A Matter Of Burgers
Once again, The Dead Poet has provided another dose of crazy serendipity. I’m beginning to think the place is some sort of Twilight Zone or Time/Space Portal. Let me set the scene.
Abbi and I have just stepped out of Chris and Jen’s Upper West Side apartment following a five hour babysitting stint. As adorable and genius as these little boys are, they’re also little boys: mischievous, relentlessly energetic and adorably conniving. Abbi managed them effortlessly. I found myself straight-faced more than once.
By 10:30, then, I was tired, irritable, and hungry. Being just two blocks from my favorite, non-descript New York bar, the wife and I slowly and almost reluctantly agreed to split a burger and a pint.
Sadly, the kitchen was closed. So we made an about face, and headed home (where I had a lackluster turkey sandwich and a Harp). This morning, I received the following email.
Sent: Mon, 31 Mar 2008 12:05 am
Subject: A matter of burgersT: That couple that just came in…the guy who asked for a burger…
J: The one with the cello?
T: I’m pretty sure it was a guitar.
J: Are you sure? It looked huge.
T: I’m pretty sure it was a guitar. Anyway, his name is Benjamin Wagner. He’s, in a small way, one of the reasons I’m in New York.
J: So you know him? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in here before.
T: Well, I don’t know him. I’ve never actually met him. We’ve traded a couple emails. A few years ago when I was in Oklahoma I emailed him about possible jobs in New York. He’s a VP at MTV. MTV News, I think. Anyway, I asked him if he had any jobs at MTV for writers…that’s what I do..I’m a writer. He didn’t have any at that time, but encouraged me to take the leap…move from Oklahoma to New York. “There are always jobs in New York,” he told me. A year or two after that I took his advice, quit my job at the state’s biggest newspaper - where I had a coveted beat - sold everything I owned and moved to New York.
J: How did you know it was him?
T: His blog. I still read it. I recognized him and his new bride. Silly, small world, huh?
J: Yeah, man. Small world. Another, Brooklyn?
T: Sure, I guess. There are only a few hours left in the weekend. Might as well enjoy it while I can… You know, it’s funny, that I recognized him. Really, such a small world. I wanted to say hi, maybe buy him a beer and say thanks, but I was on the phone when he came in and next thing I knew he was gone.
J: Yep. Small world. Here’s your Brooklyn.
T: Thanks.
I sent T and note and told him that I’d meet him there for a pint — and a burger — anytime.
Will Commute For Food Fun
My friend, Tricia Martin, sent an email on Friday with this blurb from The Des Moines Register:
“Are you planning to compete in the June 22 Hy-Vee Triathlon in Des Moines? Are you willing to blog about your training experiences?”
“The Register has 10 entries to give away, and we are looking for a cross-section of Iowans to share their experiences with our readers.”
I just hit send on the following.
Dear My Des Moines Register Friends:
I’d LOVE to come home to Iowa to compete, and blog all about it! Here are my vitals:
Name: Benjamin Wagner
Hometown: New York City (via Iowa City, IA)
Age: 36Experience: This November will mark my ninth New York CIty Marathon. I’ve competed in six New York CIty Triathlons, plus numerous other sprint and olympic distance tris in California, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. Overall, I’ve competed in roughly 250 scored races in the last ten years — not to mention three RAGBRAIs.
Synopsis: I am a media executive (VP MTV News), singer/songwriter (www.benjaminwagner.com) and documentary filmmaker (”Mister Rogers & Me”). I was born in Iowa City, Iowa, in 1971. My family moved a month later, then five more times before my eighteenth birthday. With grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins in Waterloo and Cedar Rapids, though, Iowa has remained my sole geographic and existential home.
Moreover, I have found a deeper sense of the word in Des Moines the last few years. The Nadas’ front man, Jason Walsmith, and I met at the 2005 Sundance Film Festival and found immediate rapport in each other’s values and interests. Later that year, I recorded my sixth LP, “Heartland,” with The Nadas, released it on the band’s Authentic Records imprint, and toured with them for three weeks. I performed at Nada Silent Night III, at least year’s DSM Arts Festival (which I plan to attend again), and just three weeks ago at the band’s “Ghosts Inside These Halls” CD release. In fact, I’ve spent more time in Iowa in the last five years than the previous twenty combined, and I’m glad; I always feel warm, welcome, relaxed and inspired.
Atheltically, I’m — reluctantly — a “weekend warrior.” Accordingly, my goal for the Hi-Vee Triathlon is a modest 2:40:00. That said, I’m working up plans with my pals in The Nadas and at Authentic Records to fundraise around the event, and host a party/performance afterwards.
I am an avid writer who currently maintains two blogs: www.benjaminwagner.com and mrrogersandme.blogspot.com. It would be my pleasure and honor to contribute to The Register (where, if my father had his druthers, I’d be working instead of MTV News). I’m certain that the tales of this Iowan in New York training up and returning to Iowa would constitute a solid contribution to your effort.
I’m looking forward to hearing from and joining you soon in Des Moines!
Most Sincerely,
Benjamin Wagner
It could be that they only want current Iowa residents. Or it could be that they see the potential of my story. We’ll see. Sure would be fun, huh?
Stay tuned…
She’s So Heavy
“Do you know what the capital of Djibouti is? Djibouti.”
It seemed funny at the time. I think it might have even warranted a knee slap. Which is often the case when you’re three beers in at Rockwood Music Hall. Back home in Hell’s Kitchen watching Frontline, though, I’m not entirely sure what I found so funny.
Lemme back up and set the scene.
Chris and I met at the 42d Street F station at 6:34. I was four minutes late. I felt like I’d been shot out of a gun, jumping off of two phone calls (”I have to run to a rock show!” I said), racing to the elevator, then diving into the swirling, dizzying chaos of Times Square.
Chris and I were en route to our pal, Dave Pittenger’s 7pm performance. Drummer Ryan Vaughn (who typically accompanies both Chris and me) and Undisputed Heavyweight bassist John Price were backing Mr. Pittinger.
Fast forward. Show’s over. Pitt’s done well, rockin’ his Rhodes and his Fender in equal turns. Josh Dion, Tony Maceli, Brian Killeen, Ryan, Dave, Chris and I are standing around in a circle cracking bad jokes. Enter the Djibouti punchline.
Here’s the thing, though.
I look around Rockwood Music Hall and think, ‘Where was this place when I was twenty-five?’
I take a slug of my Brooklyn Lager and think, ‘Where were these people when I was twenty-five?’
See — and I know I’ve kind of said this before — Rockwood is a rare and wonderful phenomena. It’s like a singer/songwriter clubhouse. The place is teaming with ‘em. Guitarists, bassists, and drummers too. And most of ‘em are damn good.
Moreover, though, it’s got a mutual appreciation vibe that I haven’t felt since college (if then).
All credit goes to Rockwood founder (the Professor half of the urban-folk duo, Professor & Maryanne) and his entertainment director, Tommy Merrill. They’ve created and cultivated an environment of that is as warm and enthusiastic as they are.
“Warm and enthusiastic” is not phrases I’d have used about anyone or anywhere when I was just starting out here in 1996. The Lower East Side was still just seedy bodegas and gated store fronts. The only venues then were Mercury Lounge and the then-fledgling Arlene Grocery, neither of which exhibited either warmth or enthusiasm.
And so, as always, there’s a sense of loss in being there, a shade of what might have been. Conversely, or additionally, there are the deep reds and blues of what is; I’m just a bit player there. But, as Ryan said, “You guys are like my family.”
Rain’s begun falling on the city as Chris and I share a cab home. We’re talking about songs and records and such. We’ve talked about working together, but he’s working on a rennaisance or reinvention of his own; I don’t want to thwart his progress. Still, he says, “If you wanna’ so some sort of ‘Last, Great Record,’ we’re with you.”
There’s a part of me that wants to be recording right this very second, despite numerous other previoius commitments and half-finished projects. I have this great collection of new songs all written since “Heartland” that sound and feel unlike anything I’ve done before. I’m just gettin’ good at this, just as the music business is collapsing, the DIY music business is expanding, and my other career is pretty much blowing up.
It’s all timing, and mine is roughly ten years too late.
But no hurry, right? I mean, right?
We talk all the way to 55th Street, where I jump out on the east side of the street.
“Thanks, Chris,” I say. “You’re a good friend.”
I close the door. The cab speeds off. I cross Tenth Avenue in the rain.
Clean Up In Aisle Five
I find the psychodemographics of grocery shopping kind of amusing, and maybe even a little bit insightful.
I mean, who among us hasn’t snuck a look at another patron’s cart, or rendered some sort of judgement in the check-out aisle? In a way, one’s purchases are deeply revealing stuff. A brand says a lot about a person, right? Do you dig Kashi? Or Kraft? Sanka? Or Chock full o’Nuts? Granny Smith? Or Gala? Everything means something (or so Madison Avenue would have me believe).
And so, in my continued effort to share with the world, here’s a glimpse into my shopping basket.
Arnold Healthy Nut Whole Wheat Bread
Happy Herbert Oat Bran Pretzels
Silk Vanilla Soy Milk
Sabra Hummus with Pine Nuts
Starbucks French Roast (1 lb, ground)
Near East Rice Pilaf
Gatorade G2 Fruit Punch
Gatorade X-Factor Strawberry+Kiwi
Fresh Green Beans
Gala Apples (2)
Harp Lager (6)
What does it all mean? How do my groceries define me? Would you gather that I’m a 36-year-old, recently-wed, public-school, college-educated, corporate media executive, sometimes singer/songwriter, weekend triathlete and aspiring filmmaker?
Me too.
Swinging The World By The Tail
That’s me in Miss Opalinski’s fourth grade class.
I liked stuffed animals, model airplanes, T-ball, Beverly Cleary books, and Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I spent the bulk of my time roller skating, drawing, singing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow,” cleaning my room, and watching “3-2-1 Contact.”
T-ball notwithstanding, it occurs to me now that my interests aren’t all that different. If only I could find that off-white vest.
Twenty-eight years later, here in the present, my so-called life goes on. Here are some largely-unrelated (or are they?) bullet points for this cold, gray spring morning:
REM’s new album comes out next week (April 1). I pre-ordered it months ago, and have been previewing it at ilike.com. It’s short, sharp, and fast, clocking it under 35-minutes. It’s certainly a return to form, though I’m gonna’ say that Michael Stipe’s lyrics strike me as a wee bit half-assed.
Speaking of albums, I contiinue to waffle as to whether I’ll be releasing one any time soon. I have the songs selected, and have sent the demos and lyrics to Jason and Mike of The Nadas, Chris Abad (with whom I’m playing a show next week, more on that later), Josh Davis, Tony Maceli and Ryan Vaughn for input and feedback. I’ve been flirting with competing in the Des Moines Triathlon in June, and then releasing a new LP there that night, then playing a few Midwest show bookended by some here in NYC. Given that it’s basically April 1, and I have this other little project going on, I’m not sure it’s the right time.
Oh, plus Abbi and I are going to Bray’s Island, South Carolina, in a few weeks. Then I’m going to Los Angeles at the end of the month, and squeezing in a weekend with my best pal (and sole groomsman), Sibby, in Albuquerque so…
So my excema seems to have returned following a blissful month-long hiatus. I consider it a leading indicator of stress at work. Or maybe a leading indicator of stress fromall of the above.
That’s the news from Hell’s Kitchen this morning. I’d stay longer and say more, but I can hear that Abbi’s out of the shower, so it’s my turn. Gotta get this Wednesday started…
Have You Seen Me Lately?
“So what have you been up to?”
That’s young Ryan Vaughn, drummer to half of the bands on the Lower East Side, talking. It’s just before seven o’clock on Saturday night. The sun has cast a warm, early-spring urbanglow on Avenue C. Ryan, Tony, Chris and I are sitting at an Italian restaurant across the street from Alphabet Lounge where the guys will perform in a few hours.
His inquiry throws me out of my game for a second. “What have you been up to?” means different things to a 23-year-old single drummer than it does to a 36-year-old married media executive. Not that it occurs to me thusly in the moment. Instead, I stammer.
Because the truth is, I haven’t been up to much. At least as far as the 23-year-old in me is concerned.
These days, it’s about all I can do to keep my shit together at the office.
These days, all I want to do is get home, crack a beer, sit on the couch, and read a magazine.
These days, I consider being a good husband my first job, and being a good corporate steward my second. Rock and roll — sadly and shockingly — comes in somewhere around third or fourth.
This revelation may not shock you, but I can hardly believe I’m typing it.
I don’t know if I’ve always judged my success by my productivity, but I certainly have in the last ten years or so. Rock shows, road trips, record albums — these are the measures of my worth. Ten hours at the office doesn’t rate. Four hours on the couch doesn’t count. I need results. I need melody, harmony, applause.
Pendulums swing, accelerating towards equilibrium. I’m not sure what this will look like when it all finally comes to a rest. I imagine it will continue to be a dizzying ride. Or maybe someday I can confidently say, “Not a God damned thing,” and be completely ok with it.
Not today (though the couch feels fine, and the beer is cold, and this New Yorker article on John Waters is kinda’great).
Lucky Strike
“I owe everybody a rub down,” Meg said, frowning.
I guess I started the whole thing off on the wrong foor when I left a message on my father’s answering machine that jokingly said, “I hope you have a lovely day celebrating the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Oops.
The afternoon (let’s face it, the morning was a loss after Chris’ epic rock show Saturday night), found Abbi, Chris, Meg and me at Film Cafe’s All-You-Can-Drink brunch drinking, well, all that we could. The eggs benedict was terrific, but I was there for the mimosas (though I took some derision from The Abads on said beverage choice).
From there we stumbled back into the sunlight (when’s the last time you turned on a buzz during daylight hours?), and ambled down Ninth Avenue to Holland Bar (where the remains of one patron remain inturned above the bar). The regulars may not have shared my enthusiasm, but the jukebox rocked.
I spun Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” The Band’s “Ophelia,” Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille” and The Rolling Stones’ “Street Fighting Man” before Meg one-upped me Air Supply’s “All Out Of Love” and the afternoon’s penultimate plan fell into place: two sets at Leisure Time Bowling high atop the Port Authorty Bus Terminal.
It’s been years since I bowled, but — buzz notwithstanding — it came right back. Where, as a kid, my hands always felt too small and the ball always felt too heavy, today was my day. Well, in part. It was more Chris’ day; we split the sets.
It was a pretty excellent Easter, a long way from my days as an alter boy at St. Thomas. Quaffing pints beats a sip of wine. And remembering the “Our Father” can’t touch remembering just how incredible it feels to roll a strike.
“No doubt, son!” Chris said, “It’s the home run, the slam dunk, the hole-in-one of bowling!!!”
Coming Home
So it’s been five years, or 1825 days, or 43,800 hours, or — in terms the average American can better understand — roughly enough time to watch 87,600 episodes of “Friends.”
The War In Iraq — the one intended to depose Al Queda-supporting (oops!), weapons of mass destruction-toting (oops!) dictator Saddam Hussein — has cost American taxpayers $3T (that’s three trillion dollars).
Far worse, though, 3,992 American soldiers have died, 29, 314 have been injured, and an estimated 20% of the 1.6M Iraq War veterans returned from theater with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).
You’ll recall that I opposed this war from the start. That said, I wanted to be wrong. Five years later, I hope we have the fortitude and focus to end it well, or at least well enough. My hopes are not high.
Earlier this week, I spent some time with eight young Iraq War veterans. The horrors they’ve seen is written across their faces, still they soldier on. The losses they’ve suffered — friends, limbs — mark their bodies and minds.
One young woman, 29-year-old Medical Service Corps officer Jessica McDermott, departed North Carolina for our three-day shoot just hours after learning that her grandmother had died. She fought through tears to tell her story, and the stories of those who could no longer tell theirs.
Today, if nothing else, my hopes are high for her, and all of her comrades.
Dear Mister Rogers
Dear Mister Rogers,
My memory isn’t the best, but one moment I’ll never forget is meeting you.
It was September 4, 2001. I’d arrived on Nantucket just a few hours prior. I remember going for a run, then swimming in the bay at sunset. By the time you walked over from The Crooked House, there wasn’t a trace of sunlight to be found; the sun had fallen below the waves. The stars had yet to come out. It was completely and perfectly dark.
I was standing on the back porch, beer in hand, when I heard your unmistakable voice inquire, “Has the birthday boy arrived?”
I don’t remember what I said, or what happened next, but I remember exactly how I felt. For the first time in a long time, the increasing pressures of modern, accelerated adult life slipped away. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a little boy; wide-eyed, full of wonder, and 100% unique.
Please visit my “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” blog to finish reading this post…
Where We Can Shine
I’m in the back seat of a rental van some 23 miles west of the New Jersey state line. New York City is ahead of us, casting an orange glow on the horizon.
It’s been an interesting few days, much of it was spent with eight young Iraq War veterans — emphasis on young. These are kids. One was carded at the hotel bar. One couldn’t stop her cheeks from blushing (or, that matter, her eyes from tearing). And one couldn’t even begin to manage his frustration. They’re kids: naive, boastful, insecure and overwhelmed.
And yet they told harrowing tales: administering to 83 casualties in one night, shooting another man at point blank range, flipping a Humvee. Or worse, coming home to a country more interested in Paris Hilton than Paris, France; a culture too distracted by ET to learn about PTSD.
Still, they maintained in the face of a chaotic five-camera shoot with the two remaining democratic presidential candidates, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, with all the fixins: secret service, national press, flashbulbs, spotlights, and generic hotel rooms.
My primary role on these shoots was to oversee the rollout of all the content online. Secondarily, I was asked to shoot behind-the-scenes photos. It was the second gig, really, that got me the access. I was any arm’s length from the candidates both nights.
So what did I think of the candidates?
Barack seemed tired, presumably as his shoot was on the eve of his big speech. And because he’s been battling hard for the nomination for six months. Still, he was as advertised: broad strokes, big picture, hope.
Clinton, in contrast, was on. She was engaged, energetic and warm. Moreover, she was brimming with details, especially on the war in Iraq; she was fresh from her big speech. So she’d’ not only done her homework, she’d’ written a lesson plan. I’ll be honest: it was impressive.
Of course, the whole thing was a traveling circus. There were at least 250 people making sure the event come off, from grips and advance teams to PAs and policemen. There were caterers, mobile generators, press buses, shuttle vans, an 18-wheel production truck — and a horse.
In the end, though, it was all about these kids and the fact that there are well over a million of ‘em.
In the end, I’m still torn between hope and despair. These are dark days. The empire is over-extended. The economy is in ruin. The Interstates are falling apart. I’m not sure if this is the End of Days, or just the beginning of something else.
Still, these kids and these candidates sat down to discuss the future. These kids and these candidates dared to dream that a three trillion dollar war could be won.
I can see the Empire State building now. It’s cast in white tonight, its gleaming Deco spire towering over Midtown.
And to my right, the Statue of Liberty stares out to sea. Her back is turned, but her light still shines.
***
“Choose Or Lose Presents: Clinton & Obama Answer Young Veterans” premiers Thursday, March 20 at 6pm on MTV.
