Sweetness
Chris sat in the deep cushioned lime green and silver armchair like a teenage king on an outsized thrown.
He’d already tugged his brand-new official Chicago Bears #34 jersey over his brown-striped, long sleeve polo. Partnered with his knee-patched Toughskin, constituted an envied look by the adolescent court scattered about the living room.
Sean Wells sat perched on the arm of Chris’ chair, grinning through his chipped tooth, the result of a recent disagreement with his Huffy on the stopping power of the Forest Avenue curb.
Joe Champelli sat just a few feet off to Chris’ right. His right hand rested just inches from Chris’ blue suede Keds. Mine, I noted, were plain white.
Eric Caldwell, exhausted from a recent, all-night Dungeons & Dragons bender, lay almost horizontal on the brown plush carpeting. He stared at the beige ceiling as if Gandalf himself might soon descend with cupcakes and hit points for all.
Chris’ thick plastic glasses slid down his nose as he reached for his last gift, a box nearly half is size. His bangs fell over his blue eyes radiant with excitement.
My mother stood on the edge of the living room, brushing her frosted pageboy from her face. Her plaid polyester dress contrasted sharply with the short, orange apron tied around her waist. She smiled, one ear on the excited chatter of growing boys, the other on the coarse screech of the kitchen timer that would signal desert.
My father stood an arm’s length away from her, stoic and unwavering above us all. His thick mustache sat on his lip like a sleepy caterpillar. The picture window over his shoulder framed another Chicago winter afternoon, the kind where the flat gray sky constantly threatens a snowy white-out.
Chris tore the wrapping paper methodically. Sean punched his shoulder, giddy with anticipation, and told him to hurry. Joe laughed. I sat at his feet, looking with wide, admiring eyes at my big brother: the teenager.
His eyes grew wide as the paper fell away. He opened the lid, mouthing a slow, emphatic “Wow!” as he pulled an Official NFL Chicago Bears Football Mini-Helmet Style Table Lamp from its cardboard confines. Sean, Joe, Eric and I gasped in unison, paused, then squealed, “Cool!”
“Let’s plug it in!” he said.
My mother scurried for a light bulb. Chris pulled the plastic from the shade, and unraveled the cord. My father stepped into the fray and began exhuming the discarded detritus of the day: boxes, ribbons, colored paper and bubble wrap. My mother returned, and handed Chris a fresh 60-watt light bulb. He screwed it carefully into the base, snapped the shade in place, plugged it in, and turned the switch.
We sat there a minute, all six of us silently basking in the warm, incandescent light. The buzzer sounded. Dusk was falling on Chicagoland as we rushed off to the dining room for cake.
Right Around Christmas Time
In the off season (that is, when we weren’t playing whiffle ball), Chris and I used to lock ourselves inside the garage with our neighbors, Sean and Dusty, and lip synch Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses” strumming tennis racket as if they were guitars.
The irony, of course, is that there are no guitars on “Glass Houses,” but that really wasn’t the point anyway.
Point is, I got call from an old friend. We used to be real close. Well, real close might be a stretch. We traveled in the same circles backin high school. So anyway, my buddy — let’s call him Jimmy Bonus — was in town on business last night. So we met at a local pub for burgers and beers.
First thing out of his mouth (after general hand shake/man hug salutations): “Dude! You’re blog! You’re life is so public!”
We talked a mile a minute, torqued by the passage of time and the buzz of the bar patrons. He asked me how I like married life (”I LOVE it!”), and showed my photos of his daughters. After a few minutes, as we settled into our second pints, he mentioned the blog again.
“If anything’s apparent from what you write, it’s how profoundly that divorce affected you.”
Which was really interesting to hear. Not terribly surprising, but interesting. And thematically relevent, as just last night I told Abbi that I continue to find myself amazed at the apparent duration of time it takes for the psychological statute of limitations to expire on the ramifications of things like, say, one’s parent’s divorce or being beaten up to the point of hospital admission as a seventeen-year-old.
I turned thirty-six two months ago, so as far as I’m concerned,I’ve rounded the bend towards forty-years-old. If forty isn’t “grown up,” I don’t know what is.
Now, I don’t spend an inordinate of time worrying about, say, some dude randomly popping me in the jaw and breaking it in two places. But the hair on the back of my neck stands up when I’m in a room full of boneheaded, burly dudes (which, yes, I usually avoid).
And I certainly don’t spend a lot of time thinking, “Woe is me andmy terribly difficult childhood.” Mine wasn’t unique, and it certainly wasn’t terrible. There was a fairly major earthquake that split my ten-year-old world in half, but — tremors and aftershocks notwithstanding — all was well — pretty awesome, actually: green grass, mountains, lakes, sun and sky — on either side. Moreover, I’ve done a fair amount of work to settle those aftershocks (to wring the life out of that metaphore).
So there I was waving Jimmy Bonus into the blustery, late-November night, then pointing myself towards home. I walked west on one of my favorite blocks in Midtown, 54th between Eighth and Ninth. It’s a little shabby now, but this time of year — with white lights draped from a low canopy of trees — it’s pretty damned cheery.
And I thought about the holiday season, and how complicated it is to meet everyone’s needs. I thought about that depressing song I wrote like, six years ago (”Christmas 1980″) and how, um, depressing it is. And I thought about my little “A Family Holiday” benefit album (did I mention it’s now available for download from iTunes?) and how Flying Machine’s song “Right Around Christmas”) is kinda’ like “Christmas 1980″ but a thousand times more catchy and compelling. And that it’s all — in some small unconscious (now conscious) way a means of making peace with the season.
I looked up at the tiny white lights, smiled, buried my face in my collar, braced against the wind, hastened my step and hurried home tomy wife.
A Family Holiday
I’m hoping it’s fairly apparent to you what I’ve been up to all weekend.
With the exception of a few good runs, a few bad movies (yes, we sat through “Hot Rod”), and a whole bunch of reading (Vanity Fair, New Yorker, New York Times, Rolling Stone and “The Looming Tower: Al-Queda And The Road To 9/11″), the bulk of my weekend was spent working on A Family Holiday benefit.
First, I built the MySpace page, adding five of the fourteen songs on the album, plus photos of all of the singer/songwriters and bands involved. Then I pimped it out in custom woodgrain and a big, honkin’ graphic promoting the big CD release show (December 5th at The Delancey!)
Next I corresponded with my pal Jen Snow from 826NYC about speaking on behalf of the organization at the show, and bringing an item or two for the big charity raffle.
Then I drafted a press release which underwent some eight revisions as…
Family Records head (and my pal) Wes Verhoeve and I emailed back and forth and back and forth. By my count, I sent him eighty-six emails in just seventy-two hours.
Meantime I was working with the good folks at CDBaby to get the album online and — cross your fingers! — onto iTunes in time.
And I emailed all eighteen performers, DJs and organizers about the gig, the raffle, who’s playin’ when, how to promote it, and all that good stuff.
Oh, and whenever I wasn’t doing anything else, I was obsessively adding friends to the MySpace page while constantly updating Abbi on the project’s progress.
“We just sold fifteen!”
“We’re up to 58 friends!”
“We just passed 500 views!”
Bottom line is that this whole Mister Rogers thing has led me back to what I think I’ve always known, which is that change begins with individual action, and grows through community contribution. I hope we’re doing something deep and simple here with the primary skills I have: recording and releasing records, and organizing and motivating people.
I hope you feel the same way, and will pre-order some copies or download some mp3s now, or wait ’til next week and come to the show, order from CDBaby, or download on iTunes. Whatever you can do.
But enough of my yackin’. Here’s the press release.
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Comprised of thirteen tracks from some of New York City’s finest emerging artists plus their collective cover of “Do They Know It’s Christmas,” “A Family Holiday” is a seasonal charity compilation spanning the sacred (Tarrah Reynolds’ “What Child Is This”) to the profane (Seth Kallen’s “Dreidel 2.0″).The CD’s Release is set for December 5, 2007, and will be marked by a party at The Delancey in New York City. In addition to performances from Wakey!Wakey!, Jeff Jacobson, Flying Machines, Wynn Walent, El Jezel, and others, the benefit will feature DJ sets from Hot Rocks’ Jenny Piston and Underrated Magazine’s Rachael Darmanin, plus a charity raffle, and copious drink specials.
Liberated Matter & Hot Rocks Presents: A Family Holiday Benefit
Wednesday December 5th 8-12pm @ The Delancey
168 Delancey Street New York, NY (212) 254 - 9920
All proceeds from “A Family Holiday” will be donated to 826NYC, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 6-18 with their creative and expository writing skills, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write.
“A Family Holiday” participants first gathered at Travis Harrison’s Serious Business Studios in Soho, spending a long, sweaty October weekend together recording their cover of the 1984 Band Aid classic. They were then tasked with covering a favorite holiday tune, or writing a new one. The results are decidedly different, and surprising.
The Undisputed Heavyweights deliver a sparsely arranged, acoustic version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” featuring soulful chanteuse Jamie Leonhart, while Jeff Jacobson gives “Frosty The Snowman” a minor chord makeover.
More surprising, though, is the breadth and depth of the brand-new songs. Flying Machines craft a mini-epic with their muscular, propulsive “Right Around Christmas Time.” And Queens indie rockers El Jezel capture the very real, very lame experience of “Working On Christmas.”
The complete “A Family Holiday” track listing:
1. Family Holiday Singers - Do They Know It’s Christmas
2. Casey Shea - My Holiday Song
3. Flying Machines - Right Around Christmas
4. Misty Boyce - The River
5. Jeff Jacobson - Frosty The Snowman
6. Wakey!Wakey! - LGA (Live)
7. Benjamin Wagner - Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)
8. Tarrah Reynolds - What Child Is This
9. The Undisputed Heavyweights (featuring Jamie Leonhart) - Baby, It’s Cold Outside
10. Chris Abad - Feliz Navidad
11. El Jezel - Working on Christmas
12. Seth Kallen - Dreidel 2.0
13. Wynn Walent - Little Drummer Boy
14. Kailin Garrity - Silent Night
The “Family Holiday” project was conceived by singer/songwriter Benjamin Wagner who enlisted the support of Family Records head Wes Verhoeve and Hot Rocks’ Jenny Piston. “A Family Holiday” endeavors to give back to the community from which the participating artists were born.
Family Records, a division of Liberated Matter, is a New York City-based record label focusing on the long-term development of quality artists and the community around them. The label is home to The Undisputed Heavyweights, Jukebox The Ghost, Wakey!Wakey!, Casey Shea, Jeff Jacobson, and more.
Hot Rocks is a dance party at The Delancey featuring live sets from New York City’s most kinetic, plus DJ sets featuring dance hits of the 1950/60s. The monthly event was founded and is hosted by Jenny Piston.
For more information please visit www.myspace.com/afamilyholidaybenefit and www.thefamilyrecords.com.
So please pick up a few (they make great gifts!), and spread the word!
It’s a good thing.
And it’s for the kids.
Black Friday
Come Christmas time, my family typically wagers its best gift giving guesses. It’s a less presumptuous and more spontaneous approach, but has a tendency to backfire (like when I find brown leather slippers or plaid flannel boxer shorts under the tree).
The Kellers, however, view gift giving a bit differently. The make lists. Less surprises? Maybe that’s a good thing. To that end, Abbi’s been asking me to put togther mine for weeks. Who doesn’t like to answer the question, “What do you want?”
In the spirit of the times, and as a public service to friends, family, and strangers alike, then, I thought I might circulate it more widely in an effort to ease the annual holiday quadgmire. Here, then, are some option for spreading holiday cheer in my direction, should you be interested in doing so.
The following items are already conveniently aggregated via my amazon.com wish list:
- Movado Viro watch
- U2 The Joshua Tree Remastered CD/DVD
- The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland
- Slam by Nick Hornby
- 1G iPod Shuffle (3d gen)
- Fred Rogers - America’s Favorite Neighbor DVD
- Thorlo rolltop running socks
- Garmin Forerunner 305 Wrist-Mounted GPS watch
Also:
- Blue, slim fit, button-down oxford (L / 16.5×35)
- Black JCrew cashmere hoodie (L)
- Navy JCrew merino full-zip sweater (L)
- Navy, deep plum or heather cocoa JCrew merino v-neck sweaters (L)
- Plane tickets to Dublin, Ireland (to see U2)
- Plane tickets Los Roques, Venezuela (to scuba dive)
- Donald Rumsfeld’s public apology for his role in actively escalating while verbally minimizing the Iraq War
Happy Holidays!
Boys & Girls In America
I’m sure of it: I’m the last dude in New York City to hear The Hold Steady.
Wednesday night’s Terminal 5 show — the conclusion of band’s sixteen-month Boys & Girls In America Tour — was packed with dudes: Budweiser chugging, hip flask tugging, tobacco chewing, weed smoking, fist pumping, frat boy, douche bags.
Or maybe that just describes the dude in front of me who I alternately wished great longevity for his rabid appreciation of the band and grave injury for his boneheaded, personal space-oblivious pogoing.
Not that I blame The Hold Steady. The Brooklyn-via-Minneapolis quintet’s raucous brand of indie bar rock seems tailor made for oblivious pogoing.
Guitarist Tad Kubler (who looks like a bloated Anthony Rapp) and rhythm section Bobby Drake (drums) and Galen Polivka (bass) are an agile trio. Kubler’s smart, sustained, chunky bar chords ably anchor the band’s sound: something akin to The Who meeting AC/DC filtered through The Replacements on an on night.
Front man Craig Finn looks a little like a younger, fitter Stuart Pankin, though his affect owes as much to Bruce Springsteen and Mike Ness. He prances and staggers around the stage, gesturing quizzically to the crowd, seeking response, and stabbing at his Gibson primarily, it seems for emphasis between long, wordy, almost spoken-word screeds on love, sex, and booze.
Keyboardist Franz Nicolay, though, is the band’s secret weapon. In addition to supplying a rich, propulsive, E Street Band layer to the songs, he’s a hoot to watch. In his black slacks, dress shirt and vest, Rawley Fingers mustache and fisherman’s cap, he looks like the lost love child of Charlie Chaplain and Zorba the Greek.
The band charged quickly into their set, chugging through hits “Hot Soft Light,” “Stuck Between Station,” and “Chips Ahoy” confidently before slowing down a bit with new tunes (which, thanks to our uber-information age, and judging by the sing-a-long choruses, were not new to many) “Stay Positive” and “Ask Her For Some Adderall.”
Finn’s lyrics are full of “He saids” and “She saids,” and apparently fixated on “drinking some more” and “getting high,” but somehow his song cycle still feels like a portrait or even some kind of mini rock epic about, well, boys and girls in America. Taken as a whole, the band’s oeuvre reads like a thesis: boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.
“She was golden with barlight and beer.”
“She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.”
“If you get tired of the music he likes there’s always other boys.”
On this, the last night of the tour (and the night before Thanksgiving), the band looked to be relishing the end of a long, celebrated road. Finn stood center stage, grinning ear to air, tapping his beating heart with a clenched fist.
Neither the boomy, gymnasium-like sound nor the 6′ 4″, goateed whirling dirvish who obstructed my sightline no matter where I stood seemed to matter. As Finn says (apparently every night), “There is so much joy in what we do up here.”
Which explains, perhaps, why the boys to girls ratio was at least 10:1. All postures and blank glances, dudes (in general) lack in the joy demonstration department. Finn and Company, however, specialize in the stuff.
The band encored triumphantly, swigging and swaying through “First Night,” “South Town Girls,” and “Killer Parties.” And while the former sadly lacked the much-ballyhooed audience-on-stage finale, Eddie Argos and Ian Catskilkin of openers Art Brut made fine proxies for the rest of us.
Truckin’
Ask anyone. I’m not a huge fan of The Grateful Dead.
At the moment, though — traveling seventy miles-per-hour on the Pennsylvania Turnpike some 37 miles west of Harrisburg — “Truckin’” is kinda’ doin’ it for me.
Earlier, I remarked to my brother — who is a huge Deadhead, so huge that the only CDs he brought on this trip are The Dead — that, while Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir can clearly sing, there’s something grating about their voices. And I’m not about to retract that.
But cruising through the Allegheny Mountains in the dark after a long weekend of standing in the cold looking through a camera’s viewfinder, eating sporadically and sleeping even more so, Jerry and Bob’s well-worn, time-tested harmonies seem just about right.
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Sometimes the lights all shinin’ on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it’s occurred to me
What a long strange trip it’s been
I remain surprised and amazed at the journey that Mister Rogers (inadvertently) began by (inadvertently, presumably) initiating this “Mister Rogers & Me” project.This morning found Chris and I wandering the Children’s Museum of Pittsburgh with its Marketing Director, Bill Schlageter.
The Museum has been home to “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” exhibit since 1998. Developed in partnership with FCI, it replicates the show’s set — it’s all there: King Friday’s castle, X the Owl’s tree — but in a hands-on way. Kids can be on or behind the camera, drive trolley, put on their own puppet show, or play Mister Rogers’ piano.
Picture Picture’s there too. We watched a video on the making of the exhibit narrated by David Newell. There was Mister Rogers wearing an overcoat and glasses, standing next to Bill Isler and smiling.
Mister Rogers’ spirit was everywhere. And smiling.
Still — and I’ve felt this way numerous times throughout the making of this film — his absence was palpable too.
Click here to read the rest of this post on my other blog, “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” …
Black & Gold
My brother is a quote machine.
“I haven’t had a three dollar beers since college!”
After last night’s $6 room service Iron City bottles, I understand and appreciate his enthusiasm. We’re at Doubleday’s on Sixth Street in downtown Pittsburgh, our third bar of the night. Every one of ‘em have been absolutely throbbing with Steeler fans.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Our first stop on day two of shooting our doc, “Mister Rogers & Me” (you can read all about Chris and my shoot at “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’”) was called Sports Rock. In thirty-six years of enjoying beers, wings, and large televisions, I’ve never seen anything like it. It was packed to the rafter with Steelers fans, all shamelessly resplendite in black and gold. When the Steelers scored, strobe lights flashed, that stupid stadium anthem “Duh duh-duh duh HEY! Duh Duh…”) blared through a shoddy PA, and the mechanical bull began bouncing.
Were he on his seventh beer, I might understand his potential illness. But he was on his first. See, unlike New York City (and, I thought, the rest of the world), people can smoke in bars in Pittsburgh. And they do, like, non-stop. So we left.
Our second stop was the world-famous sandwhich shop, Primanti’s. We sadled up to the counter, ordered a few Iron Cities, and a sausage and cheese sandwhich which came just moments later piled high with cole slaw, french fries, and tomatoes.
Delicious.
Back at Doubleday’s, and Chri nods towards the bartender. Six four, two-fifty, and bald, his biceps are the size of my quads.
“Dude,” Chris says, “He’s definately juicin’.”
The Steelers lose in OT, and we head back to the hotel.
Of course, our work in Pittsburgh was far more substantial than our night out in The Strip. But after thirty-six hours of shooting, a few beers and a little TV is a welcome respite. Likewise sleep, which is just moments away…
Spectral Morning
My eyes were half-closed and choked with sleep this morning as I stepped into the darkened bathroom.
The backyard was framed by the window pane, it’s slender birch trees pale white against the bruised purple sky. They stood like hungry ghosts against the waning night sky, their shoulders wrapped in a veil of pink and orange clouds.
* * *
A cold drizzle fell on the windshield as Pedro turned the rental onto Route 202.
“I grew up about twenty miles north of here,” I said. “I passed this way en route to The Shore a hundred time.”
Nearly twenty years later, I was following my wife, her sisters and parents to the Chandler Funeral Home to bid farewell to their matriarch.
Funerals are an oddly beautul combination sadness and joy. While the loss is palpable and deflating, remembrances are at once touching, inspiring, and brushed with the bright patina of levity.
I was happy to be there with my wife.
As I sat reflecting, so moved by the grandchildren’s contributions to the service — poems, prayers and stories — I was struck by the feeling that this is humanity at its best.
We are made to love: to find the best in each other, to connect and relate with empathy, understanding and care. And in moments like these, I thought, we do.
How, then, do we find ourselves so divided, disconnected, and discontented? How, then, do we find ourselves with situations like Darfur, Iraq or Afghanistan? How, then, do we find ourselves drowned in a pop culture din of sound and fury signifying nothing?
As I grow up in fits and starts, there are moments of clarity. As I grow older, taking two steps back for every three forward, there are instances when I think I know why we’re here.
Ethan’s birth was one.
Yesterday was another.
We are made to persist.
Moment to moment, year to year, generation to generation, we are on this earth to create a legacy of joy, wonder, and grace.
Then we pass it on.
Rockwood Music Hall (New York, New York)
Giving Up The Ghost
Harder To Believe
Breathe In
Dyer Avenue
Every Minute
Long Way Down
Wonderwall
With Chris Abad
Across The Road From Hope
How quickly things change.
Abbi called me Friday night to tell me her flight from Monteray, Mexico, had landed just as my train to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, pulled out of Penn Station.
As I was queueing for a cab at 30th Street Station, she called to informed me that her granmother was in the hospital.
Moments after Jason, Mike and I finished dinner, she called to tell me her grandmother had passed away. Mary Burton Dick was ninetyone-years-old.
I caught an eleven o’clock train back to New York.
I met Mom Mom last spring at Delaware Raceway where she was holding court with a fistful of wager tickets high above the bleachers. Her smile was wide and constant. Her eyes sparkled. We got along immediately. I dare say she was flirting with me, and I’m pretty sure Abbi would agree.
I won’t try to begin to characterize Mrs. Dick, or her life. I only know how much she means to my wife, and her family, and how warm and wonderful, warm, and present she was to Abbi and me through our engagement.
Tomorrow night, Chris, Tony, Ran and I are performing at Rockwood Music Hall.
Thursday morning, Abbi and I are driving to Wilmington.
Friday morning, I take the train back to New York.
Saturday morning, Christofer and I are driving to Pittsburgh to work on “Mister Rogers & Me.”
