National Service

My profession allows me to visit with many new people, some of them quite accomplished. Some time ago, I visited with a thirty-something private equity professional in St. Louis. Jay (not his real name) was articulate and very bright, clearly a member of the cognitive elite. This did not make him especially unusual - many folks in the private equity world have the same profile. Jay, however, is different than most. He is a West Point graduate who spent over ten years in the  U.S. Armed Forces, serving as an officer in the Rangers. He was in uniform during the first Gulf Conflict, during 9/11, and during the launch of the Afghanistan and Iraq wars. He saw lots of stuff, I'm sure. I suspect that the stress and trauma associated with the private equity profession doesn't trouble him much after his combat service.

As I was speaking with Jay, I began to reflect on my own brush with the military. I registered for the draft when I turned 18, in 1972. The Vietnam War was winding down; the U.S. did not draft many folks in 1972 and it was clear that the draft was going to disappear soon. So I was able to avoid national service easily, with no drama. I wasn't drafted, and I didn't volunteer.  I was relieved that I didn't have to make any decisions about serving in the military.  I wanted to go to college and attend to my selfish goals.

I feel bad about that now, especially when I meet someone like Jay. I have never been in favor of conscription, but I am in favor of serving.  Military service doesn't "work" for everyone, but some form of national service could (AmeriCorps, Peace Corps, a new environmental clean-up service, etc. etc.). Devoting time and effort to something beyond your narrow self-interest is good for the community, and its good for the human soul, too. But it can be bad for the wallet and bad for family relationships. I let self-interest govern my decision in 1972; it still governs me today. I am not kicking myself too hard about this; I am an imperfect human and can't expect to do everything that might be worthwhile. But when I meet a guy like Jay, I feel a bit ashamed.  He stepped up, and carried us selfish people on his back. Regardless of what one might think regarding the worthiness of America's recent wars and other military adventures, it is important to remember that very capable people are in service on our behalf, and on behalf of the military policies of our government.

Estranged on Mother's Day

Here in the good old USofA, we are awash in flowers, chocolates and brunches on this Mother's Day.  It is a good thing to honor your mother and to thank her for all the wonderful things she has done for her children.  But what if you don't want to see your mother?  What if your mother has created such  pain for you that you have to turn your back and cut her off?

When children cut off a relationship with their mom, there is always a reason.  The mom may not understand, or may not acknowledge the depth of the hurt the child is feeling.  The mom may desperately try to reconcile and repair without success.  There is pain all around.  The only person that can initiate a reconciliation is the person that initiated the estrangement.

I am one of the lucky ones - my mom was the greatest and I hold her memory close since she passed 20 years ago.  We had our bad moments, I guess, but I don't seem to remember that part.

On this Mother's Day, I want to acknowledge that not every mother-child relationship is a source of comfort, that not every wrong has been forgiven, that some children and mothers withdraw from each other in order to establish a zone of safety.  Estrangement is a type of prison, but one that the incarcerated often enters gladly. Even a comfortable prison is a trap and shrinks life's possibilities.

Here is a good piece on estrangement

A Good Dog

In January, we adopted a new dog.  His name is Tai, and he only has one eye.  The folks at the Anti-Cruelty Society didn't know what happened to him, but I suspect that another, larger dog attacked him.  Tai has gradually settled into our household.  He isn't very big, but he has a big dog attitude.  He has a focused spirit - beams in on his favorite humans and can pick up on tone of voice, moods, gestures and a surprisingly long list of words.  He is tolerant of his fellow pets in our house.   Oh, and he believes that Life Is A Ball.  When you throw a ball for him, he is fulfilling his purpose in the world. Focus on the ball, be the ball, chase the ball, fetch the ball.  He would rather play ball than eat.

Tai has a small bag of tricks.  He can give "high fives" (but you have to give him a treat afterwards).  He will dance on his hind legs.  But his best trick is the one-eyed stare.  He will sit and watch you, looking for signals.  I feel that he sometimes reads my mind, but of course this is a ridiculous idea.  He is just a little, scruffy, one-eyed dog who is dialed into the human who feeds him.

While dogs probably don't feel "love" the way we humans define that emotion, there is certainly some kind of deep connection between dogs and people.  Of course, dogs don't understand the details of human lives so they are never judgmental.  If you have done something that has brought scorn down on your head, your dog doesn't know about that and will still be glad to see you.  If you come back from the gym smelling ripe and gross, your dog will not complain - he probably prefers you in that condition. 

So I talk a lot to Tai.  He cocks his head at me and trains his remaining eye on my face; he focuses and gives me silent attention (which is quite rare in human society).  After a while, he brings me his ball and seems to say "enough with the blah blah - let's get down to the Meaning of Life - MY BALL!"

The story from a woman in recovery from bipolar disorder

This article, written by Linda Logan, will be in tomorrow morning's Sunday Magazine section of the New York Times.  This is one of the best first-person narratives I have read about the long road of recovering from bipolar disorder.  The good news is that those suffering from this disease can re-assemble their lives.  The bad news is that the life assembled via recovery is not the same life that was taken by the disorder.  The desire to "get back to where I was before I got sick" is a huge source of grief and frustration to folks with mental illness.

And here is a quote from another mentally ill person struggling with recovery:

"If the truth be known, I fear that I may be abandoned by my family.  I offer my family the same opportunity to accept and love me as I am, rather than seeing me as a blasted hope, whose life has suffered a sad and irreversible loss.  But it is hard to know if that will happen."

It is hard for a person with a mental disorder to accept and recover from their situation.  And even if they succeed, they may lose their family and friends anyway.

By the way, all of this effort to recover must be strong enough to overcome the continuing widespread social stigma and revulsion that "mentally healthy" people direct at people with mental disorders. And let's not forget that only the very rich and the very poor have full access to mental heath care.  Perhaps that will change someday, but that day seems quite a ways off.  And Medicaid cuts brought about by state budget issues will make care less available to poor people.

On any given day, 240,000 people with mental illness are homeless and another 283,000 are in jail receiving little or no treatment for their disorder. In the U.S., Canada and Western Europe, mental illness accounts for 25% of all disability.  By comparison, heart disease and cancer account for 5% and 3% respectively.

This is an epidemic that people don't talk about or think about.  And when many people recognize mental illness in a person they see on the street, they avert their eyes or cross the street and avoid that individual.

This is a bias that is still perfectly acceptable in our culture.

Rickwood Field, Birmingham AL

I was in Birmingham on business a couple of weeks ago.  I stayed at an old hotel downtown, the Redmont, that still had lots of charm but needed some serious TLC.  The hotel opened in 1925, and the features of the building reflected that era - marble staircases, hardwood floors and tiny elevators that moved verrrry slowly. The price was right, and the attentive staff made up for the slight seediness of the decor.

I finished my business and was checking out; the weather in Chicago forced a delay in my flight home.  Since I had some time to kill, I asked the woman at the front desk, "What would you recommend for someone who has a couple of extra hours in Birmingham?" She smiled and said "Rickwood Field."

Rickwood Field is the oldest professional baseball stadium still operating in the world.  The field was conceptualized and built by Harvey "Rick" Woodward - the name is a combination of Mr. Woodward's nickname and the first syllable of his last name.  Rickwood Field opened in August of 1910, two years before Fenway in Boston and four years before Wrigley in Chicago.  Rickwood was the home of the Birmingham Barons, the AA-level minor league affiliate of the Chicago White Sox (they now play in Regions Field in downtown Birmingham, but do return for the Rickwood Classic, a single game in May that has become a must-see event for baseball history buffs). Rickwood was also the home of the Birmingham Black Barons, one of the top teams in the Negro Leagues.  The Black Barons produced Sachel Paige, Willie Mays and many other stars of the league. The story of the Negro Leagues is well-known; the barn-storming, hand-to-mouth lifestyle was forced upon them by Jim Crow and the deep racism of the United States in the late 19th through mid-20th Centuries. (I always liked Kansas City Monarch star and Cubs coach  Buck O'Neil's comments on these years, and on Ty Cobb, one of the worst racists in professional baseball in that era).  So many of the great names of baseball played at Rickwood - Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, Cool Papa Bell, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Rollie Fingers and, yes, Ty Cobb.  Rickwood Field has been used as a backdrop for many baseball movies, including the current Jackie Robinson movie, "42."

I drove over to the ball park, and it was open for visitors - free of charge (a request for a $1 donation to offset the cost of printing brochures was the only mention of money that I saw).  I was the only visitor, and the only other person there was the groundskeeper.  He was cordial, but busy preparing the field for a high school game that night.  I was welcomed and told to look around to my heart's content.

A well-tended baseball field is a beautiful thing. A baseball diamond is an open geometric pattern; I always imagine the first and third baselines extending past the outfield wall into a theoretical infinite distance. Baseball is one of the least violent team sports (although it is a dangerous sport).  Physical contact is not the central part of the game; the game is about skill and focus.  I could sense that many intense baseball games had unfolded on that Alabama field.  Rickwood pulled at me the same way the Wrigley pulls at me.  The vintage painted ads on the walls of the ballpark (installed by Warner Brothers for the 1994 movie, "Cobb") add to the "time warp" feeling.  It was hushed and quiet, with only the sound of the groundskeepers broom in the batters box breaking the silence.

If you love baseball, or even just like it, Rickwood Field should be on your "must see" list.

Mr. G's Top 10 Musical Sounds

1.      Bonnie Raitt’s voice -Bonnie must be the perfect woman because she has the  perfect voice.  She finds all the depths of human experience and it pours out her mouth.   She respects and salutes her sources - the great blues poets of the 20th Century and the R&B pioneers.  And she seems to like harmonica players - they play on a lot of her records.

2.      Stevie Wonder’s chromatic harmonica  - They say that the harmonica is a perfect instrument for a blind person since you don't need to see anything to play it.  Everybody knows the sound of Stevie Wonder's harmonica. All it takes is just a few notes - his exuberance and technical mastery, the glissandi and melismatic approach to the instrument is unique.

3.      Tower of Power’s horn section - These guys are as tightest and funkiest horn section that has ever existed.  High-end trumpets, bari sax honking out the bottom, trombones and saxes filling out the middle - sounds like  single instrument.  Nothing is more hair-raising that the TOP horns in full cry.

4.      Gary Valente’s trombone - Raucous, braying, insistent and heart-breaking - Valente nails it every time.  His work with Carla Bley will live forever.

5.   The Count Basie band - This sounds weird, but the Basie band is tightly connected to the Tower of Power horn section.  Basie invented the concept of a group of talented instrumentalists playing as one.  Nothing swings harder than the Basie band.

6.      Anthony Palmer’s guitar - He may not be terribly famous, but Tony has fantastic technique and a unique voice on his instrument.  He has absorbed and re-assembled so many fantastic sounds.  And he is my neighbor and former band mate.  It was an honor to work with him.

7.      Miles Davis’ trumpet - Miles was the king of expressing the unexpressible in an economic, perfect series of musical phrases.  His trumpet sound was wistful and yearning.  Listen to the live version of "Stella By Starlight," and try not to weep.

8.      Jimmy Smith’s Hammond B-3 organ - THE GROOVE!!! The B-3 is the singing keyboard.  It is also an instrument for over-achievers, with bass pedals, multiple stops and techniques   Jimmy Smith created a marvelous sound, - soul jazz by an organ trio (B-3,drums and guitar).  

9.      Tito Puetes’ timbales - He generated excitement and joy for everyone when he started banging on those drums.  He was an unbelievably fine showman.  Pull up one of his videos on YouTube and see if you can sit still.

10.  Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s clarinet - R. Kirk played many instruments (often 2 or three at the same time).  His work ranged from interesting to "fall-down and worship him" material.  But I have to say that my favorite Rahsaan Roland Kirk sound is his clarinet.  Check out Blue Rol on the Verve album, "Now please don't you cry, beautiful Edith."  his circular breathing and intense tone on this jazzy blues tune is enough to cause your brain to explode

That's all, folks.

Dexter

I sometimes get a little stuck - maybe a family member isn't doing well, or I suffer a financial setback or the accumulated stress of single parenthood drags me down.  When that happens, I pull the Dexter Gordon playlist out of my iPod.  Dexter fixes bad moods, you see.

He was a very tall man - 6 feet, 6 inches tall.  He did not scuffle as a kid - his father was a prominent African American physician in Los Angeles who looked after patients such as Duke Ellington and Lionel Hampton.  Dexter started playing when he was 13 years old; by the time he was 17, he was in Lionel Hampton's band.

Dexter is my favorite tenor saxophonist.  He never over-played.  He had the instrument completely under control and had all the technique in the world, but he never flaunted it.  His tone was large and round, he hung behind the beat by a few micro-seconds; this somehow made everything he played more emotional and deep.  He had a tendency to slide up to higher notes; he used vibrato sparingly, but  perfectly - it always enhanced his art and never created a distraction. He could swing so hard, and he had conquered all the intricacies of be-bop. But his ballads would rip the soul out of your body.   He was a major influence on John Coltrane, but I don't think 'Trane matched Dexter's lyrical magic.  He was a natural - threw down an Oscar-worthy performance as Dale Turner in "'Round Midnight" in 1986.  Here is version of "Body and Soul" from that film.

When I listen to Dex, I feel a space opening up in my chest, pressure and gloom dissipates.  I can't explain it.    He was a poet of the jazz saxophone.

Dexter Gordon died of kidney failure in Philadelphia 23 years ago.  He was 67.  He was playing almost to the end.  At his memorial service, there were no eulogies or prayers, just great music from a group of Dexter's fellow jazz musicians, led by the great trombonist and Dexter Gordon collaborator Slide Hampton.  This is what Dexter requested.

This past February 27 was the 90th anniversary of Dexter Gordon's birth.  The world is a better place because he lived and picked up the saxophone.

Be Still, My Heart

It was a sunny mid-day during my freshman year in college.  I was lugging my books as I walked between classes.  I was in pretty good spirits as I recall - no serious stress or anxiety was troubling me.  As I walked past the gym, I suddenly felt very strange - like I was finishing a long sprint.  I put my hand on my chest and discovered that my heart was beating at about 4 times its normal pace - 4 beats a second!.  I sat on a bench, and started to sweat and freak out.  After about 30 seconds, my heart stopped racing, settled back into its normal rhythm and I felt fine.  "Weird," I thought.  By the end of the day, I had forgotten about the experience.

But this was the beginning of a lifelong condition.  By the time I reached middle age, the spells of racing heartbeat had become a recurring annoyance.  My heart would start banging away, without any warning, and then the episode would spontaneously resolve.  It didn't happen when I was exercising.  It was completely random.  Sometimes, it would kick off while I was in bed asleep.  I mentioned it to my doctor, but I never had a spell in the presence of a healthcare provider - until the middle of 2001.

I was at the office and my rapid heartbeat kicked off and wouldn't stop.  After about of 30 minutes of sweating and feeling light-headed, I decided to go to the hospital.  I drove myself (probably not a good idea, in hindsight).  I arrived and walked into the cardiac care department.  I told them that my heart was beating really, really fast.  The staff nearly gang-tackled me, shoved me into a wheelchair and rolled me at high speeds to the ER.  I was shifted to a bed, hooked up with the usual tubes and wires, etc.  The resident looked at me, listened to my heart and said "Ah - PSVT.  I can fix this easy"  They dripped something called adenosine through the IV and my heart down-shifted to a normal pace immediately.  I thought "Well, that was easy."  But the fast acting/fast dissipating medication went out of my bloodstream and the ticker took off at high speed again.  This led to lots of folks freaking out.  They gave me a dose of something stronger and that did the trick - my spell was over.  I spent several hours in the ER while folks monitored me (Borrring).  But I was fine.

PSVT stands for paroxsymal supraventricular tachycardia.  "Paroxsymal" means that onset and termination are abrupt and random events.  "Supraventricular tachycardia" describes the exciting experience of a 200 BPM pulse.  PSVT is basically a short circuit of the heart's electrical system which causes a very rapid heartbeat.  It isn't dangerous if the heart is otherwise healthy, but if can be alarming to the sufferer.  It is also hard to function when your heart is going lickety-split.  I think that if a PSVT episode were to go on for a very long time, the heart muscle could weaken and the heart could fail.

I have learned how to deal with this annoyance.  My doctor put me on a light dose of atenolol, a beta blocker that protects the heart and slows stuff down in general.  Since I have been on atenolol, my resting pulse hovers between 49-58 BPM.  My blood pressure readings are also excellent.  This might be partly due to my semi-regular exercise, but the drug definitely is a factor.   I also learned how to stop a PSVT episode using a bunch of techniques called vagal maneuvers.  Vagal maneuvers include coughing, holding the breath and tensing all the muscles in the abdomen - this stimulates the vagal nerve which can slow your heart rate.

It is possible to fix PSVT via a surgical procedure called ablation - basically a technique that breaks the abnormal electrical channel and ends the possibility of a short circuit.  There is some amount of risk associated with this procedure, so I have chosen to live with my oddball heart.

It is quite interesting to have a quirk like this, that can pop up at any time and force me to take a "timeout."

Fight the Power - Or Not

I got lucky today.  I was able to lunch with an old friend, and we had a great conversation.  We used to work together at a medium-sized corporation.  It was a decent place, with the typical challenges - aggressive people, on the make, trying to advance their careers and so on.  We joined right in, with gusto.  But since it was a medium-sized company, it was kinda comfy.  People might be out to get you, but you knew them all personally and had some understanding of their motivations.  And many of our fellow professionals were kind and generous.  It was a pretty darn decent place, I realize now.  When my old friend and I worked there, we didn't fully appreciate its positive qualities.  Well, at least I didn't.

So I left about 17 years ago, and embarked on a career journey that ended up in a 3-man business.  I totally love my gig as a principal in a small firm, even though it is a bumpy, white-knuckling experience at times.  My old friend also left the mothership at about the same time and went on a different journey.  He landed at  Gargantuan MegaCorp. right before the financial crisis and recession hit. The huge company sailed through the crisis nicely, and my friend kept his job and its associated cash flow.  But, of course, a price is paid by anyone who works in a large organization.

Here is what happens in a large enterprise, no matter if it is a for-profit corporation, a governmental entity or a non-profit organization:  Individuals have insights, try to guide their bureaucracies to make a wise decision, and they get crushed.  The decision-making infrastructure can't accommodate individual initiative, and the best and the brightest face a disheartening choice - either salute and march down the wrong path or puff out your chest and put your badge on the table.  If you have a family, a mortgage payment, looming college tuition bills, etc. - well it is tough to lay that badge down, even when you desperately want to say "Take this job and shove it."  It is energizing to holler "Fight the Power,"  but it isn't much fun to come home and tell the family that you got fired for "insubordination."

So my old friend is trying to fit into a decent slot at Gargantuan MegaCorp.  He works hard and represents his organization honorably.  He is a brilliant fella with a kind heart.  He is a family man with 2 kids under the age of 10.  And he has gritted his teeth a few times when his very correct recommendations were rejected for reasons of expediency or organization politics.

In these United States, we tend to celebrate entrepreneurs and "rugged individuals" that bust out through sheer force of will.  I submit that the honest, hard-working types that are striving to convince major organizations to do the right thing are also heroes.  And  every once in a while, one of these anonymous organization soldiers convince their Leviathan to change for the better.

Donaldson Toussaint L’Ouverture Byrd II (aka Donald Byrd) - we lose another great one

Donald Byrd was an extremely great hard bop trumpeter.  A brilliant man, he studied hard to become a professor and taught jazz at major universities.  He wrote and performed Cristo Redentor, a jazz standard that has been covered by dozens of great artists, including blues harmonica player Charlie Musselwhite. But he really grabbed me when he "crossed over" to funk in the 1970's and launched the Blackbyrds with a bunch of youngsters.  "Do It, Fluid" was my favorite party tune when I was a young man. I remember that LP well - there was a reproduction of Van Gogh's "Wheatfield with Crows" on the cover.  I wore that damn record out.

Donald Byrd changed the game and he is revered by many people (including quite a few hip hop artists, who have sampled the hell out of his music).  Here is the New York Times obit.

The giants fall.  Will others fill the void?

A Brother's Birthday

Here is a picture of the last remaining members of the California branch of the Gillock family.  My brother (on the right) and I are shuffling into geezerhood now.  He is ahead of me by 8 years.  He is ahead of me in many ways - he is sorta retired, I am still working.  His kids are grown and gone, I still have 2 at home.  He is a successful husband; I am a 2-time loser in that role.  My brother John has always been awesome.  Today is his birthday, so here is the obligatory shout - out:  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOHN!!!!!.

John and I grew up in a classic 1950's/1960's family unit.  For quite a few years, dad worked, mom stayed home and the two kids did all those classic kid things - Cub Scouts, attend the local school, hang with the kids in the 'hood, etc.  But our dad had some mental health challenges - he eventually went on disability - and mom got her teaching credentials and went to work.  I stopped looking up to my father and started looking up to my brother instead.

Siblings often fall into the love/hate trap.  I was an annoying kid.  John didn't really want to hang out with me much when we both lived at home - the age difference was sufficiently large that we occupied separate realities.  And as I entered the school system, I kept running into a consistent response from teachers that knew my brother: "Oh, you are John Gillock's brother?  Well, I hope you are as marvelous as he is."  God, I hated that attitude.  It was especially aggravating to know that the teachers were right, my brother was marvelous, and I would always come up short when compared to him.  So I was annoying, but he was insufferable due to his marvelousness.

He was the star in high school - dashingly handsome, on the swim team, class president, outstanding grades, college scholarship offers, Eagle Scout -- well, you get the picture.

He went off to college and something interesting happened - we became closer.  I paid a lot of attention to him.  He was a man of strong opinions and integrity.  He fought tooth and nail with my parents over the Vietnam conflict; he hated the war on moral grounds and worked hard to stay out of it. Years later, my mother told me that she realized that John had been right about Vietnam.

My brother became a teacher, like our mother.  He worked in New Orleans, rural Washington state, Saudi Arabia, Bangladesh, Abu Dhabi and Portland OR.  He has changed and molded many young people.  He is a master teacher.

John is a skilled outdoorsman who can quickly pitch a tent in the rain at midnight.  He is a dedicated hiker, and still hits the trail whenever he can in spite of the effects of Parkinsons Disease.  Yes, John is fighting this nasty affliction, but he has accepted it with grace and calmness.  And he isn't letting the disease define him in any way.

John took care of our mother when she was dying of cancer.  He has been incredibly kind and supportive as I have gone through some struggles over the past year or so.  And when I try to thank him, he just says, "This is what brothers are for."

I have had a lot of good luck, but one of the luckiest things in my life is having John as my brother.

Anxiety disorders

I am re-blogging something from Tumblr.  This piece is one of the best things I have read about anxiety disorders, written by an individual recovering from this disease.  Two of the most important people in my life are struggling with anxiety disorder.  I apologize to both of them for not always understanding what is wrong.  This piece has helped me figure out what to do.

DECODING ANXIETY DISORDER

Things that we are trying to do all the time:

1.  BE SAFE.

Things we can't help but do all the time:

1.    Second guess ourselves
2.    Behave impulsively and reactively
3.    Take everything personally
4.    worry
5.    worry
6.    worry
7.    have difficulty accepting complements
8.    have difficulty reciprocating friendly gestures
9.    have difficulty finding the courage to respond
10.  have difficulty not being suspicious of others' intentions
11.  make a huge deal out of the smallest thing.

Things you should keep in mind:

1.    we're scared of everything
2.    pretty much all the time
3.    it's an actual disorder
4.    it manifests as impulsive behavior
5.    you can't fix us with words
6.    telling us "worrying is silly" won't make us stop worrying
7.    it'll only make us feel silly
8.    and then we'll worry even more
9.    "oh god, am I worrying too much?  what if they call me silly again?"
10.   like that
11.   also, we wear a lot of armor
12.   cold, heavy affection-proof armor with spikes
13.   we constructed this armor as children
14.   we're fairly certain that you will never be able to pry it apart
15.   but there is a nice person under there, we promise.

Things you can do for a friend with an anxiety disorder:

1.    stick around
2.    ask them if they are comfortable in a place or a situation
3.    be willing to change the place or situation if not
4.    activities that help them take their minds off things are good!
5.    talk to them even when they might not talk back
6.    (they're probably too afraid to say the wrong thing)
7.    try not to take their reactions (or lack thereof) personally
8.    (the way they express themselves is distorted and bent by their constant fear)
9.    (and they know this)
10.   give them time to respond to you
11.   they will obsess over how they are being interpreted
12.   they will anticipate being judged
13.   it took me four hours just to type this much
14.   even though I sound casual
15.   that's because I have an anxiety disorder

Things you shouldn't do:

1.    tell us not to worry
2.    tell us we'll be fine
3.    mistake praise for comfort
4.    ask us if we are "getting help"
5.    force us to be social
6.    force us to do things that trigger us
7.    "face your fears" doesn't always work
8.    because -- remember -- scared of everything
9.    in fact, it would be more accurate to say that we are scared of the fear itself.

Emergency action procedure for panic attacks:

1.    be calm
2.    be patient
3.    don't be condescending
4.    remind us that we are not "crazy"
5.    sit with us
6.    ask us to tighten and relax our muscles one by one
7.    remind us that we are breathing
8.    engage us in a discussion (if we can talk we can breathe)
9.    if we are having trouble breathing, try getting us to exhale slowly
10.  or breathe through our nose
11.  or have us put our hands on our stomach to feel each breath
12.  ask us what needs to change in our environment to help us feel safe
12.  help us change it
13.  usually, just knowing we have someone on our side willing to fight our scary monsters with us is enough
       to calm us down

If you have an anxiety disorder:

1.    it's okay
2.    even if you worry that it's not okay
3.    it's still okay.  it's okay to be scared.  it's okay to be scared of being scared
4.    you are not crazy.   you are not a freak.
5.    I know there is a person under all that armor
6.   and I know you feel isolated because of it.
7.   I won't make you take it off
8.   but know that you are not alone.

Here is the link to the original Tumblr post: Here it is.

RIP, Sugarfoot

You can learn a lot from studying the masters, and today's music is built on the foundations of the past.  Real funk fans are still studying the output of key groups from the 1970's - Kool and the Gang, Tower of Power, Parliament/Funkadelic, Earth Wind & Fire and, of course, the Ohio Players.  When I was playing trombone in the Mystic Knights band during my college years, "Skin Tight" by the Ohio Players was one tune we covered on every gig.  It always got the crowd dancing.  And "Funky Worm," with its totally weird Moog synthesizer licks, is still being sampled by heaps of hip-hop artists.  The Ohio Players hit the airwaves with "Fire," "Love Rollercoaster" and "O-H-I-O,"  all crazed funk explosions.  I loved the fact that these fellas were from Dayton OH, not generally thought of as a hot-bed of acid funk.  The OPs could play!

Well, the leader of the wild and crazy OPs has shuffled off this mortal coil.  Leroy "Sugarfoot" Bonner sported a massive 'fro back in the mid-70's (you couldn't even see his eyes through the 'doo).  He was fond of  the double-necked electric guitar. He could sing his ass off.   I think Sugarfoot ranks with George Clinton; maybe they came from a different planet.

Sugar was 69 years old and lost his battle with cancer.  We won't see the likes of him again. Rest in peace, man.

Five Interesting Facts to Ponder in the New Year

1. AIG is infamous for receiving $180 billion of Federal bailout money during the financial crisis in 2008 and 2009.  I have read that the final sale of the U.S. Government's interest in AIG generated a $22 billion gain for taxpayers.  I wonder what the internal rate of return is on this investment?  We hate bailouts, but this one turned out pretty well financially. In fact the whole TARP fiasco isn't looking like a terrible burden at this point.  It is too early to know if all the TARP money will get paid back, but a lot of it has.  The big risk is that the government will listen to the whiney banks and cancel "in the money" warrants that it received with its TARP investments instead of harvesting gains.  Don't cave in to the banks, Uncle Sam!
2. The U.S. birth rate dropped by 8% between 2007 and 2011.  We are at 63.2 births per 1,000 women of child-bearing age, down from 122.7 in 1957 at the peak of the Baby Boom.  The average woman gives birth to 1.9 kids over her lifetime now and that number is declining.  It takes 2.1 kids per woman to maintain our population. The recent decline is allegedly due to the recession and perhaps that is true.  This demographic trend, if maintained, has massive implications.  A shrinking, aging populace will have higher needs and less productivity.  Think about what this means......
3. Barely half of the adults in the United States are married - this is the lowest percentage ever.  In 1960, 72% of adults were married; now its 51%.  It looks like marriage is playing a less central role in the social/cultural life of the United States - indeed, the group of folks that are most eager to get married appears to be same sex couples!  Think about what this means.....
4. I have read that the United States Government is borrowing 46 cents of every dollar it is spending.  Think about what this means.....
5. Forty-three years ago, China invited a U.S. table tennis team to visit the country, launching "ping-pong diplomacy."  China has become a major economic force and is deeply entwined with the United States (lending much of the 46 cents of every dollar that the U.S. Government borrows to fund its spending).  Is there another seemingly small step in progress that could also mark the beginning of a huge change?

New Year's Capitulations

After almost five decades of making New Year's resolutions, I have decided to take a different approach this year.  I am going to make some "New Year's Capitulations."  A "capitulation" is the opposite of a "resolution."  These are the goals that I am going to officially give up, surrender, and  cease worrying about/hating myself for not achieving.  This might sound like a depressing exercise, but it isn't.  My theory here is if there are fewer things to worry about, I might actually worry less.  Hey, it's worth a try...

So here we go:

1.  Stop trying to lose that last 10 pounds of excess weight:  My body likes that little blanket of fat. No matter what I do, it sticks to me.  The only time I lost it was when I prepped for my colonoscopy. I am just going to learn to love my chub.
2. Forget about becoming fluent in a foreign language:  I lost my chance to gain this skill in a natural way when I failed to pursue the goal in my school days days or during my time living overseas.  It takes work, focus and determination. Hell, I am 58 years old!  Those are limited resources at this stage in my life.  Punt.
3. No hit records for you, buddy:  I used to think that my silly song-writing and blues band shenanigans could actually lead to a song that broke into the public consciousness and made money!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!  What a delusion!  So I will just goof around with music for my own amusement.  Let other, more talented people strive for musical fame; I am giving up.
4. No sub-4 hour marathon; in fact, no more marathons, period:  I managed to stumble through the Chicago marathon in 4 hours 20 minutes back in 1992.  I thought I was the next Alberto Salazar.  I set the goal for breaking 4 hours, then gradually improving my performance until I was at the front of the pack in my age group.  Well, I never ran another marathon and my knees scream at me if I run more than 2 miles.  Time to officially stop thinking about this unimportant, unattainable goal.
5. No CEO job:  I was the CEO of a small company for a short time and it was the worst experience of my working life.  In spite of that, I kept thinking that being the top banana is a worthy goal.  It ain't gonna happen, and that's a good thing, because I am a lousy CEO.
6. Give up on the idea of having a successful marriage:  I have spent most of my adult life married, to two different women.  It seemed like these marriages started out pretty well, but after a while my spouses started to detest me. I am currently unraveling my second marriage.   I am still in favor of marriage, but I don't seem to be cut out for it.  I will stick to friendships from now on.
7. Inner peace? Fuhgedabowdit!!:  I have no idea what "inner peace" means, exactly, but my interior life is a bubbling pot of weirdness.  Meditation or cups of tea or large quantities of adult beverages have no impact on this. Time to face it - turmoil will be in my heart forever.

Dropping these seven items still leaves me plenty of stuff to pursue.  I hope that I will move a little more nimbly by dropping some baggage.  

Happy New Year!!

Mood Disorders

Like everyone else in America, I have been horrified and saddened by the mass murder of innocents at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut.  I am a parent.  It is an unbelievable nightmare.  And it is tied to mood disorder.

According to studies cited by the National Institute of Mental Health, about 26% of Americans aged 18 and over suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year.  When you are sitting on the bus with twenty other folks, five of them are probably mentally ill.  Heck, you might be one of the five!

According to the NIMH website, there are 14.8 million Americans with major depressive disorder, 5.7 million with bipolar disorder, 40 million with anxiety disorders, 7.7 million with post-traumatic stress disorder and 2.4 million with schizophrenia. Almost half of the people with mental illness suffer from more than one disorder. Some portion of mentally ill individuals, particularly those with severe mood disorders, slip into full-blown psychosis.

A reminder - psychosis is a general psychiatric term associated with a mental state often described as involving a "loss of contact with reality."  This can lead to everything from mildly aberrant behavior/beliefs ("the police are out to get me") to complex and/or catatonic expressions of very severe mental disorders (hallucinations, delusions, violent/murderous acts).

The vast majority of people with mood disorders pose no threat to others; in fact, mentally ill people are four times more likely than "normal" people to be a VICTIM of violence.  On occasion, however, psychotic people commit murders and other violent acts.  People in the grips of a psychotic episode are often terrified - their emotional recognition system is impaired and people, even people they know quite well, can seem alien and threatening to them.  People with mood disorders, especially people who are psychotic, often lack the insight to realize that they are ill so they don't seek treatment - often, they avoid it.  If you are terrified, in the grip of psychosis, you have to save yourself from that experience somehow.  All sorts of heinous behavior can occur, and seem perfectly justifiable to the psychotic person.

A very small subset of psychotic people fall into the category commonly labeled as "psychopaths."  These are the folks that appear to be sane; they aren't raving or noticeably crazy and they can actually be quite charming.  Psychopaths lack empathy and don't connect to emotions the way most of us do.  Professor Robert Hare has said, "A psychopath can use words like 'I love you' but it means no more to him than if he said 'I'll have a cup of coffee.'"  About 90% of serial killers are psychopaths.

Now here is the thing - in the United States, mentally ill people have the same rights as the rest of us, which is the way it should be, right?  This makes it very difficult to have a severely mentally ill adult committed to in-patient treatment against his or her will.  In addition, in-patient psychiatric care is in short supply.  Since insurance companies don't want to pay for any unnecessary hospitalization, the hospital in-take staff are biased against admitting anyone who shows up with a mental illness.  If an individual is sufficiently disrupted to be taken into the ER by the cops, they can sign that individual in for an involuntary 72 hour assessment.  If the individual refuses to stay after that hold period, there is little that the hospital or anyone else can do short of a court order forcing the person into the psych ward via involuntary commitment.  It is very difficult and time-consuming to obtain these court orders.

So we have this massive epidemic of mental illness, and the severely ill folks can avoid treatment if they wish.  The state of knowledge of psychiatric illnesses is quite inadequate; psychiatrists and therapists are usually making educated guesses about their patients (if that).  The old saying is "Psychiatry is to medicine as astrology is to astronomy."    I have spent a lot of time over the past few years interacting with mental health professionals as I tried to help loved ones with mental illness and I totally agree with that saying.

Now let's overlay the mental illness epidemic on top of the American gun culture.  Regardless of where one might stand regarding Second Amendment rights, it is easy to see that we have a problem.  The surprise isn't that psychotic people will commit murder on occasion.  The surprise is that we don't have a lot more murders committed by psychotics. It is as easy as pie for an undiagnosed psychotic individual to get a gun.  This demonstrates again that the overwhelming majority of folks with mental illnesses are not violent.

And while we do have a problem, it is also important to put the risk in perspective.  There were 14,748 murders in the U.S. in 2010 and a fraction of those killings were committed by mentally ill people; there were 32,788 people killed in automobile accidents. All parents need to remember that, statistically speaking, our children are much, much safer in school than they are in the backseat of a car. We fear automobile accidents, but we dread random murders committed by crazy people.   Dread is not subject to the rules of logic - we obsess over things that are very unlikely to happen, whether it is random murder or a jet crash. Dread is a lot worse than fear.

Having said all of this, I can't for the life of me figure out why any regular citizen of the United States needs to own an assault weapon; it seems to me that the threat to public safety outweighs the "right to bear arms." When the Founders wrote the Second Amendment, I don't think they anticipated that they would be protecting the right to own a weapon that can spray 400 rounds per minute.

Tony Caviglia

The older  trumpet player with the beard in the midst of a teenage trumpet section is Tony Caviglia. Mr. Caviglia is a graduate of Julliard and a long-time stalwart of the East Bay Area music scene in Northern California.  Tony is no spring chicken, but he is still playing concerts in the San Francisco Bay Area last time I checked.  He is also a long-time music educator that has changed the trajectory of many lives, including mine.

I met Tony Caviglia in September 1967 when I entered John Muir Junior High School in San Leandro CA. Tony was the instrumental music instructor for the school. Back in those glory days, California schools were top-notch, and the John Muir Junior High music department had fine facilities and equipment. We were just a 2-year institution (8th and 9th grade), but the music department included a concert band, a symphony orchestra and many smaller ensembles.  The most meaningful group for me was the "stage band."  This "swing era" term was still used used in the 50's and 60's for big jazz ensembles.

The John Muir Stage Band was an extracurricular activity.  Rehearsals convened an hour before the first class - that would be 7:15 AM.  This is not a natural hour for 13-15 year old people to be awake.  Tony Caviglia had the type of intensity and charisma that could motivate a bunch of teenage punks to do unnatural things.  He also was able to coax real music out of a bunch of beginners.  We started out playing some fairly easy, schlocky tunes that were popular when our parents were young ("Sentimental Journey" by Glen Miller, "Woodchopper's Ball" by Woody Herman, etc.).  As time went on and the band grew in skill, Mr. Caviglia began feeding us more challenging stuff - Count Basie tunes (those classic Neal Hefti arrangements) and Charles Mingus (a killer big band version of "Better Get It In Your Soul").  We began to sound pretty damn good.

But we were still rotten punk teenagers.  On some mornings, we were not easy to teach.  In mid-winter, on a wet, dark morning, the whole band was surly and uncooperative.   Mr. Caviglia was laboring mightily to settle us down.  After 30 minutes of chaos, he was done. "Alright fine!" he yelled.  "I am not getting paid extra for this.  If you kids don't want to be serious and play this great music, I'm done.  This band is dis-banded!" and he stomped out of the music room.

Well, the music room fell silent for a about half a minute.  We were all surprised and dismayed.  We decided to head to our classes.  Mr. Caviglia will cool down, and we will be OK in the morning.  We will get back on track.

But when we showed up at the music building the next morning at 7:15, Mr. Caviglia wasn't there.  The custodian let us in and we set up and waited.  No Caviglia.  Somebody said "Well let's rehearse since we are all here."  Somebody called the tune, another kid counted it off and we started to play.  We even stopped and worked on the rough spots.  There was no chatter; we were very focused, and worried that Mr. Caviglia would never lead us again.

As the rehearsal hour wound down, Mr. Caviglia showed up.  He stood in a corner near the entrance as we played and we didn't notice him. We kept playing and finished one of the tunes - it sounded pretty good.  We were startled by the sound of one man clapping.  We looked over and saw Mr. Caviglia applauding.  His eyes were wet.

"I will see you kids tomorrow at 7:15.  Bring your 'A' game."

So we went off to our classes and returned to rehearsal the next day.  We never got rowdy after that.  And that year, we won the Festival Grand Prize at the Reno All-Star High School Jazz Festival.  We were one of three junior high bands at the fest.

Seriousness of purpose, joy in teamwork, and self-discipline were the lessons Caviglia taught me.  I am not much of a trombonist these days, but I still use Caviglia's lessons every day.

Looking back/Looking forward

It isn't the end of the year yet, but I had a birthday recently.  This puts me in looking back/looking forward mode, sometimes.  The road behind me is much longer than the road in front of me; I have been beached on the rocky shores of late middle age.  My birthday is not a momentous occasion since I am a regular guy of little consequence. To exist is momentous, however, and this gift of just being alive is often overlooked by many people, including me.

My daughters and I have been thinking about homeless dogs lately.  We have visited the Anti-Cruelty Society shelter and the Animal Control facility, both in Chicago.  The Anti-Cruelty Society joint is clean, bright and well-lit. The cages are large, and each dog is wearing a bright bandanna with the Anti-Cruelty Society logo on it. It is on the fancy and wealthy Near North Side, at LaSalle and Grand.  Flocks of volunteers wander the place, eager to help anyone seeking a canine or feline companion. There are "adoption consultants" and  multi-page forms that prospective animal adopters must fill out.  The Animal Control headquarters in Chicago is at 27th and South Western.  This is a gritty section of town, full of auto  repair shops and truck terminals.  The inside of the Animal Control joint is a bit like Cook County Jail for four-legged felons.  There are relatively few volunteers, and they seem stressed out.  The city workers are indifferent and busy processing strays/lost dogs. The large headshot of a smiling Rahm Emanual is one of the few wall decorations that doesn't look tattered.  The volunteers are expected to handle adoptions.  The place reeks of dog feces and urine.  About 75% of the dogs are pit bulls; the fancy rescue shelters sweep up the more "marketable" dogs to clean up and sell at a profit (the high-end shelter in Chicago, PAWS, charges $200 for a dog adoption vs. $65 at Animal Control).  The Animal Control unit is Bedlam for dogs - they are all pretty upset, barking and agitated in their smelly quarters.  It is not a place for the soft-hearted.

All these animals have a story, but many come in as strays or "owner surrenders."  What was in their past?  What is in their future?  Mystery surrounds them, but they are all insistently alive; sometimes furious about their circumstances, but alive.  We might foster a dog, try to help it transition back to life as a companion animal. It is a small thing, but at least its something.

Sometimes the past is confusing, and of course the future is opaque.  It seems like the same issues and events repeat themselves, but we often fail to anticipate things correctly.  We have that nagging feeling - we have seen this movie before, but we have forgotten the ending, or we just don't know when it will end.  Debt piles up and work is hard to find; missiles fly and tanks roll;  a flock of  irrational conflicts compete for our attention.  All these things have happened before, are happening now, will happen again.  But to exist is still momentous.

When faced with irrational conflicts, we can quote Mercutio - " A plague 'a both your houses!" Or the late Rodney King - "Can we all get along?" And we can take a little comfort in the fact that life always strives to continue.  That is one thing we know for sure about the future.

A Trombone Memory - J.J. Johnson

The Jazz Showcase is a venerable jazz club in Chicago.  Joe Segal opened the place in 1947, and it is allegedly the second oldest continuously operating jazz venue in the world, after the Village Vanguard in New York.  Joe is still active at the Showcase, making his sardonic introductions before the sets begin.  He is about 86 years young.  His son does much of the heavy lifting these days, but Joe remains one of those non-musician heroes of jazz, laboring mightily to keep the music alive in the City of the Big Shoulders.

The Jazz Showcase has moved from location to location through the decades.  It currently is in the South Loop, in Dearborn Station.  Between 1982 and 1996, it was housed in the Blackstone Hotel just off Michigan Avenue.  That is the venue I visited most often.

I think it was in 1991.  J.J. Johnson, the legendary trombonist, was coming to Chicago and was booked at the Jazz Showcase.  There is no semi-serious trombonist on the planet that hasn't been amazed and deeply impacted by J.J.  He was the guy that changed everything, turned the old slush-pump from a jazz novelty , a source of "gut-bucket" musical comedy, to the same level as the tenor sax and the trumpet as a vehicle for beautiful, complex music.  The jazz critic Whitney Balliett once said that listening to a trombonist attempting to play fast jazz phrases was "like watching a fat man run uphill."  J.J. changed that forever.  His technique was miles ahead of every other trombonist; no one thought it was possible to make a slide trombone do the things that J.J. did.  His discipline was beyond belief; he practiced like a madman.  J.J was also a gifted bandleader and composer - he barely recorded from 1967 though the 1970's because he was so busy scoring movies and television shows.

I used to be a teenage trombonist.  I worshiped J.J. Johnson.

So in the winter of 1991, I got tickets and headed to the Blackstone Hotel to see J.J. for my first and only time.  He had moved from LA back to his home town of Indianapolis; his wife, Vivian, became quite ill after a stroke in 1988 and he stopped performing for a couple of years.  The Jazz Showcase gig marked a comeback of sorts for J.J.  Before his first tune, he leaned into the microphone and said, softly, "Once again, Joe Segal has rescued old J.J. from oblivion."

I can remember quite a bit of the set.  He played "Misty" and that brought tears to my eyes. He played a version of Lou Donaldson's "Blues Walk" that was swinging and fun.  He did Cole Porter's "It's All Right With Me," which was articulate and full of gentle phrases.  His musical lines were ravishing, he played very softly, his tone was lush and warm.  He did not play a single unnecessary note. J.J. was almost 67 years old on that night; he had not lost any of his skills, and in fact, had improved as he aged. It was a religious experience for me.

At the break, J.J. put his horn on his trombone stand and strolled over to the bar.  He was relaxed and approachable; many fans spoke to him.  My wife of 16 months turned to me and said, "Aren't you going to introduce yourself to J.J.?"  I said "Of course not - I can't speak to him!  He is J.J. Johnson!!"  Well, my wife said "Bullshit."  She walked over to J.J. and said "Mr. Johnson, my husband plays trombone and he really loves you."  My God, I was horrified!  But she dragged me over, and soon I was shaking his hand, and looking into his smiling face.  His eyes were quite melancholy, as I recall.  It was one of those "I'm not worthy" moments. When I think about it, I still feel anxious and small.

J.J.'s wife passed away later in 1991, a very difficult time for J.J., I am sure.  He issued a recording in her honor, simply entitled "Vivian," in 1992.  J.J. re-married, and performed again starting in 1992.  By 1997, he felt his skills as a trombonist deteriorating, so he quit.  While J.J. kept composing, his horn fell silent.

Things got tough for J.J. at the end.  He battled prostate cancer.  In 2000, his biograpy, "The Musical World of J.J. Johnson," was published.

On February 4, 2001, J.J. Johnson died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.  He was 77 years old.  Apparently, he found his escalating health problems to be intolerable.  I still feel his loss, I listen to his music frequently.

If there was a Mount Rushmore of jazz horn players, J.J would be carved into it along with Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis.

Evanstonians Lost - Dajae Coleman and Linda Twyman

Nibra White is a friend of mine.  He works at the McGaw YMCA in Evanston as a coach and personal trainer.  Among his other activities, he is a coach for the youth basketball league sponsored by the Fellowship of African-American Men (FAAM) in Evanston.  One of his "great kids" was a young guy named Dajae Coleman (aka "Dae Dae"), a 14-year old honors student starting his basketball career as a point guard at Evanston Township High School.  Nibra's assessment of Dae Dae - quiet, well-mannered, bright, "coachable."  I didn't know Dajae, but I have probably seen him around town. We are all "one degree of separation" apart in Evanston - we are connected, although we don't always act like it.

Dae Dae was  killed at about 10:30 PM on Saturday night as he walked home from a party in his neighborhood in Evanston.  He was doing what kids do - hanging around with his friends and having some fun.  Some bloodthirsty idiot shot him, randomly it seems.  So we won't get to see what this fine young man might have achieved, what life he was going to construct for himself.

Killings are up about 40% in Chicago this year and it is no surprise that the carnage is spilling over to Evanston since we are smack up against the big city.  Street rumor is that the shooter of Dae Dae came from just south of Howard Street.  The Evanston Police Department is pushing to find the perp, of course.  It is really hard to solve these murders because folks won't talk to the police.

And the incident last Saturday occurred within walking distance of another murder, the 2005 slaying of Linda Twyman.  This nice, 40-something lady was slaughtered  in her own home; no arrests, no resolution in sight.  The case made a local splash when it happened, but it faded from sight.  The murder of a regular, hard-working divorced mom doesn't hold the public's attention for long, sad to say.  The case is cold as ice.  I wonder if the Evanston Police is still working on it?  I knew Linda, slightly, and I am sad that this case hasn't been cracked.

The chance of getting killed by a random attack is really very small.  Perhaps it is the rarity and capriciousness of these infrequent events that rattle us.  The tragedy of lives cut short is always intense, but even more when the victim is blameless and doesn't even know their assailant.    I have kept Linda Twyman in my thoughts for seven years; I am adding Dajae Coleman to my list of lost Evanstonians in need of justice.

Hiding Out in Driftless with the Ghost of Harriet Hosmer

In this political season, it is good to unplug and go on a road trip into one of the less celebrated areas of our nation. One of the things that is especially great about the United States is the abundance of elbow room and beautiful places that are relatively unoccupied.  One of the places I head to when I need to hide out is the Upper Mississippi River Wildlife Refuge, a massive swath of the northern section of the Big Muddy, covering  over 200,000 acres and 260 miles of the river's path.

This is not a densely populated area, and it is pretty dang far from major cities.  It is over 250 miles to Chicago, 193 miles to Milwaukee, 198 miles to Minneapolis.  There is lots of farming, hunting, fishing and Harley riding happening in this region.  They call it the Driftless Area, a lovely name that sounds philosophical  but refers to the fact that the great glaciers didn't drift this far south back in ancient times.  There are plenty of forested hillsides and sculpted valleys cut into limestone bedrock.  When you pass a car on the road, the occupants invariably raise their hand in a peaceful, friendly greeting.  Life is slower here, and much quieter.  You can see all the stars when you step outside your cabin door at night and gaze skyward.

The media is blasting news of Romney and Obama into our brains all day and all night.  The Artic ice is melting at an alarmingly rapid pace.  The United States is lurching insanely toward the Fiscal Cliff. The Cubs are on track to lose 100 games this season, which, remarkably, wouldn't be their worst season (they lost 103 games in 1962 and 1966).  In spite of all this distressing crap, the Driftless Area cruises on, basking in local joys and coping with local sorrows.

On the east side of the Mississippi, in Lansing, Iowa, there is a city park, Mt. Hosmer Park.  As you would surmise, it contains Mt. Hosmer.  The view form Mt. Hosmer is pictured above.  At the summit is a lovely World War I memorial and on the cliff overlooking the spectacular Upper Mississippi region is a 60-foot flagpole erected by a local committee that included the American Legion and VFW chapters.  Mt. Hosmer was named for Harriet Hosmer, a noted 19th century American sculptress who spent time traveling the "wild Mississippi" in the early 1850's when she was a young woman.  The little mountain was named for Miss Hosmer because she won a footrace to the summit that occurred during a steamboat layover in 1851.  Miss Hosmer was known as an "independent woman" - she didn't marry and preferred the company of other women, specifically spending 25 years with a certain Lady Ashburton (mostly in Europe).  Harriet was quite the cut-up - Henry James called her "the life of every party."

Now, I didn't expect to learn that a mountain in Lansing IA was named after a wild and crazy 19th century lesbian sculptor.  This is one of those pieces of information that makes me feel quite pleased with the bone-deep quirkiness of the USofA.  Good, old Iowa!

I can go back home now, a bit refreshed and a little more confident that we will all muddle through somehow.

Eva Cassidy

The  voice was the humankind's first musical instrument.  Voices and hands beating a rhythm were the components of our first musical compositions.  I believe singing is the most popular type of music due to this prehistoric connection.  We are hard-wired to respond. That is why a skilled vocalist can connect with millions of people.  But sometimes the most amazing singers remain obscure.

The story of Eva Cassidy is known to some people, and it is available for your reading pleasure via a simple Google search.  The keywords for Ms. Cassidy - shy, insanely talented, eclectic, tragic.  She died of cancer at the age of 33 and her modest fame was achieved after she passed.

I have been listening to this woman for years and she still stuns me and rips my heart out.  That voice! The phrasing and range!  I recommend that you watch and listen to Eva's performance of "Stormy Monday".  This unbelievable soul/blues music is pouring out of her, and she is such a sweet little blonde suburban woman.  Some musical experiences are just too intense and beautiful, the pleasure of listening borders on pain.  A musical experience like that changes the listener forever.  Eva Cassidy was a master of providing people with those experiences.

I am not religious, but I hope that there is an afterlife so I can tell Eva to her face how her music has grabbed and changed me.

David Schantz, aka Dave "Slim" Chance, RIP

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, I was a punk teenager with a bad attitude and really bad hair.  One of my running buddies was a guy named David Schantz.  Dave and I grew up together in the Bonaire neighborhood in San Leandro, California.  He was a year older than me and I looked up to him.  He was a multi-instrumentalist - bass trombone, tuba, cello, acoustic and electric bass, guitar - and he was smart as hell.  If I remember right, he was admitted to Stanford.  He also liked to sing (his vocal style was...umm...unique) and he acted in several plays in high school.  Dave was creative and hilarious, and was a tall, lean character who swaggered when he walked.  So Dave had a lot going for him as a young man.  We had a lot of crazy teenage experiences together and played a lot of music.  He opened my ears to some new sounds.

Dave also was interested in experimentation and he had a rebellious streak.  This manifested itself in the activities one might expect of a teenager in the late 1960's - drug use and refusal to conform to societal expectations.  He never made it to Stanford, I don't think.  Dave wanted to be a rock star and he pursued that dream, I think.

When I left California after college, I lost touch with Dave.  I would get tidbits of info - he released a self-produced CD, he assumed the alias of Dave "Slim" Chance, he hooked up a stationary bike to a generator to make electricity while exercising.  I didn't see Dave or talk to him - he moved out past Sacramento, so he wasn't around when I went back to the San Francisco Bay Area to visit.

I got a call from another old childhood buddy last night - Dave Schantz died  on Tuesday.  He contracted hepatitis C some time ago, which morphed to liver cancer, which took him out.  Dave was around 59 years old, I think.  It is a damn shame he had to check out early.

So I dug around the web and found Dave's YouTube channel. He put up a remarkable video - one of his original songs, telling his story, tied to a photo montage of his life.  He knew that he was going to die.  Here is the link to that video. There is another video that provides a glimpse of Dave's brilliance: Check it out here.

Dave Schantz, aka Dave "Slim" Chance - sorry I lost touch with you, man.  I will be sure to raise a glass full of adult beverage tonight in your memory.  I have a feeling that is what you would want me to do.

The UBAA will not rise again.

When I first arrived in Evanston IL to attend graduate school at Northwestern, I was amazed by a strange reality.  It was 1976, and Evanston was a college town that did not have a bar.  This was very wrong and unnatural.  The situation has been corrected - Evanston is now rotten with drinking establishments (disguised as restaurants).  But in the late 1970's, drinking an adult beverage while sitting in a cool dark space required a field trip out of town.  The closest watering whole to my first residence in Evanston was the UBAA, right over the northwest border of town in Skokie.

The UBAA (AKA the Old Crawford Inn) was launched in 1939 by Richard Diesterheft.  It was originally named "The U-Bar" in honor of its'uniquely-shaped bar.  Sometime in the 1950's, the local politicos passed an ordinance prohibiting the use of the word "Bar" in the name of a drinking establishment ( now THAT was over-regulation!!).  Richard shrugged and re-named his joint "The UBAA Tap."  In my view, this was a brilliant piece of passive resistance against tyranny.

The UBAA attracted thirsty Evanstonians like dog poop attracts files.  Every night was Saturday night.  You could also catch the Cubs in the afternoon and suck down a couple of Old Styles.  Until the 1990's, the joint had little competition.  The beer was cold, the food was decent, the hamburgers were especially good.  The Diesterheft family owned and operated the joint for 4 generations.  It was a constant in a sea of change.  One of my favorite Saturday afternoon treats was to ride my bike on a 6+ mile route to the UBAA, have a Fat Tire and a burger, then ride home.  The UBAA was an old-fashioned neighborhood tavern, a gathering place with regulars; a small business that sponsored Little League teams and bowling leagues.  It wasn't a fancy place; it was in a non-nondescript building that had several funky local retail businesses (vacuum cleaner repair shop, window and siding store, etc), but it played a role valuable role in the community.

Late last year, the UBAA abruptly closed.  It might have been due to a deterioration of the business; it might of been due to electrical code violations uncovered by the Village of Skokie during an inspection, maybe the Diesterheft family just ran out of energy for the enterprise.  There is a huge "For Sale or Lease" sign in the parking lot.  There is a hole in the fabric of the neighborhood.

Being a curious person, I called the realtor's number on the big sign in the UBAA's parking lot.  I learned that the property is under contract, has been for several months, and the sale should close in a week.  At first, I thought that the UBAA would rise again, under new ownership, but the news isn't good for fans of neighborhood taverns. The realtor said it will be torn down and a new development will take its place.  The realtor wouldn't tell me what new building would be put in its place; it will be a commercial development, not residential.  Please, no fast food!!

So after 73 years, The UBAA is about to be buried.  It was a long run, and the joint is missed.

Hang in There, Curtis!!!

I was pretty excited when I saw a poster at the used record store in Evanston - Curtis Salgado was coming to my suburb, playing at SPACE ("Society for the Preservation of Art and Culture in Evanston"), on August 11, a big Saturday night.  If you are a harmonica player who sings (like me), Curtis is who you want to be when you grow up.  I have been following Mr. Salgado for quite a while; he even has been a victim of this blog back in 2006.

A few weeks ago, I got on the SPACE web site to buy tickets and saw that the show was CANCELLED!!  "Uh oh," I thought.

Curtis is one of the under-appreciated super-talents of my generation.  He is my age (58), he is a fantastic white-boy soul singer and he is an amazing harmonica player.  Curtis has one main claim to fame - he was John Belushi's inspiration for the Blues Brothers schtick.  Curtis was playing the clubs around Eugene Oregon when Belushi and the National Lampoon gang were filming Animal House on the University of Oregon campus.  Curtis' style and talent fascinated big John, and he swiped much of Curtis' persona when he constructed the Blue Brothers - in fact, he split Curtis into two performers - the singer (Jake) and the harmonica player (Elwood).  Salgado was on the fringes of breaking through - he teamed up with Robert Cray for a while, he was the front man for Roomful of Blues,  he opened for Steve Miller in the early 1990's, he played on the Conan O'Brien show in 1997, he sang lead for Santana for a year.  Curtis toured heavily most of his career.  He also partied hard - alcohol, cocaine and a mix of other substances.  He had a "moment of clarity" during a coke binge, checked himself into the hospital in October 1988 and quit.  He stayed clean.

But the life he led left its mark  Or maybe it is genetics - Curtis' mom died of cancer when he was 23 years old.

In 2006, Curtis was diagnosed with liver cancer and was given eight months to live.  He had no health insurance.  He waited six months - the sands were running out of the hour glass.  Finally, he got a call to hot-foot it out to Omaha to receive a liver transplant.  The bills were massive - a series of benefits, donations from fans and fellow musicians and on-line contributions covered the bulk of the costs.  Curtis came back and hit the road, but he was taken down again in 2008 - a tumor metastatisized on his right lung.  That mass was removed, and he recovered again.  I saw him at the Chicago Blues Fest in 2010 and he killed it, man. Curtis Salgado live is an amazing experience.  No recording can capture his passion.  Here is a YouTube video that comes close.

So when Curtis cancelled his show in Evanston, I  knew he had cancelled his entire summer tour.  That can only mean that the cancer is back.  On July 18,  he went under the knife to have another mass removed, this time from his left lung. He lost a big chunk of his lung. Recovery is supposed to take about 4 weeks, and the doctors expect him to be back again.  I sure hope they are right.  I hope Curtis will retain his voice and his harp-playing skills with less lung in his body.  If you feel moved to contribute to his medical expenses, you can do so via his web site (click here).

Hang in there, Curtis. Please.

Sharon Jones Will Save Us All

Sharon Jones is not a kid.  She is a full-grown woman, a Baby Boomer born in Augusta GA but raised in the Apple, New Yawk New Yawk. As a young person, she was obsessed with her fellow Augusta native, James Brown. She is all of five foot tall, and she is not slender, oh no.  She is a powerful small package - she blasts out the deepest soul and funk.  Her live performances are astonishing displays of energy and charisma, not to mention fabulous musicianship and professionalism.  Sharon achieves this with an instrument that isn't as polished as some soul singers - she doesn't have startling range and prettiness; just power and authenticity, which are vastly more important.  She is a legend now, but she has taken a very long road to get there.  She used to be a prison guard - Riker's Island, no less.  She also was an armored car guard for Wells Fargo Security Services.  She spent many long years trying to gain musical recognition and did sing back-up on a number of records.  It wasn't until the late 1990's that her talent and ability to front a band became apparent to the soul/funk music revival community.  Sharon's first record with the Dap-Kings was released  ten years ago. While Sharon Jones is a legend, she isn't famous.  She is known and loved by a decent fan base, but she hasn't hit the mass market.  She hasn't achieved Adele's disgusting ubiquity on the soundtrack of our popular culture, and she never will.

Now here is the thing.  For me, and I suspect for others, hearing Sharon singing over the tight, multi-racial Dap-Kings ensemble is a transforming experience.  She makes me feel that my problems can be overcome, that the unattainable is obtainable, that there will be a brighter day. This sounds ridiculous, but I feel that this type of music can save us all from the depressing aspects of human existence.   Even when Sharon is singing songs of pain and loss, I feel uplifted. Talking and writing about her music is a futile exercise; you have to hear it to understand. Just click here and listen to Sharon lay it down at this year's Bonnaroo festival..http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLpJBTgbgqs

This late 1960's/early 1970's soul/funk revival makes me happy.  I was seriously imprinted with this sound and the emotions that went into it when I was just coming into adulthood.  Tower of Power, Kool & the Gang, Sly and the Family Stone, Rufus, Cold Blood, Parliament/Funkadelic and of course the fabulous James Brown were all on my soundtrack.  They still are.  The success of Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings makes me feel hopeful that this music will live on and remain fresh.

Farewell to My Cannondale H400

On Friday morning, I got up before 5AM, put on my bike riding clothes and headed out to the garage to jump on my Cannondale for an hour-long spin.  My heart sank, because the garage door was open and the Cannondale was GONE!  Gawd!

Well, it is possible that I left the garage door open, I suppose.  I am pretty careful about such things, and when I went out to walk the dog late Thursday night, I went past the garage and didn't notice that it was open.  It is also possible that a clever thief with one of those adjustable garage door openers cruised by and popped the garage door by cracking the code with his nefarious device (I have heard that this is a tool used by professional thieves).  And it is also possible that one of my garage door openers that has gone missing ended up in the hands of someone that knew which garage it could open. I will re-secure the garage, of course.

I registered the bike four years ago, so I turned the registration info and the serial number over to the police officer that came by to take the report.  It is unlikely that I will get the bike back if it was a crime of opportunity inspired by an open garage door. So I went to Bucephalus Bikes in Evanston and bought a replacement single-speed custom refurbished machine for a price equal to about 50% of what an equivalent new bike would cost. I am going to ride this for a while to see if my good old Cannondale shows up. By the way, Bucephalus Bikes and its owner, Alejandro Anon', are truly wonderful.  Alex is a trained architect who has decided leave his profession to pursue his passion for repairing and rebuilding bicycles.  He really knows bikes, that's for sure.

Material possessions really don't matter, I know.  But I was fond of the H400.  It carried me many, many miles.  When I was having a hard time, it helped me forget my problems for a while.  It was a great source of transportation, perspiration and inspiration. I owned it for almost 10 years.  It was my first "real" bike.

I would love to get the bike back, and I would love to see the thief charged, tried and convicted of his or her crime.  I would also like to be eight inches taller and 20 years younger.  The likelihood of these events occurring are about the same.

The Long Hot Summer

Tomorrow is Independence Day in the US of A.  As I walked the rat dog this evening, I could hear fireworks exploding in the middle distance - a mildly disturbing imitation of a wartime mortar attack. It was 90 degrees  with 70% humidity at 9:30 in the evening.  The drought has turned all unsprinkled plants dry and dead. Electricity consumption is spiking as everyone cranks up the aircon.  I haven't felt or seem anything like this since the summer of 1988.  Coincidence - in the summer of 1988, I was finishing up a divorce from my first wife.  I also met my current wife during that heat wave.  Now, in the heat of 2012's equally long hot summer, I am in the middle of another divorce proceeding.

I hate long, hot summers.

I learned a new word today - anosognosia.  Anosognosia is a condition in which a person who is suffering from a mental illness seems unaware of his or her disability.  Unlike denial, which is a psychological defense mechanism conjured up by an individual who knows that something is wrong, anosognosia is part of the disease - a bipolar disorder sufferer or a schizophrenic can be incapable of the insight necessary to recognize that he or she is suffering from a mental illness.  Anosognosia can cause heaps of trouble for the mentally ill person and their family members.

For some reason, this heat wave and anosognosia seem to go together.   Some of us lack the insight to see that climate change is a problem, even when we are living through record-breaking heat.  This may be viewed as the "New Normal."

Bipolar Disorder

Bipolar disorder is an illness that can be successfully treated if the sufferer "takes ownership" of his/her condition and resolves to get well.  It can be controlled with the right psychiatric medication and good ol' "talk therapy."  But if the sufferer refuses to recognize his/her own illness, their lives, and the lives of their family members, can become a living hell.  Read this article from the New York Times for one example of the mess that occurs when a person with bipolar disorder refuses to accept their diagnosis.