center just after midnight.
We were bone tired from our full day at the Human Kindness Foundation, not to mention our three hour drive up to Richmond. The shoot (click here to read all about it) was intense; a thousand times more difficult than interviewing Michael Stipe, and at least that many times more rewarding. We dragged our six bags (clothes, computer, camera, lights, matte box and cables) through the mechanical sliding doors, more than ready for our four-hour slumber prior to our six o’clock flight. Alas, it was not to be.
Check in took ten minutes, despite having booked and paid in advance. When we got upstairs, our keys didn’t work. We trudged downstairs, got a new key, and tried again. No luck. When I asked for new keys and a new room, we were granted both.
“And where’s 144?” I asked.
“All the way at the end in the back,” she replied.
So we dragged ass back down the block, and stepped into the hotel room from hell.
Listen, I’ve slept on desert pavement without a tent. I’ve slept at fourteen thousand feet. I’ve traveled across America numerous times, plus Europe, Central America, and The Caribbean. I’ve stayed at Holiday Inn, Motel 6, Travel Lodge — you name it. But this room took the cake.
First: It reeked of cigarettes.
Second: There was a dirty sock under the bed.
Third: There were toenail clippings on the floor.
Fourth: The walls of the shower looked beaten and scuffed as if they had endured a murder straight out of “Psycho.”
Fifth: I passed two free porno channels en route to CNN.
And the Sixth and final reason why this was, hands down the worst hotel ever: Chris spotted a crack pipe and foil behind the headboard.
At that point, I begged him to stop poking around. We laid a towel down between the beds, stripped them of their spreads, and lay down fully clothed and mummy-like (but not after a careful scan for bed bugs). The room was so dark, and so spooky, that I left the TV on (and when I needed to use the restroom in the middle of the night, I wore my shoes).
Three short hours of restless sleep later, Chris and I were up. The room was freezing. We skipped the shower (see above), gathered our bags, and stepped towards the door. I paused before stepping out, scanning the periphery for muggers, murderers and the like.
What’s especially odd about our strange and brief and most uncomfortable night is that it came so close on the heels of such a special and sacred day. But I think maybe there’s something to that, the “sweet and sour,” as Cameron Crowe calls it. Example: Abbi calls to tell me her sister’s boyfriend has been killed. Five minutes later, my friend Dan calls to tell me he’s just gotten engaged. Example: My colleague Rahman spends Saturday celebrating his sister’s graduation from college with his entire family. His aunt dies the next morning. Example: Chris and I find gracious hosts and hostesses welcoming us all over the south, then spend a night in a hostile, inhospitable environment.
Nobody said any of this was supposed to be easy, or make any sense. All of life’s richest answers come from its deepest mysteries. So I guess I’ll just keep asking, and stay tuned…
Summer Song
I’m not sure I even knew what the summer solstice was until college.
My freshman dorm room lacked direct sunlight. It was in the interior of the building, with a window overlooking a ventalation shaft. I’m sure that’s not the sole reason for my near-depression that year, but it didn’t help.
I’ve become acutely aware of the value of sunlight since then, and now that I have a sliver of it six stories above the city, I like to celebrate it. Last night, fifty or so of my closest friends celebrated with me.
The sky was choked with clouds, and threatened rain, but we chilled the beer and set out some chips and dip just the same. When the rain finally fell, a line formed at the top of my spiral staircase as everyone relocated to my living room. Later, when the rain stopped, we stepped back outside.
My head still hurts, and I’m bone tired. But I’m grateful for the sun. I know it’s there behind the clouds. And I’m grateful for my friends who are there for me in sunshine and rain alike.
My brother and I are off to Richmond in a few hours to begin work on our documentary, “Mr. Rogers & Me” (you can track our progress here). Somehow, I feel absolutely certain that the sun is not the only heavenly thing smiling down on us.
Superman (It’s Not Easy)
The credits had scarcely begun to roll when Kurt asked me, “So whaddya think?”
Listen, the guy may be one of three reasons (along with Cameron Crowe and Chris Connelly) that I do what I do, but he clearly didn’t get the memo my Top Five Rules For Movie Screenings:
1) Never go to an open screening
2) Always sit in the absolute center of the theater
3) Remain seated through the credits
4) Do not discuss the film
5) Walk all the way home
Getting into the Warner Bros. Screening Room was challenge enough. First, there was leaving the office at 6:15. Not easy. Then there was dodging tourists and traffic through Times Square while trying to make arrangements for another reporter to screen another film. Then there was the line. Which is when Kurt showed up.
Once inside, I found the audio and visual center. Goldner was on my left. Loder was on my right. We had a half hour to kill.
Now, I love Kurt Loder, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say he makes me a little nervous. For starters, he’s pretty darned bright, and wicked experienced. He’s something of a legend amongst music journalists. For another, he speaks softly and has bone-dry wit. His humor is intelligent, and sardonic. Mine? Not so much.
Still, I like the guy, and am always eager to talk with him (frankly, I think all of us are — he possesses some kind of quiet paternal thing). So I started in on him. First I mentioned an oral history of The Pixies I’m reading. Then we joked about “The Lake House” (“Seems like ‘Griffin & Sabine’ meets H.G. Wells,” I said. “If only Keanu would just climb into the mailbox…”). Then he asked me if I’d seen “Strangers With Candy” (I have, at Sundance ’05 — hated it). We hit pay dirt, I think, with Leonard Cohen. He’d just seen “Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man,” which I’d seen and at Sundance ’06, where I spok with the director, Rufus Wainwright, and The Edge.
Leonard Cohen opened a wonderful set of associations for both of us. We both liked the film (though I’d have liked more interview with Cohen himself, and less performance from his various admirers). But more importantly, we are all musicians, Leonard, Kurt, and me. And we are all writers. Cohen spends years on a single song. Kurt has spent years on a single book (“I, Tina” and “Bat Chain Puller”). Me? I write, record and release a song in a single day. And blog. So we had a brief conversation on the value of revision. “The first draft is nothing,” Kurt said. “Throw that one away.”
Somehow, then, I mentioned that Chris and I were commencing principle photography on our documentary, “Mr. Rogers & Me,” this weekend. (Have you seen my new blog on the making of the film, “Making ‘Mr. Rogers & Me”? Check it out!) It wasn’t as egregious a transition as it sounds. It flowed, I promise. But after my four-minute set up (in which I acknowledged that our day jobs, while rewarding, were neither rocket science, nor all that substantive), it was apparent to Kurt, I’m sure, just how serious and excited I am by the project. Fortunately for him (presumably), the theater went dark, the curtains opened, and “Superman Returns” began…
I am a huge fan of Warner Bros. They usually get their adaptations right (they brought us the original “Batman,” all of the “Harry Potter” films, plus “Batman Begins,” and now “Superman Returns”). Moreover, I’m a fan of Bryan Singer, who directed “The Usual Suspects” and “X-Men” before inheriting America’s most beloved and iconic superheroes. My hopes have been high for this film for well over a year. I’ve poured over various spoiler-laden blog entries, and voraciously consumed Singer’s own video blogs from the set. I pitched Warner on an in-depth Singer interview months ago, before the hype was in full swing. You get the idea: I’m not a full-fledged fan boy, but I am a fan.
“Superman Returns” is, as expected, well realized. The scenery is gorgeous, the sets are detailed, the action is major. Brandon Routh manages to play Clark Kent with a fair dose of Christopher Reeves’ bumbling affection. Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane isn’t nearly as crass as Margo Kidder’s; she play more of a Katherine Hepburn stuck in a CGI world. Kevin Spacey is a scene chewer as Lex Luthor.; you love to hate him.
It’s a good film. It’s fun. I liked it.
Not surprisingly, though, I like my spoonful of blockbuster with a dose of medicine. Not enough to taint the flavor of the film. I still want a Technicolor explosion followed by a soft-lit embrace. But I’m always grateful when a film that is fundamentally designed to get ten-year-old kids into theaters has something else a little deeper for me. “Batman Begins” nailed it. The comic book ending notwithstanding, Chris Nolan’s Black Knight plumbed the shadows of his psyche to find courage. Singer’s own “X-Men” considered alienation and culture’s exclusionary nature.
“Superman Returns,” in fact, flirts with numerous big themes: alienation, the hero in all of us, and the role of the father. But somehow, the film, and — I suspect — the hero himself, lacks real depth. He’s the Man of Steel. He’s bulletproof. Any questions?
My review remains nearly as unformed now as when Kurt asked me what I thought just a few hours ago. I think it’s difficult to meet a year’s worth of high expectations. It’s difficult to be everything to everyone. And it’s difficult to manage the 20th Century’s most epic of heros.
“I love a movie that makes the floor shake,” I told him.
“Clearly,” he deadpanned.
“But now, as I do after all major screenings, I’m going to walk all the way home, and think about it the whole way.”
Favorite Things, Volume IV
My parents signed me up for piano lessons when I was about seven-years-old.
Lessons were held at a small, Gothic conservatory on Lake Street in Oak Park, Illinois. Chris and I walked the quiet, tree-lined avenues dotted with Frank Lloyd Wright homes after school. The lobby’s white linoleum floors reflected cold, fluorescent lights. I sat in an orange plastic chair while Chris practiced, the sound of flutes, clarinets and drums ringing in my ears, before switching positions and climbing atop an old wooden bench. My music teacher was a thirtysomething woman with flowing brown hair.
I had nearly as much trouble reading musical notation as I did executing long division. I struggled through the beginner’s book (I distinctly recall performing “The Volga Boatman’s Song” at a recital), but it wasn’t taking. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was playing by ear. I would ask my music teacher to play the song, then play it back for her.
My parents typically picked Chris and I up after class. Often, if I lobbied hard enough, they would let us riffle through 45s next door at the local record shop. Week after week I asked the clerk to order me a copy of Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” And week after week he told me it was on its way (my first lesson, perhaps, in dealing with people who lack follow through).
I first heard the song on WLS-AM, Chicagoland’s top forty station. If I was home, odds are I was listening to WLS. “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” isn’t standard radio fare. The song is a fourteen-verse, mid-tempo, singer/songwriter ballad clocking in at over six minutes. Its arrangement is sparse: a lightly strummed acoustic, bass, drums, and an electric guitar somewhere between weeping and waling. The entire 6:14 is dripping in pedal steel. And it’s about the sinking of an iron-ore cargo ship in a storm on Lake Superior. The lyrics are replete with images of Indians, witches, Gods and sailors. It was a broad canvas for a seven-year-old to survey.
I grew up on the edge of lake Michigan, and my vacationed on the numerous lakes of Minnesota. And so the waters there held fascination for me. So too did storms. The great thunderstorms of the Midwest (previously chronicled on these pages) were at once exciting, and terrifying. And as any Iowa or Kansas native will tell you, the path of destruction is often wide.
It is no secret, too, that there were storms in my household. Like the fierce gales on the Great Lakes, they were unpredictable, relentless, and chaotic.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
The song came on my iPod as I was running through the ramble this morning. I typically count on more raucous fare to carry me through the miles: The Vines, The Damnwells, The Distillers. But this morning I let it play, and for a moment, striding up a stairway carved into the great granite slabs that anchor New York City to the earth, I felt a lump in my throat for just an instant as it all came crashing back, like a wave over a railing.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
It occurred to me this morning that, perhaps — at least in part — “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” became some sort of unconscious template for me. In its characterization of natural disasters (as fact and metaphor), its snapshot of the moment of impact, and its consideration of the human toll taken, the song has somehow become the blueprint for, not only how I’ve traversed my own stormy seas, and how I’ve processed those squalls, but also in the art I’ve created as a result. Just listen to “Natural Disaster” (from “Bloom”), or “Crash Site” (from “Crash Site”), or “Harder To Believe” (from “Heartland”). They are all about the moment the skies opened up, the winds wreaked havoc, and left us in the wake to pick up the pieces.
My piano lessons ended some time thereafter when my mother ascertained I was playing by ear. And I never did get the 45, but I got the song.
The Starting Point
Perhaps no film better summarizes popular culture’s dueling concept of The Weekend than the new classic, “Old School.”
The Bed, Bath & Beyond vs. Mitchapalooza Conundrum, as it’s come be to called in Academia, is revealed in this one, hilarious scene.
Frank: I told my wife I wouldn’t drink tonight. I got a big day tomorrow. You guys have a great time.
Harrison College Student: A big day? Doing what?
Frank: Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday, we’re going to go to Home Depot. Yeah, buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond, I don’t know, I don’t know if we’ll have enough time.
You know where it goes from here … “Ok, just one … Once it hits your lips, it’s so good … We’re going streaking!!!”
As a filmic representation of the emasculated, married man, Frank The Tank could be Everyman. His struggle with friendship vs. relationship, love of beer vs. lawn care is practically universal.
But I’m here to tell you, you can have it all.
I mean, listen, I wanted to go to Bed, Bath & Beyond on Saturday. I like that shit. Given unlimited resources, I’d have shoe holders in my closet. If I won the lottery, I’d have 600 thread count sheets. If my music became huge in Japan, I’d buy three mixing bowls and a colander. I would. What can I say? I’m a Virgo.
But let’s be honest: it’s not the driving range or the batting cages. The place is emasculating. What if I got caught shopping for duvet covers? A year ago, I didn’t even know what a duvet cover was! Now I need a heavy one for winter, and lightweight one for summer.
Yunno what, though? It’s just a whole different kind of fun. The best part — and I mean this — came about an hour into the excursion. Abbi said, “I’m looking for something but I’m not saying what.” After fifteen minutes following her around the kitchen wares section, I got it out of her: a juicer. “So we can take our margaritas up a level.”
This was a project I could get with 100%.
As it ends up, there are numerous juicers. Cuisenart makes one. It’s motorized, and runs about thirty bucks. There’s the traditional plastic one in which the user provides the motor. It costs four bucks. And some innovative “As Seen On TV” company makes one that looks like two ice cream scoops with holes. It runs about fifteen bucks.
Abbi and I stood there in the fluorescent glare debating the merits of each. I was advocating for the Cuisinart, despite having balked at forty-dollar pillowcases. She was lobbying for a side trip to Crate & Barrel. I had to laugh. Cuz on the surface, the venue was lame. But the dialogue was key: better booze through technology.
We ended up with the entry level juicer.
The purchase transformed our day. I brainstormed a late-afternoon lunch inspired by our juicer: grilled shrimp marinated in limejuice and ground pepper, with coconut jasmine rice. And, of course, hand-crafted margaritas (three parts Patron, two parts fresh-squeezed limes, one part Triplesec).
At this point, it’s approaching five o’clock. The sun is still blazing, baking the streets and rooftops. We’re feeling good: full bellied, and a little swimmy in the head. But as much as we’d like to sit on the couch in the AC, we’ve got another late-afternoon engagement: Chris Abad‘s CD release.
You know Chris. He’s the former front man of Dough, current singer/songwriter, and sometimes lead guitar in my band who contributed tracks to both “Love & Other Indoor Games” and “Heartland.” Talented guy. Writes great songs. Has a great voice. And he’s a heckuva guitar player. I can whistle a guitar solo to him, and he’ll nail it in one pass. Kind of infuriating (yunno, in a good way) for a hack like me. Anyway, Chris was celebrating the release of his new CD, “The Starting Point,” with a show at Rockwood, followed by an after party at White Rabbit. The show was at five. The after party started at seven. I mean, people, the sun doesn’t even set until nine o’clock these days! And we’ve already got margaritas in us!
Chris’ show was outstanding. Tony and Walker backed him up, and — because they’ve been performing together for years — were in complete synch. The three of them perform with me at most of my shows, which makes me a pretty lucky musician. At one point, I turned to Abbi and said, “Check those guys out! I’m in a band with those guys!”
Ok, so I was a little buzzed.
And the sun hadn’t even set.
I’m not quite sure what happened next. I don’t think a beer bong was involved, but it might as well have been. I remember laughing, and yelling over music, and taking lots of photos. And I remember the cab ride home from the Lower East Side. My head was in Abbi’s lap, my feet were dangling out the window, and I was smiling.
Maybe those concepts aren’t so mutually exclusive after all.
Summer Friday
My boss insisted I take the day off.
I think his prime motivator was when I told him I’d punched a wall following a phone call with one of my, um, thicker colleagues.
“You’re the happiest guy in the building, Ben. If you’re stressed out, I know we’re in trouble.”
So I took today off.
“Do your laundry,” he said. “Baby-sit your nephew. Whatever.”
My list — scribbled on a Post-It Note in my wallet — was short:
1) Ride bike
2) Do laundry
3) Repair shoes
4) Buy blinds
Strike one: woke up hung with a hang over. A few of my closest girl (comma) friends joined Abbi and me on the roof for turkey burgers and beer. Lots of beer. So I woke up with one of those real soul killers right at the base of my skull.
So I pulled on my biking shorts, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. I rode up and over the GWB, then headed home for some well-needed coffee. Which is where I dead-ended.
Here’s the scene. It’s around eleven o’clock. I’m sitting on the deck. Coffee’s gone. I put down Esquire, and pick up my guitar. And I start strumming. And everything sounds the same. In fact, I started strumming a chord progression I’ve been fiddling for the last fifteen years or so. But for some reason, it sounds kinda cool and new. And for some reason, a new melody pops into my head. So I figure, ‘What the heck, at least I’ll record a rough draft.’
Seven hours later, I’m mixing down “Here She Comes” just as Abbi walks in from work. And I play it for her — all twenty-four tracks — and start dacing around my bedroom, half laughing, and half conducting. And it occurs to me that, even though I spent my day off inside in front of a computer, and even though my shoes still need new heels, and my clothes are still dirty, and my neighbors can still see my every move, today was just what I needed.
Oh, and the headache’s gone.
Here She Comes – MP3
Phew.
For a minute there, I wasn’t sure I’d ever write a new song again.
Well, I guess I just needed some free time. And I got some today. I had the day off. So I picked up my guitar. And while the chords I was playing weren’t exactly innovative, they sounded new enough. So I recorded ‘em. I was so sure it was nothing, I didn’t even close the windows. (Listen closely and you’ll hear traffic and construction.)
But then I got into it, and I started adding every instrument in my apartment: snare, shaker, maraca, keyboards, harmonica. Next thing I know, the sun is going down, and I got me a live one. Check it out.
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Better
I caught a story on the local news as I pulled on my running shoes this morning about a mother of two from Staten Island who died when her minivan rolled off a cliff at a state park.
That story was followed by one about a Brooklyn livery cab driver was killed in when his car was struck by a flasher who was evading police.
It reminded me of a scene from my languishing screenplay, “Mo’ Hart,” which is ripped from the pages of my own life. In it, Mo’ has lost everything: his band, his guitar, his girlfriend. He just been beaten up and robbed. (It’s the end of the second act; that’s what happens: the protagonist looses everything.)
EXT – RIVER FRONT – NIGHT
Morrison limps toward river, stands at river’s edge, smokes a cigarette, and stares at lights of New Jersey. Throws cigarette into river. Throws remains of shattered guitar into river. Climbs railing, looks down into river, and considers throwing himself into river. Pauses, looks up, and climbs back over railing. Reaches into shoe where he’s stashed a ten dollar bill. Walks toward street and hails a cab.
INT – CAB – NIGHT
CAB DRIVER
Where to sir?
MORRISON
Um… 8th and Second
MORRISON stares out window at city passing, contemplative, beaten. Radio is barely audible in front…
RADIO
1010 WINS News time, 11:11. Now traffic and transit on the ones…
CAB DRIVER
Did you hear? On radio?
MORRISON
No, I didn’t. What’s the story?
CAB DRIVER
Father in Bronx. He pull in driveway, big sport truck. Home from work. Little daughter see him, maybe thing, ‘Daddy is home!’ You know, excited, and run to truck. But he not see her. And he run her over. (Snaps his fingers) She dead.
Morrison slips his head between his hands, wipes his forehead. Driver looks back in mirror.
MORRISON
That’s terrible.
CAB DRIVER
Yes sir, life short. End like that.
Cab falls silent. MORRISON looks out window, considering whether to drop the point. Looks up at driver’s badge, and addresses him by name.
MORRISON
You have kids, Avtar?
CAB DRIVER
Yes sir. Little boy. Thirteen months.
MORRISON
Little guy, huh?
CAB DRIVER
Yes sir, very little. But he grow very fast.
CAB DRIVER and MORRISON make eye contact in mirror.
MORRISON
Is he talking yet?
CAB DRIVER
Yes sir, little bit. Mostly ‘Goo goo, gaa gaa.’ I do not understand. But i smile at him, he smile at me.
MORRISON
You’re a lucky man.
CAB DRIVER
Yes sir. I work very long, but go home, see Govinda, see my baby. I know I am lucky man. You? You marry? Have baby?
MORRISON
Not yet. Some day.
CAB DRIVER
You will be lucky man then too.
CAB DRIVER and MORRISON make eye contact in mirror.
MORRISON
I hope so.
Cab pulls over.
CAB DRIVER
8th and Second.
Meter reads $5.75. Morrison hands Avtar $10, and steps out.
MORRISON
Thanks, Avtar. I appreciate it.
CAB DRIVER
Thank you sir. (He reaches through divider and shakes hand.) Good luck for you.
So, like Morrison, it got me thinking. When the chips are down, what are the things for which I’m really grateful? So I came up with this brief list as I ran along the Hudson River.
The Sky: Constantly changing, constantly amazing. Maybe its because I’m from Iowa, where the sky goes on forever. Maybe it’s because there are only slivers of sky in New York. Whatever. I must have two hundred photographs of it from my deck.
Music: Right now it’s The Flaming Lips’ “Fight Test” (“I don’t know where the sunbeams end
/ And the starlight begins / It’s all a mystery / And I don’t know how a man decides / What’s right for his own life / It’s all a mystery”), but on any given moment, it could be Willie Nelson, Keane, or…
Aimee Mann: Doesn’t matter who, what, when, or where, I wish I could write like her. “There comes a time when you swim or sink / So I jumped in the drink / Cuz I couldn’t make myself clear” That’s just crazy good.
My Deck: Like having a yard and a planetarium and a restaurant, all rolled into on. Love it.
Running: Listen, I don’t always like running. And frankly, my legs hurt all day every day. Mr. Rogers ran most every day of his life. And I read something in my friend Amy Hollingsworth’s book, “The Simple Faith of Mr. Rogers,” that helped me understand him, and exercise, better. He said that when he felt angry, he just swam a little bit harder, and that made him feel better.
Ethan, obvs.
Pearls of wisdom and perspective come from the oddest places. On CBS Sunday Morning on, well, Sunday morning (best morning ever: coffee, New York Times and Charles Osgood), Russ Mitchell interviewed Billy Joel. (You should know that Chris and I used to lock ourselves into the garage with tennis rackets and lip synch “Glass Houses” and “52d Street.) He’s fresh off a thirteen-night, sold out stand at Madison Square Garden, and is releasing a live recording culled from those performances. So Russ and Bill were hanging out on Long Island and in the last line of the segment (the “kicker,” as they say), Billy says, “Yunno, people have it all wrong. Everybody wants to be happy. But I think it’s all about contentment. And I look around at my life, and I’m content. And that’s better than happy.”
