Memories of David Bowie

Hearing "Young Americans" in the back of the red van as my parents drove through the heartland of our country. Discovering the message of "Under Pressure" and playing the song for a 7th grade class presentation on "What is Horror?" with Matt. Watching the "Let's Dance" video in the basement of a friend's house. Listening to "China Girl" and discovering SRV. "Space Oddity" while cruising the Metroparks on Classic Rock Saturday Night (thanks MMS). Might as well include "Transformer" in this mix. Speeding down I480 screaming "wham bam thank you ma'am!" "Blue Jean" - a most underrated song. The summer paint crew at the height of the classic rock revival and hearing the best of Bowie on endless rotation (Cleveland has long ties with Bowie, you know). "The Last Temptation of Christ." "Sound and Vision." "Heroes." "Fame 90" (a killer remix, just listen to those drums). "China Girl" again, this time the version found on the VH1 Storytellers CD. "I'm Afraid of Americans" (hell yeah). "Zoolander." That he appeared in "Bandslam," a movie Sophie loves. That "Rebel Rebel" was on the film soundtrack, it somehow wound up as a song used by her alarm clock to wake her for school, and now she HATES the song. "Life on Mars" the brilliant British TV series and the use of that song in the show. "Cat People" in Tarantino's WWII masterpiece. "Moonage Daydream" in "Guardians of the Galaxy" and that Jacob listens to that song regularly. "Starman" in "The Martian" - it could have... SHOULD have been a cliche, but worked perfectly. That on the day he died, my friend and I were on a bike ride, discussing "Blackstar" and whether or not we liked it (for the record, neither of us got through the 2nd song). Listening to "Ziggy" on an endless loop as I rode the train to work the morning after David Bowie died.

RIP Mr. Bowie

So, Yeah, I dropped the ball on Legendary

Last summer I was pretty ambitious about my serial novel, Legendary, which ran on Popdose for three months. I posted a new chapter every other day, each one with at least one song and an original work of art. I was so excited about it and I had planned to write entries about each chapter here on the BS Blog.

What I didn't realize is how exhausting the whole project would be and how quickly my energy was used up at the end of every day. I failed miserably.

I apologize to anyone who was paying attention, which may be about 15 people.

Hey you 15, SORRY!

Anyway, I'm going to do my best to finish what I started and write a little blurb about each music artists I used in the book.

By the way, wach chapter is still up on Popdose, along with the music and art. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go to this LINK, which explains everything. Links to successive chapters are available at the end of every chapter, if that makes any sense.

I may still publish it as a Kindle book. Any opinions from anyone on that front? It kind of worked out for the Basement Songs book (still available in paperback from Lulu and Amazon- see the column to the right).

Aloha

The Three Strike Rule... slowly coming back

One of the columns I used to write on a regular basis for Popdose was The Three Strike Rule. It was a weekly (!) review of some television series, usually new, based on its first three episodes. With the advent of instant opinions available on the web, I started to fall behind on my reviews and, frankly, lost some interest.

With binge watching and people discovering shows both new and old every day, I've decided to give it a try again. I'm not out to impress anyone, just offer my two cents and maybe start some conversations.

I must also admit that I felt some apprehension writing about television during a period of time when I was submitting spec pilot scripts to managers and agents. But you know what, I'm forty-frickin-five, so if someone wants to hire me they would have done it by now. I'm giving up, mind you, but I'm tired of holding back on writing about the subjects that I enjoy.

I love telkevision, and I do enjoy writing about it. I also enjoy podcasting about TV (which I've been doing for a couple of years), so perhaps this renewed energy for The Three Strike Rule will lead to something new and exciting.

Is that a hint?

Anyway, here's a link to the latest Three Strike Rule over on Popdose.

Aloha

Popdose Rewind: Lou Reed, "Walk on the Wild Side"

Lou Reed died today, at the age of 71. I can't claim to be the world's biggest Reed fan, but several of his works are favorites. Transformer and New York receive regular plays on my iPod, while the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane," and Reed's moderate hit single, "I Love You, Suzanne," are songs I can't go very long without listening to. In 2009, I wrote about a memorable night in North Olmsted, driving around and listening "Walk on the Wild Side." I do believe this was the first time I heard this song and it was my introduction to Transformer, one of the best albums of the 70s.

We huddled outside the North Olmsted recreation center waiting for the rest of the spirit band to

arrive.  On this cold December night, we were supposed to be energizing high school hockey fans, but when not enough kids showed up, we were presented with a three-hour window to spend the rest of the night.  Our foursome included Dan, a junior, cool, laid back (like most trombone players) and the one with the car.  There was Mark, a stocky, sophomore coronet player who was the epitome of band geek (really nice guy, though).  Mark often wore a t-shirt that asked the question, "Why be normal?"  He liked to smoke pot. Jay was a fellow freshman drummer, one of those guys who bled talent, and a close friend at the time.  He was an emotional firecracker, calm and fun-loving most of the time and then- BAM! -- an explosion of anger.  Finally, I rounded out the group, the dorky son of the band director.  I wore big '80s-style glasses, had poofy hair (I'd yet to learn what gel was), and dressed in god-awful sweatpants that covered the knee brace of my right knee, which was recovering from ACL surgery.  With nowhere to be and nothing in particular to do, we piled into Dan's car and drove away.
Cruising through the hometown seems like a time-honored rite of passage for most young men.  You get the keys to the car, you don't want to be stuck at home, so you hit the road and just drive, listening to whatever music is on the radio and killing time until you have to roll into bed and sleep away the weekend.  On that night, navigating the slick streets of a Saturday night, with the melted snow sloshing around in the tire wells making that sound like water running, we owned this city. With a swagger you only have as a teenager, we felt like kings, invincible; nothing could hurt us.  The neon signs from the fast food joints, the banks and the gas stations beckoned us, but we drove on, searching for what I don't know.  Camaraderie, I suppose. Isn't that what we all want when we're trying to figure out who we are?
I was in low mood; my girlfriend had broken up with me the night before.  Somehow, even though I'd only spoken to a couple people about the break up, everyone knew. This was my first experience of gossip traveling faster than the tears can hit the pillow.  These three guys, boys I hardly hung out with before that night, decided to comfort me in the same manner they knew adults handled pain and loss: by scoring some beer.  Meanwhile, the radio dial was tuned to the venerable Cleveland station, WMMS, and their new weekend program, Classic Rock Saturday Night.  The deep voice of one of Cleveland's legendary DJs (I swear it was Len "Boom Boom" Goldberg, but more likely it was the equally great "Spaceman" Scott Hughes) spoke to us through the speakers in Dan's car, as he introduced music from the early 70s by the artists who had shaped rock and roll.  We were a generation raised on new wave and MTV and in 1984 if we'd heard the music of Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Who or Pink Floyd, it was because of our older siblings who had passed the music down. I hadn't received that passing of the torch, so listening to MMS and the songs they played opened up a new world to me.
In a parking lot behind a second-run movie theater we received our contraband, a 12-pack of Michelob, bought by one of the guys' older brothers. I look back on what we did next with a sense of fondness, but also a realization of how fucking stupid we were. Back then, when you wanted to discreetly drink and drive, the Valley was the place to go. Our next destination was the Cleveland Metroparks, also known as the Valley because of the steep descent you took getting into the park. An entire night could be spent looping around on the twisting and winding roads that passed through several neighboring cities for over 20 miles. On that night the sky was clear without a moon ad the Valley was pitch black, save for the headlight beams from Dan's car. Occasionally we passed fellow wanderers or even parked cars with steamed-up windows. Otherwise, we were alone, in a separate universe, with Classic Rock Saturday Night as our soundtrack.
Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" came on, with its dual bass lines, jazzy brushes on the snare, and Reed singing endearingly about the transvestites and drug addicts he knew; we all quieted and listened, letting the music sweep over us. When I tried to explain to Mark that the entire moment felt like a movie and wouldn't let up about what I was feeling, he nudged me and said, "Shut up and enjoy the movie." The background singers came in with their "doo da doo da doos" and the four of us began singing, uninhibited, at the top of our lungs, until our laughter was louder than the radio. It was one of those strange, mystical nights that only happens in the movies: Four guys, friends, but not best friends, spend the night driving around talking about the things that only guys talk about. In the course of the evening, they discover that they are not alone. They discover that everyone suffers heartbreak and wants to go out with the pretty girl and wants to get good grades and wants to impress their parents and wants to get a hug from their dad on occasion and wants to be the cool kid in school and wants to have a lot of friends and wants to lose their virginity and just wants to be loved. And they discover that everyone wants to escape from the place where they grew up, at least for a little while.
I've often questioned why this particular event in my life has stuck with me. Of all the pointless times aimlessly cruising through the Valley, of all the irresponsible incidents of my adolescence, why does this one event remain so vivid? Perhaps because on that night, free of the pressures and expectations of our peers, the four of us let our guard down and allowed other humans to glimpse at our souls. Or perhaps it was just stupid fun that I was never able to replicate in the remaining four years of high school. Dan, Mark, Jay and I never hung out that way ever again. We remained friendly, but it was like after that night, the universe we lived in realigned and the four of us slipped back into our old selves. Still, there would be times when we saw each other in the hall and a simple nod or knowing smile would draw a laugh and we'd recall our walk on the wild side.

Originally published February 19, 2009 on POPDOSE

Popdose Rewind: Patty Griffin, "Be Careful"

On Tuesday night I attended the Patty Griffin concert at the Wiltern Theater. One of the songs she performed that night was "Be Careful," a song that I featured in the Basement Songs column back in 2009. I love this song and it always reminds me of Sophie. 

When I wrote this piece Sophie was still a little girl. Now she's entering high school and I couldn't be prouder. It's a bittersweet feeling, though. She's growing up, and soon, oh so very soon, she won't need her dad any more. 


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Since the day we moved into our house, I have regularly snuggled my daughter Sophie for about 10 minutes before she goes to sleep at night. When she was younger, it was to help ease her fears over the creaks and rattles of her room when the lights were off. As she got older, this routine turned into an opportunity for the two of us to catch up on our days. I found out about how school was for her, and Sophie asked me questions about my job.  For the past year I have tried to end this nightly routine.  Whenever I expressed this to Julie, my great wife admonished me by saying, "There's going to come a time when she wants nothing to do with you. Enjoy this while you can.  Generally I pooh pooh this comment; I can't imagine my daughter not wanting her dad around.

I vividly recall dropping her off for the first time at daycare when she was just two months old. It happened to coincide with my first day at a new job, so I was already a bundle of raw nerves. Letting her go and placing her into the care of people I barely knew was one of the worst things I ever had to do, and after I left the daycare, I had a meltdown in my car before finding the strength to start the car. I felt like she was already moving on.

In 2002, my son Jacob was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. While Julie stayed with him down at Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles, I took Sophie to preschool and went to work, then would pick up Sophie from preschool and we would drive all the way into the city to see them. It was a long, stressful week and I leaned on Sophie's tiny shoulders (she was three at the time) to support me. She cried, missing her mommy, while I tried to put on a brave face so as to not scare her. I'm ashamed to admit that I lost my cool with my three-year-old. Amazingly, when I would hug her, apologizing for raising my voice, Sophie would pat my back and say, "It's okay, Daddy."

We got through that time together, though I was lucky to have the music of Badly Drawn Boy's About a Boy and Patty Griffin's 1,000 Kisses to free my mind from dwelling on things. If there is a moment when I felt like I made a unique connection with my daughter, it was during that time.

The end of the baseball season is my favorite time of the year. Sophie and I huddle on the couch to watch our favorite teams battle for a spot in the World Series. As I pace the room, anxiously waiting the result of every pitch, she'll ask a hundred questions about the rules of the game, the players, the players' numbers, the lingo, what an umpire does, strategies and the team colors. When I throw my arms up in frustration from her bombardment of inquiries, I quickly apologize and she responds, "It's okay, Daddy."

Last week, most of her classmates went on a weeklong camping trip, and Sophie didn't want to go. She's always had trouble sleeping over at friends' houses, so a week in a strange cabin was too much for her. Still, she felt left out, and decided that come next year, she wanted to go on the school trip. Julie felt that in order for her to do this, she first had to conquer her fears of having a sleepover with one of her friends. What this means is getting accustomed to going to sleep alone and putting an end to our nightly snuggles.

I didn't expect the pangs of sadness that filled me when she told me her plan. I thought I'd be happy that I didn't have to help her settle and that we could have a normal conversation each night while sitting on the couch rather than lying in her bed. This was my first dose of separation anxiety: My little girl is starting to grow up.

Puberty looms on the horizon. I'll be honest; I'm scared to death about the changes she's going to go through as she grows into a teenager. It may be a couple of years away, but soon she's going to start liking boys, and they'll pass her notes and maybe (gasp) she'll hold hands. I don't even want to talk about what comes after that. I know how guys can be; I'm one of them. I broke hearts, and made rude comments, and wasn't always the nicest guy. I wish I could protect her from all the bad things, but the best I can do is tell her I love her, comfort her in her low times, raise her up during her triumphs and always -- always -- tell her how much I love her. And maybe I'll continue slipping songs onto her iPod when she isn't looking, like this gem from 1,000 Kisses. Sophie may never realize that I think of her when I hear this song, but that's fine.

Will we maintain the bond we've had since the day she came home from the hospital? Will she still want to hang out and watch baseball? Will I someday get to take her to a Springsteen show so she can finally scream out "Big Man" during "Dancing in the Dark?" Will she still draw me wonderful pictures that I can hang above my desk at work? Will she still ask me to snuggle her on occasion when the creaks and rattles of the house have stirred up some old fears?

I can only hope.

Originally published October 22, 2009 on POPDOSE

100K and counting

I feel like this was a great Mother’s Day, but I’ll have to let Julie tell you that. Both of the kids sang in church this morning, and afterward Sophie made the family brunch. She’s becoming quite the cook.  She prepared biscuits (a favorite of hers to cook) and scrambled eggs. At her age I could barely make peanut butter and jelly for myself (occasionally with a slice of American cheese in the middle). I’m so impressed with the young lady she is becoming and the confidence she has in herself. Do I fret over her entering high school next year? Hell yes. It’s not her I’m concerned about, it’s the boys. I was a stupid teenage boy at one time. Hopefully the young male population has progressed in the thirty years since I was a freshman in high school. God, I hope so.

We spent most of the day lounging around, watching TV. The temperature outside was 103 degrees! I’ve lived in L.A. nearly twenty years and I can’t recall a May when it was this hot. 103? That’s insanity. We went to an early dinner, which was nice, and returned home for a round of Rock Band. I don’t know what inspired Jacob to pull that game out of the cobwebs in the toy room, but it was a blast jamming with the kids. Someday, perhaps, I really will bring my drums down from the rafters and set them up in the garage. I do miss playing them.

The past couple weeks were hectic. Julie’s parents were visiting for one of them, which meant that Jules and I slept in the living room on an air mattress. Something about not sleeping in my own bed screws with my writing rhythm. However, my writing partner, Jeff, and I completed a new TV spec script, so some good did come from that week. As for last week, it was an odd one. It was a busy one at the office and I found myself lacking energy and motivation when I got home at night.

The week did bring some fantastic news, though.

This week the CF Foundation had their annual Volunteer Appreciation Night in Hollywood. Julie and I rarely go to any of the CF events because they tend to fall on a weeknight and the drive sucks getting to and fro Los Angeles. Once again, we didn't attend this year, but we wish we would have. Team Jacob was recognized for reaching the "Century Club," which means we've raised $100,000 through our fundraising efforts over the years.

Can you believe that?

This is quite an accomplishment for our small little team. That means we've raised around 10K a year since we began our fundraising work. And with 90 cents of every dollar going to research, our money is making a difference!

I checked out the sales of Basement Songs this evening and the book has sold around 80 copies. I wish is was more. But I'm just some nobody. The key is trying to get people to read it and buy it, people who don't already know who I am. The column was never the most popular one on Popdose, but it did have dedicated followers. Would it help to write more Basement Songs columns? I'm not sure if I have any in me. I wish I did.

So if you're reading this now and you haven't bought the book, why is that? What can I do to inspire you to pick up a copy? Yes, there's a certain part of me as a author that really wants to reach that mass audience, but the fundraising aspect is sincere. I'm not making a dime off of this book. 


Anyway, I'm starting to ramble. My mind is alive after the latest episode of Game of Thrones (only 3 episodes until the season is done!). I hope that all of you were able to celebrate Mother's Day.

Aloha

Popdose Rewind: The Gaslight Anthem, "The '59 Sound"

This weekend I'm driving up to Ventura to see the Gaslight Anthem perform live at the Ventura Theater. The Gaslight Anthem are a Jersey band whose influences range from Stax soul to the Clash, as well as a guy named Bruce Springsteen. It was because of Springsteen that I was initially interested in their music, but I soon became a huge fan of their work. The '59 Sound was the album that put them on the map in 2008, and they've release two others, American Slang in 2010 and Handwritten which came out last year. The latter is particularly strong.

In honor or seeing the band this weekend, here is the Basement Songs column I wrote about "The '59 Sound" back in November of 2008.

Back in January, I wrote a special Basement Song column dedicated to my daughter, Sophie, on her
birthday.  Tomorrow, November 14, is my son Jacob's birthday, and I now I want to dedicate something to him.

When it came time to choose a song to focus on, I couldn't help but return to a number that he and I bonded over recently.  Some of you loyal readers to Popdose may cry foul over using this Gaslight Anthem song twice in less than a month.  See, I reviewed their album in October and actually featured today's song. However, it was through my repeated listens to The '59 Sound, and the title track of the album, that Jacob became familiar with the song.  When I was contemplating what to say to Jacob for his birthday, this song's melody kept coming back to me.  I took that as a sign to forgo the tearjerker I was going to write about and keep this post in the rocking spirit of my son.  Thanks for reading.

Jacob,

When thinking of what to write today I contemplated reflecting on your rugged journey into this world. The days you spent in the neonatal intensive care unit, the concern that you needed surgery, the sudden helicopter ride that flew you from peaceful Burbank to the noisy and crowded UCLA hospital,, and finally bringing you home with us just in time for Thanksgiving, yes, a lot happened during the week you were born, so much that much of it is a blur to your father. I spent so much time driving in my car going to and from home to the hospital to your aunt and uncle's that you'd think I could recall some melody from that period in late 2001. But I can't.

The more I think about it, though, the more I think this is a good thing. I don't want to dwell on the heartache or the pain; I don't want to dwell on cystic fibrosis, or breathing treatments or the number of pills you have to take each day. No, today I just want to say how blessed I am that you're my son. 


In the past year or so, the two of us have begun to develop our own special relationship, one different from the one your sister and I share. From trips to the comic store to watching cartoons, from Star Wars to Spider-man, I've witnessed a kindred spirit come to life inside you. Knowing that you appreciate and love the same cultural things I have treasured my entire life is thrilling. And of course, there is the music. The two of us have a shared affinity for the same type of driving rock and roll that gets your feet pounding and your head bobbing up and down.

It began with the Boss.Who knows how many hours you spent watching the E Street Band Live in Barcelona concert prancing around the living room strumming your ukulele and singing the lyrics to The Rising. It was so many that it influenced the way you hold the guitar.Because you were mirroring Springsteen's image on the television, you now only feel comfortable carrying an axe in the lefty mode. You quickly connected with the Ramones, too, which is a funny group for a little boy to latch on to. It began with "Now I Wanna Be a Good Boy" featured on What's New Scooby Doo, then "My Brain Is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes to Bitburg)" in School of Rock, and finally "Rockaway Beach" showing up in Rock Band. 

It shouldn't come as a surprise that you would take a liking to the one-two punch of the Ramones. Punk isn't necessarily a music form as much as it's an attitude. Punk is independence. Punk is standing up to the system ("sticking it to the man" as Jack Black would say). Punk is finding beauty in the crap the world throws at you. It shouldn't surprise me that you enjoy punk stylings because you, my son, are punk.Y ou're strong, independent, fierce, empathetic and forgiving despite everything you go through. Most important, you are a true individual.

I could have easily chosen a Ramones song or one of Springsteen's masterpieces to dedicate to you on your 7^th birthday had it not been for what happened last Saturday night. The two of us were on our way to McDonald's and I dialed my iPod to the title track from the Gaslight Anthem's album, The '59 Sound. As the band ripped into this raucous rocker, I looked into the rearview mirror and caught you staring out the window, nodding your head to the rhythm and the beat of this great song. I had played "The '59 Sound" for you a couple of times and you had smiled. However, it's sometimes hard to tell if your child actually likes the songs you're playing for them or if they're just trying to make dad happy. When I stole that glance driving down the street, you were in your own world, rocking out. The moment was pure. My influence wasn't present, just you in sync with the music.

Later that night, while washing dishes, I played "The '59 Sound" once again, thinking I was alone. You strolled into the kitchen, dressed in your pajamas, ready for bed.

"Hey, daddy," you called out.

I turned around and you went into the little dance you do, you know, the one that's a cross between the funky chicken, the moonwalk and Axl Rose's shuffle? Man, I just wanted to scoop you up and hug you so hard except that I was laughing so hard. After your display of agility, you started down the hall toward your bedroom, but not before looking back with the biggest smirk on your face, proud that you'd made your dad laugh.

You know, Jake, in the years to come you may never recall this fleeting moment in your long life to live, but I will treasure it always. I hope you'll always keep "The '59 Sound" close by to lift your spirits in the low times and to raise the mood when your ready to rock the house (just don't do too much damage). Finally, I hope that whenever you hear the opening chords of the song that you'll think about your dad and how much he loves you.

Happy Birthday.
Dad

originally published November 13, 2008 on POPDOSE