Thanks for stopping by. So back in August, I switched platforms. Please click on the link to check out what's still going on in my head and flowing out of my fingers. I'm presently blogging @ Edge of the Apocalypse.
Thanks!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Shameless Plug for the Coolest Tiki Event in the Country!
OK, so the Hukilau, my favorite South Florida summer event, is back for 2010 and better than ever. For the uninitiated, a Hukilau is a traditional Hawaiian festival held in the fishing villages of old. A large net is cast into the sea then the villagers herd the fish and slowly pull the net to the shore. The feast that follows is meant to emphasize the spirit of family and community, or 'ohana.
This modern mainland Hukilau is a net thrown out to the entire world, bringing the lovers of "Polynesian Pop" or "Tiki" culture together for our own special celebration. The Hukilau began when a few people on the Tiki Central message board discussed gathering at Trader Vic’s in Atlanta. Tiki Kiliki (Co-founder and Producer) and Swanky (Co-Founder & former Organizer -- click here to read his bio) began planning what is now "The Hukilau" -- an annual event celebrating Hawaiian and Polynesian Pop culture while honoring a historic Tiki bar/location. The reaction and excitement was phenomenal! The first event held in 2002, honoring Trader Vic’s Atlanta (open since 1976), was three days of entertainment and events. All venues sold out and the crowds poured in. It also sparked a fire to do more, thus an annual Tiki Gala was born!
Hukilau saw a change of location in 2003 when the producers were encouraged by other Tikiphiles to honor the amazing Mai Kai in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida (open since 1956). Thanks be to the Tiki Gods - The response was overwhelming, as attendees from all over the world made the pilgrimage and once again the event was extremely successful. Now it its 9th year, it is a party that must be experienced. It is a "moral imperative."
I could go on and on, but please hit the event web site and get all the details yourself. Circle the dates, break out the Rum and Tiki Mugs and make it to South Florida. You will never be the same.
This modern mainland Hukilau is a net thrown out to the entire world, bringing the lovers of "Polynesian Pop" or "Tiki" culture together for our own special celebration. The Hukilau began when a few people on the Tiki Central message board discussed gathering at Trader Vic’s in Atlanta. Tiki Kiliki (Co-founder and Producer) and Swanky (Co-Founder & former Organizer -- click here to read his bio) began planning what is now "The Hukilau" -- an annual event celebrating Hawaiian and Polynesian Pop culture while honoring a historic Tiki bar/location. The reaction and excitement was phenomenal! The first event held in 2002, honoring Trader Vic’s Atlanta (open since 1976), was three days of entertainment and events. All venues sold out and the crowds poured in. It also sparked a fire to do more, thus an annual Tiki Gala was born!
Hukilau saw a change of location in 2003 when the producers were encouraged by other Tikiphiles to honor the amazing Mai Kai in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida (open since 1956). Thanks be to the Tiki Gods - The response was overwhelming, as attendees from all over the world made the pilgrimage and once again the event was extremely successful. Now it its 9th year, it is a party that must be experienced. It is a "moral imperative."
I could go on and on, but please hit the event web site and get all the details yourself. Circle the dates, break out the Rum and Tiki Mugs and make it to South Florida. You will never be the same.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Conan O'Brien Exits with Style & Grace
Conan’s final words:
"Before we end this rodeo, a few things need to be said. There has been a lot of speculation in the press about what I legally can and can't say about NBC. To set the record straight, tonight I am allowed to say anything I want. And what I want to say is this: between my time at Saturday Night Live, The Late Night Show, and my brief run here on The Tonight Show, I have worked with NBC for over twenty years. Yes, we have our differences right now and yes, we're going to go our separate ways. But this company has been my home for most of my adult life. I am enormously proud of the work we have done together, and I want to thank NBC for making it all possible.
Walking away from The Tonight Show is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Making this choice has been enormously difficult. This is the best job in the world, I absolutely love doing it, and I have the best staff and crew in the history of the medium. But despite this sense of loss, I really feel this should be a happy moment. Every comedian dreams of hosting The Tonight Show and, for seven months, I got to. I did it my way, with people I love, and I do not regret a second. I've had more good fortune than anyone I know and if our next gig is doing a show in a 7-11 parking lot, we'll find a way to make it fun.
And finally, I have to say something to our fans. The massive outpouring of support and passion from so many people has been overwhelming. The rallies, the signs, all the goofy, outrageous creativity on the internet, and the fact that people have traveled long distances and camped out all night in the pouring rain to be in our audience, made a sad situation joyous and inspirational.
To all the people watching, I can never thank you enough for your kindness to me and I'll think about it for the rest of my life. All I ask of you is one thing: please don't be cynical. I hate cynicism -- it's my least favorite quality and it doesn't lead anywhere.
Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen." The Huffington Post has the whole enchilada, complete with video, here."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Tweetsgiving: My Gratitude list
This post is created as part of a global groundswell of gratitude called TweetsGiving. The celebration, created by US nonprofit Epic Change, is an experiment in social innovation that seeks to change the world through the power of gratitude. I hope you’ll visit the TweetsGiving site below to learn more, and to bring your grateful heart to the party by sharing your gratitude, and giving in honor of that for which you’re most thankful.
In the last 48 hours, a small sampling of what I'm grateful for, in no particular order, mostly Twitter links with a few web sites thrown in:
1. Grateful for Christine Carroll and her Culinary Corps. Providing volunteer experiences for chefs, cooks, etc., changing their world and making a difference.
3. Grateful for the amazing work and support of Food Resource and Action Center (FRAC) in the childhood hunger fight.
4. Grateful for Carrie Welch (Twitter) and the leadership @ the Food Network for their commitment to end child hunger.
6. Grateful for the staff and volunteers of FLIPANY. Leading the Operation Frontline efforts in South Florida, they totally rule.
7. Grateful to all of you out there who have seized the moment & made social media a change engine for good in the world.
10. Grateful for the Governmental support shown for various Federal nutrition programs. The facts show that a major increase across all programs is needed!
11. Grateful to all the followers of End Childhood Hunger who inspire and encourage all of us. Together, we will end hunger by 2015!
12. Grateful for the donors and sponsors who helped my nonprofit, End Childhood Hunger, raise $1,000's to feed South Florida kids over the last two years. Words fail me.
13.Grateful for the Food Bank heros across the country who are facing incredible odds every day. You are all so inspiring!
14. Grateful for the South Florida volunteers helping End Childhood Hunger make a difference on the street.
15. Grateful to have worked on South Florida's Taste of the Nation for 16 years. Nationwide, millions of $'s raised by 1,000's of people.
16. Grateful for Billy Shore and all the visionaries @ Share Our Strength. Ending childhood hunger by 2015!
17. Grateful for Tyson Foods leaders and my friend Ed Nicholson You are making an amazing difference! Thank you!
18. Grateful for my family and you, each of my special friends, who give me the drive to get up every day and try to make a difference.
19. Grateful to be able to post this.
19. Grateful to be able to post this.
21. Grateful to have brought a dozen friends, family and a few strangers together today to share thanks and blessings.
23. Grateful I have never lived in fear, or without love. And that I choose to try to help those who have, and have lived without.
24. Grateful for Ezra Krieg. You inspire me, my friend.
25.Grateful to be blessed with more good in my life than I could ever reduce to one Blog post. Or 100.
26. Grateful for the Florida End Childhood Hunger Project, its leaders Share Our Strength and Florida Impact.
27. Grateful for Jeff Swartz and all the amazing Timberland folks. Visionary and committed. Lucky to know him.
28. Grateful to have served as a volunteer with all the amazing Share Our Strength staff. 17 years of inspiration.
29. Grateful to all my chef friends and those in hospitality community who are continually giving so much to hunger fight. Definition of unselfishness.
30. Finally, to lighten it up, I'm grateful for Italy in general, Tuscany in particular, and Borgo di Vagli to escape to.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
TweetsGiving: Just the tip of the Iceberg of things I'm grateful for today ...
Where does someone who has been so blessed in their life start, when asked to address the things he is grateful for as part of a worldwide movement to change the planet through the force of gratitude?
For starters, I would revisit a portion of the speech I made several years ago at the Share Our Strength Conference of Leaders. Standing up in a room filled with 400 activists whom I call heroes, having the chance to share with them our mutual passion and commitment to ending childhood hunger, I was very grateful. As I said that night:
"I am grateful for my amazing and inspiring wife and partner Susan, and for my beautiful, kind, intelligent and already socially conscious 5 year-old daughter Natalie, who makes all the worlds problems vanish when she smiles at me.
But there is much more:
I have never fought in a war.
I have never suffered from a mental illness.
I have never been homeless.
I have never gone hungry.
I have never lived without love in my life.
I have never lost faith.
I’ve got it pretty good. And I believe with all my heart that my fortunate circumstances bring an additional responsibility to make a difference in the world. My parents instilled that in me from an early age. And for that I will be eternally grateful."
When I was growing up I was firmly convinced that I could change the world. Instead, it seems, all to often the world changes us. Maybe, individually, one person can’t really "change" the world. But we can each start by changing our neighborhoods, and I believe that with the strengths that each of us can bring to the fight, we can, and will, defeat childhood hunger. And for those that agree and give of themselves to that noble cause, that quest, I am the most grateful.
This post was created as part of a global groundswell of gratitude called TweetsGiving. The celebration, created by US nonprofit Epic Change, is an experiment in social innovation that seeks to change the world through the power of gratitude. I hope you’ll visit the TweetsGiving site to learn more, and to bring your grateful heart to the party by sharing your gratitude, and giving in honor of that for which you’re most thankful.
You can use my previous post, below, to made your pledge! We all would be grateful.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Call to Action: Social Media for Community Good
OK, it's been a crazy, and revealing, 2009. My ongoing work with End Childhood Hunger, Share Our Strength and others has moved me to try to more effectively channel my crazy energy, the energy that sometimes seems to filter off into nothing of lasting consequence each day, into a more formal commitment to utilize social media channels, i.e this Blog, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, etc., to help move the needle on change.
Let's start with my new top two:
The The 12for12k Challenge is the combination of social media awareness and fund-raising that aims to change the lives of millions worldwide. Founded by business consultant Danny Brown, its aim is to raise awareness and funds for 12 charities over the course of 2009, with a new charity being supported every month. The concept is simple:
12 months of the year
12 charities, a different charity each month
$12,000 per charity
How are they doing it? By using the power and outreach of social media to spread the word. From Twitter to Facebook, blogs to social media newsrooms and more, the 12for12k Challenge is helping their supported charities connect with as wide an audience as possible. And to ensure as much help goes to those who need it, all the partners in the 12for12k Challenge are offering their time and services for free. Check them out, join in, make a difference. Or, as they say: Hope - Change - Belief.
TweetsGiving is a global celebration that seeks to change the world through the power of gratitude. Untold generations across the world’s cultures have extolled the virtues of gratitude. The world’s major spiritual practices – from Christianity to Buddhism, Judaism, Islam and Hinduism – all praise gratitude as a moral disposition that elicits a sense of peace and encourages mutual kindness. From Buddha to Marcus Aurelius, spiritual teachers and philosophers have long celebrated the simple act of being thankful.
Scheduled for November 24 – 26, 2009, the 48-hour event created by US nonprofit Epic Change will encourage participants to express their thanks using online tools and at live events. In honor of the people and things that make them grateful, guests will be invited to give to a common cause at events held across the globe.
You can attend a Gratitude party locally, spread Gratitude on the web by signing up your own social media hookup, or even host a House Party. And if you just want to donate, you can do it here!
Friday, October 16, 2009
Update on Climate Change Blog Action Day 2009
The subject was Climate Change, and the response was overwhelming. More than 13,000 blogs from 155 countries with reach to 17 million readers participated, demonstrating the power of the web to connect people across the world who despite their varied backgrounds have one shared desire: to make a difference.
Several national governments also participated to express their support for the grassroots effort. United Kingdom Prime Minister Gordon Brown kicked off the event by publishing the first Blog Action Day post in Britain at 12:01am, and The White House added a blog post of its own later in the day, saying "it's a real thrill to see that the worldwide blogosphere is turning its attention to an issue as important as climate change."
Also involved were more than 50 of the world's leading nonprofits: World Wildlife Fund and Greenpeace bloggers added their voices from around the globe, Oxfam helped emphasize the human side of the climate crisis, 1Sky wrote about the front lines of political activism in the U.S., TckTckTck released a beautiful new video, and The Nature Conservancy helped describe the science of climate change.
So much for talk. Now let's get to work.
Several national governments also participated to express their support for the grassroots effort. United Kingdom Prime Minister Gordon Brown kicked off the event by publishing the first Blog Action Day post in Britain at 12:01am, and The White House added a blog post of its own later in the day, saying "it's a real thrill to see that the worldwide blogosphere is turning its attention to an issue as important as climate change."
Also involved were more than 50 of the world's leading nonprofits: World Wildlife Fund and Greenpeace bloggers added their voices from around the globe, Oxfam helped emphasize the human side of the climate crisis, 1Sky wrote about the front lines of political activism in the U.S., TckTckTck released a beautiful new video, and The Nature Conservancy helped describe the science of climate change.
So much for talk. Now let's get to work.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
World Climate Change Blog Action Day 2009
Today, I'm going to get off my personal smack-box and join over 7,000 other bloggers around the world in uniting to raise the issue of Climate Change and the threat it brings to man (and woman)-kind. Climate Change is a fact, and further inaction or denial will most certain bring disaster to us all, perhaps in my own lifetime.
I join this chorus to cajole, motivate and challenge others to open their eyes and face that fact: WE ARE KILLING OUR PLANET. To remain silent is to accept complicity. I join this chorus to be able to say to my young daughter, when she is old enough, that I did what I could to save what remains of a paradise that has been ripped apart by the human race - architects of world-wide devastation that has been perpetrated in a nano-moment of our planet's life.
Simple example: Here in South Florida, we've gone 178 days straight without the temperature EVER dipping below the 70 degree mark, and we're still counting. After 20 years of living here, it's another record. Global warming is a fact.
So join in, contact your government, from the President to the local County Commission, and demand action.
The Blog Action Day homepage above will have a live action stream of posts all day long today. If you want to join the conversation, sign up on the web and make sure to include the words "Blog Action Day" in your posts to have them pulled in. And if you are on Twitter, use the hashtag #BAD09.
What makes Blog Action Day special are the thousands of individual choices of bloggers around the globe to break from their daily routine and unite to write about a topic that impacts us all.
This is it. One day, one issue, thousands of voices.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I hate to Raise Religion, But ...
Being reminded by Bill Maher the other night that the top one percent (1%) of Americans control more of this country's wealth than the bottom ninety-five percent (95%) COMBINED, and enduring another recent round of "what's good for the rich...bla bla bla..." rants from a clueless and deluded trickle-down economics "friend," I'm thinking that there's some cosmic-trippin' Divine Intervention happening when I get "A reading from the Letter of Saint James 5:1-6" dropped on me out of nowhere that goes like this:
Come now, you rich, weep and wail over your impending miseries. Your wealth has rotted away, your clothes have become moth-eaten, your gold and silver have corroded, and that corrosion will be a testimony against you; it will devour your flesh like a fire.
You have stored up treasure for the last days. Behold, the wages you withheld from the workers who harvested your fields are crying aloud; and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts.
You have stored up treasure for the last days. Behold, the wages you withheld from the workers who harvested your fields are crying aloud; and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts.
You have lived on earth in luxury and pleasure; you have fattened your hearts for the day of slaughter. You have condemned; you have murdered the righteous one who offers you no resistance.
Ouch. A bit biblical for my personal tastes, but that sounds like a major "you greedy bastards" smackdown, ya think? I do love the "devour your flesh like a fire" line. It top's the Talking Heads "Burning Down the House" by at least a cubit or two...
South Florida Hunger Rant
So I've invested most of my free time in the past year in my nonprofit, End Childhood Hunger, a group of volunteers who advocate for greater access to school breakfast, school lunch, after-school snacks, summer meals, and nutrition education. We raise funds for direct mini-grants, programming, and support and recruit volunteers for emerging, niche, and grassroots hunger organizations that are having a direct impact on the issue of childhood hunger in South Florida.
You know, over seventeen million children in America will go to bed tonight facing hunger and food insecurity, not knowing if the new day will bring hope or helplessness. Over 200,000 of those children live in South Florida. This is a travesty that cannot be defended or explained away.
Even more sobering news for us living in "Paradise."
- In Palm Beach County, 63,000 eligible kids don't get free/reduced price school breakfast.
- In Broward County, 97,000 eligible kids don't get free/reduced price school breakfast.
- In Dade County, 200,000 eligible kids don't get free or reduced price school breakfast.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Hymn
"Once to every man and nation,
comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood,
for the good or evil side,
Some great cause, with great decision,
offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever,
'twixt that darkness and that light."
Friday, January 23, 2009
Facebook Rant
OK. I admit it, I do use Facebook. Usually the typical "I just took the dog for a walk" or "check out my vacation pictures" rolls off my back. Sometimes, though, I get so wired by ignorance and closed-mindedness that I have to let it out
Witness tonight. This post got me started:
Witness tonight. This post got me started:
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Resurrection
My dear friend and "mentor you want to put on a pedestal because they're so awesome" Celina Adams closed out 2008 perfectly in an e-mail today. It's worth sharing:
"On the eve of a new year I share with you my favorite poem, Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry. The theme seems especially apt for these times. May your spirit, our nation, humanity, and the natural world find a sure-footed path to resurrection in the year ahead."
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay.
Want more of everything ready-made.
Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery any more.
Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something they will call you.
When they want you to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.
Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands. Give your approval to all you cannot understand.
Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest. Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into the mold. Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear close, and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world.
Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap. Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go.
Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
"On the eve of a new year I share with you my favorite poem, Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry. The theme seems especially apt for these times. May your spirit, our nation, humanity, and the natural world find a sure-footed path to resurrection in the year ahead."
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay.
Want more of everything ready-made.
Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery any more.
Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something they will call you.
When they want you to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.
Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands. Give your approval to all you cannot understand.
Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest. Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into the mold. Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear close, and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world.
Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap. Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go.
Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Diamonds are Forever ... More from Papa Smurf
Here's the next in an on-going series of life observations by my whack friend Rusty Diamond, or, as we who faced raging Class VI whitewater together, and survived, know him as - Papa Smurf.
"If it doesn’t work, why keep trying? Move on."
"If it doesn’t work, why keep trying? Move on."
Friday, November 28, 2008
A Schedule to Keep
In 1997, flying to Europe, I came across what I thought was another one of those "time-waster" stories in an otherwise-forgettable inflight magazine. At first glance, it seemed light and fluff-filled, but when I finished, I found myself carefully tearing out the pages, bringing them home several weeks later and placing the pages in a folder I maintain of writings that move me; writings that remind me why I love the impact of the written word.
Maybe it's because we've moved into the Holidays, with everyone focusing on the importance of family, friends, and what brings value to their lives, that I again found myself rereading "A Schedule to Keep." Author Frederick Waterman went on to write 16 additional short stories based upon the premise of "two strangers on a plane" which were compiled into a book, "Row 22, Seats A & B." It's still available via Amazon here.
With friends and acquaintances all seemingly building their own "Bucket Lists," "A Schedule to Keep" still strikes a particular cord with me about priorities and the source of true happiness and accomplishment. I know that it still helps frame my life.
So check it out. It's worth a 5-minute read.
A Schedule to Keep
By Frederick Waterman
ROW 22, SEATS A&B
The flight from London to New York was 160 miles from Heathrow when it leveled off at its cruising altitude of 35,000 feet.
In row 22, seat B, a tanned young man in his early 20s, wearing blue jeans and a clean but wrinkled white button down shirt, leaned forward and from the knapsack at his feet withdrew a thin, leather bound book. Straightening up, he opened the book to the middle, spread it wide, and shook it slightly, causing a slender pen to slip out of the spine, followed by a photo that had been tucked between the pages. He picked up the photo and regarded it for several minutes, then pulled down the tray in front of him and carefully placed the picture along the right side. Reopening the book, he flipped through its pages until he reached the back where, on the first blank page, he wrote the day's date and, beneath it, "Somewhere Over the Atlantic." On the next line, he began writing in the small, firm script that had already filled the journal's first 200 pages.
In row 22, seat A, Brian Allbeck sighed and closed the paperback book he'd bought from the newsagent at the airport. In the first 34 pages, the suspense thriller had offered one detailed sex scene, two gruesome murders, and absolute proof that its plot was stolen from another book. Only Shakespeare could get away with doing that, Allbeck thought, depositing the paperback into the seat pocket before him.
Six foot two, lean and fit, Allbeck had turned 60 the week before, an occasion that his wife insisted upon celebrating with "a small soirée," as she termed it, which meant 200 people at a catered cocktail party he could not avoid. Possessed of the talent but not the taste for society, Allbeck was handsome in a weathered, craggy way that implied he knew a rougher side of life, an impression that contributed to his dominating presence and, he knew, helped immeasurably in business. His full head of white hair, combed straight back, added to his leonine looks and contrasted sharply with the well tailored, blue pinstripe suit.
Allbeck was aware that he looked rather grand for coach class, but this morning's "quick meeting" with his team of solicitors had turned into a three hour strategy session after the firm's latest takeover target, a family controlled French textile business, announced its plan to fight him in the courts. By the time Allbeck arrived at Heathrow, his scheduled flight had departed. The only available seat on the next New York bound airliner was 22A and he was glad to have it.
As Allbeck glanced out the oval window next to him, his right hand spun the wedding band on his left ring finger. The stunning vista of white clouds and blue sky held no appeal because in the past 10 days he'd done enough high altitude sightseeing on flights to Munich, Milan, and Barcelona. Resigning himself to a sooner than expected start on the files in his briefcase, he turned to his seatmate to gain access to the overhead storage bin when the photo on the tray caught his eye.
The picture showed an extraordinarily beautiful woman looking over her shoulder at the camera. She had reddish brown hair and large brown eyes that possessed both an uncomplicated friendliness and a welcoming sexuality. Trying not to be obvious, Allbeck craned his neck slightly to get a better angle.
Without looking directly at the young man, Allbeck noted the clean-shaven face, and combed, sun-bleached hair. An upper class American, he was sure, and judging from the speed and intensity of the writing, one of the high energy, highly organized, very ambitious types - a description, Allbeck realized, that would have fit himself perfectly at the same age. Bored enough to be uncharacteristically intrusive, he cleared his throat and said, "She is a very pretty woman.”
The young man looked up with the quick, easy smile that is so distinctively American. Then he followed the older man's eyes to the photo. "She is beautiful, isn't she? And she's even better looking than that. I'm a lousy photographer."
"If you don't mind my asking, how old is she?"
"Twenty one."
"A model?"
"No," the young man grinned, "and she won't be unless the fashion world moves from Paris and New York to the Yorkshire Dales. She's a Yorkshire girl who's never been to London and hasn't any interest in going there either."
"You're joking," Allbeck replied.
"It's absolutely true. Two men who've known her all her live vouched for it."
"I take it that you just met her."
"Right, eight days ago."
"And I hope that you spent every day since then with her."
"No, actually, I didn't. I had a schedule to keep."
"A schedule! What are you, mad?" he said in mock dismay. "What in blazes were you doing that was so important?"
"Bicycling from London to Edinburgh It's something I've always wanted to do. It's on my list."
"Your list?" Allbeck repeated, the humor draining from his voice.
The young man flipped to the front of the journal. Inside the cover, below the name Thomas Landers, was a neatly typed list. He handed the journal to the older man.
Allbeck read the 11 lines to himself:
“1. Win Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. 2. Graduate in top three from law school. 3. Clerk for a Supreme Court Justice. 4. Own a new Mercedes Benz. 5. Run own law firm by the age of 37. 6. Take the Trans Siberian Express across Russia. 7. Be a judge by the age of 50. 8. Bicycle through England and Scotland. 9. Understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity. 10. Learn to fly a plane. 11. Own a Picasso."
He read through it twice in silence, his face revealing nothing, then handed the journal back. Thomas Landers' attempt at restraint gave way to curiosity. "What do you think?"
Allbeck sidestepped the query. "The red check marks, are they what I assume?"
"Yep. Three down, eight to go. I won the Rhodes Scholarship two years ago and learned Einstein's Theory of Relativity last year. This spring, I got my degree from Oxford in Politics, Philosophy, and Economics, and two weeks later started the bicycle trip." Landers' confidence was losing some of its bounce. The absence of the expected admiration was unsettling.
"How old were you when you drew up the list?" Allbeck's voice was subdued.
"Eighteen. You've got to set goals and these are mine." Landers tapped a finger against the list. "This is my future."
Allbeck nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me about the girl. What's her name?"
"Cinda." The conversation's abrupt change caught Landers by surprise.
"And how did you meet her?"
"Well, you know it's been a cold, rainy summer in England and that slowed me down a lot, especially going through the Cotswolds. Bicycling in the rain is just plain stupid, you understand," Landers said, wondering why he felt a need to explain. "You never get far, you always, get sick, and cars can't see you. Anyway, I finally reached Yorkshire just as another downpour began. I stayed dry under an oak tree, but the rain never let up. For the next five hours the wind kept getting colder and colder.
"At about 6 o'clock, the rain finally stopped, but I didn't even make another mile before it started again. I was passing through this village, and there was a small pub, so I put my bike behind it and ducked inside. It was like I'd stepped into another century. Inside that pub it could have been the 1890s or the 1790s. The ceiling was low with thick beams and the walls were all made of wood that wasn't cut by any modern machinery. Most of the light came from the fire in this great, stone fireplace.”
"About 20 men were there, and most of them looked like farmers. When I walked in, they all turned and looked at me as if I'd just barged into their house, not their pub. It felt like a scene out of a Western where the stranger comes into town and everyone just watches him. Anyway, I sat down next to the fire to get warm, and this beautiful woman appeared. She asked what I wanted to drink, but when she saw I was shivering, she brought me a hot buttered rum. 'We don't make a lot of these in the summer, but I think I still remember how,' she said, then pulled up a chair in front of me and made sure that I drank it all.
"When I got warm enough to put together coherent sentences, we started talking. She said that her name was Cinda and that her father owned the pub, just like his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather, but he was off that night. She asked me what an American was doing in Yorkshire in the rain, and I explained that I was on my way from London to Edinburgh. That's when she said she'd never been to either city or even gone more than 100 miles from Yorkshire. Despite that, as she spoke, you could tell she was smart. And when we talked about the English country¬side, she was the one who could quote Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Keats.
“While we were talking, I didn't have to look around to know that the men at the bar were keeping their eyes on us, as if they were all Cinda’s uncles. It felt like I was on a date with 20 chaperons.
"Cinda got up occasionally to serve the men, but we weren't interrupted too often because, as she put it, 'They're here for the talking more than the drinking.' The evening passed and, well, you never know what people see in you, but at about 10 o'clock one of the men brought a pint of beer over to me and, eventually, all of us were sitting in front of the fire. When they left, each of them shook my hand and the last one, the biggest one, said in a real low voice, 'Good night, young fella. You be careful with our Cinda.' And there was no doubt that he meant it.
"When she began cleaning up, I helped because I didn't know if I was expected to leave too though I didn't want to. Afterward, Cinda put two thick logs on the fire and poured a full glass of brandy for me. Do you know those conversations you can have with only a very few people? Those times when every word's understood just the way you meant it, and you never have to explain any¬thing? That's what this was like. I told her about places I'd been, and she told me about the people in her town, and we told each other what we wanted in our lives.”
"We talked all night, and the funny thing is that I never got tired. Somehow, talking with her was restoring, almost restful. When it started to get light out¬side, she asked me what was the best dawn I'd ever seen. When I started to tell her about one, she just shook her head. 'The best dawn you've ever seen is the one you're about to see,' she said.
"The rain had stopped during the night, the clouds had cleared out, and there was a perfectly blue sky. She took my hand, and we walked up a hill that seemed to go straight up until, from the top, you could see the whole valley, which was wet-green, perfectly still and quiet. Below us were the farmers' fields, cottages and barns, and the roads winding around. The sun seemed to rise slowly; then suddenly it lit up all the mists in the valley and made them glow until they were iridescent.
After a while, Cinda looked at me and asked, 'Why would I want to go anywhere? I might miss one of these.' Then she let go of my hand, and I followed her down the hill. At the pub, she cooked me breakfast and I left an hour later."
“And that’s the whole story?” Allbeck asked.
"Yes. That night and that dawn will always be a great memory."
Allbeck considered the young man’s words, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. From a compartment behind the pound notes and dollar bills, he produced a yellowed, fragile piece of paper, pressed thin by its time in the wallet. Allbeck opened it carefully along the worn creases and handed it to the young man.
Landers' eyes opened wide as he saw the first line. He kept reading, at times out loud: "Graduate with honors from Cambridge ... Be a multimillionaire by 30 ... Own a Bentley ... Buy a suit at Gieves and Hawkes, I Savile Row ... Meet the Queen ... See the Great Wall of China." He looked at Allbeck, open¬mouthed. "My God."
"My life," Allbeck said. "Planned and charted when I was 15 years old."
"And the black Xs mean you did them? And the dates and places are the when and the where?"
Allbeck nodded.
Landers frowned. "You missed one," he said. "Number nine."
"I know," Allbeck said softly. "That's why I'm giving you the list. I want you to do it for me."
Landers looked at the older man.
"I got too busy with all the others, Allbeck explained. "I let it slide, and then I began to think it didn't matter. Will you do it for me?"
Landers twice began to speak, then answered with an uncertain nod.
Allbeck pulled an already opened envelope from a pocket, removed the letter, and pointed at the envelope's address. "That's where I live." He took the fragile paper from Landers, slipped it inside, and handed the envelope to the young man.
Allbeck turned away and looked out the window at the clouds.
Eleven months later, Brian Allbeck was sitting in his library sorting the day's mail, when his hands stopped. He picked up the envelope that he'd seen before, and, holding it at the corners, spun it once, twice, then a third time, considering what might be inside. He slipped the letter opener under the flap, carefully ripped through the adhesive tape, then, with two fingers, withdrew the yellowed piece of paper.
Allbeck took a deep breath and opened the page. His eyes swept down the column of black Xs and, for a moment, dread overcame him, then he saw the firm red check mark and "June 29, 1997, Yorkshire, England" on the ninth line, the line he hadn't been able to cross off himself, the line that read "Marry for Love."
Maybe it's because we've moved into the Holidays, with everyone focusing on the importance of family, friends, and what brings value to their lives, that I again found myself rereading "A Schedule to Keep." Author Frederick Waterman went on to write 16 additional short stories based upon the premise of "two strangers on a plane" which were compiled into a book, "Row 22, Seats A & B." It's still available via Amazon here.
With friends and acquaintances all seemingly building their own "Bucket Lists," "A Schedule to Keep" still strikes a particular cord with me about priorities and the source of true happiness and accomplishment. I know that it still helps frame my life.
So check it out. It's worth a 5-minute read.
A Schedule to Keep
By Frederick Waterman
ROW 22, SEATS A&B
The flight from London to New York was 160 miles from Heathrow when it leveled off at its cruising altitude of 35,000 feet.
In row 22, seat B, a tanned young man in his early 20s, wearing blue jeans and a clean but wrinkled white button down shirt, leaned forward and from the knapsack at his feet withdrew a thin, leather bound book. Straightening up, he opened the book to the middle, spread it wide, and shook it slightly, causing a slender pen to slip out of the spine, followed by a photo that had been tucked between the pages. He picked up the photo and regarded it for several minutes, then pulled down the tray in front of him and carefully placed the picture along the right side. Reopening the book, he flipped through its pages until he reached the back where, on the first blank page, he wrote the day's date and, beneath it, "Somewhere Over the Atlantic." On the next line, he began writing in the small, firm script that had already filled the journal's first 200 pages.
In row 22, seat A, Brian Allbeck sighed and closed the paperback book he'd bought from the newsagent at the airport. In the first 34 pages, the suspense thriller had offered one detailed sex scene, two gruesome murders, and absolute proof that its plot was stolen from another book. Only Shakespeare could get away with doing that, Allbeck thought, depositing the paperback into the seat pocket before him.
Six foot two, lean and fit, Allbeck had turned 60 the week before, an occasion that his wife insisted upon celebrating with "a small soirée," as she termed it, which meant 200 people at a catered cocktail party he could not avoid. Possessed of the talent but not the taste for society, Allbeck was handsome in a weathered, craggy way that implied he knew a rougher side of life, an impression that contributed to his dominating presence and, he knew, helped immeasurably in business. His full head of white hair, combed straight back, added to his leonine looks and contrasted sharply with the well tailored, blue pinstripe suit.
Allbeck was aware that he looked rather grand for coach class, but this morning's "quick meeting" with his team of solicitors had turned into a three hour strategy session after the firm's latest takeover target, a family controlled French textile business, announced its plan to fight him in the courts. By the time Allbeck arrived at Heathrow, his scheduled flight had departed. The only available seat on the next New York bound airliner was 22A and he was glad to have it.
As Allbeck glanced out the oval window next to him, his right hand spun the wedding band on his left ring finger. The stunning vista of white clouds and blue sky held no appeal because in the past 10 days he'd done enough high altitude sightseeing on flights to Munich, Milan, and Barcelona. Resigning himself to a sooner than expected start on the files in his briefcase, he turned to his seatmate to gain access to the overhead storage bin when the photo on the tray caught his eye.
The picture showed an extraordinarily beautiful woman looking over her shoulder at the camera. She had reddish brown hair and large brown eyes that possessed both an uncomplicated friendliness and a welcoming sexuality. Trying not to be obvious, Allbeck craned his neck slightly to get a better angle.
Without looking directly at the young man, Allbeck noted the clean-shaven face, and combed, sun-bleached hair. An upper class American, he was sure, and judging from the speed and intensity of the writing, one of the high energy, highly organized, very ambitious types - a description, Allbeck realized, that would have fit himself perfectly at the same age. Bored enough to be uncharacteristically intrusive, he cleared his throat and said, "She is a very pretty woman.”
The young man looked up with the quick, easy smile that is so distinctively American. Then he followed the older man's eyes to the photo. "She is beautiful, isn't she? And she's even better looking than that. I'm a lousy photographer."
"If you don't mind my asking, how old is she?"
"Twenty one."
"A model?"
"No," the young man grinned, "and she won't be unless the fashion world moves from Paris and New York to the Yorkshire Dales. She's a Yorkshire girl who's never been to London and hasn't any interest in going there either."
"You're joking," Allbeck replied.
"It's absolutely true. Two men who've known her all her live vouched for it."
"I take it that you just met her."
"Right, eight days ago."
"And I hope that you spent every day since then with her."
"No, actually, I didn't. I had a schedule to keep."
"A schedule! What are you, mad?" he said in mock dismay. "What in blazes were you doing that was so important?"
"Bicycling from London to Edinburgh It's something I've always wanted to do. It's on my list."
"Your list?" Allbeck repeated, the humor draining from his voice.
The young man flipped to the front of the journal. Inside the cover, below the name Thomas Landers, was a neatly typed list. He handed the journal to the older man.
Allbeck read the 11 lines to himself:
“1. Win Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. 2. Graduate in top three from law school. 3. Clerk for a Supreme Court Justice. 4. Own a new Mercedes Benz. 5. Run own law firm by the age of 37. 6. Take the Trans Siberian Express across Russia. 7. Be a judge by the age of 50. 8. Bicycle through England and Scotland. 9. Understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity. 10. Learn to fly a plane. 11. Own a Picasso."
He read through it twice in silence, his face revealing nothing, then handed the journal back. Thomas Landers' attempt at restraint gave way to curiosity. "What do you think?"
Allbeck sidestepped the query. "The red check marks, are they what I assume?"
"Yep. Three down, eight to go. I won the Rhodes Scholarship two years ago and learned Einstein's Theory of Relativity last year. This spring, I got my degree from Oxford in Politics, Philosophy, and Economics, and two weeks later started the bicycle trip." Landers' confidence was losing some of its bounce. The absence of the expected admiration was unsettling.
"How old were you when you drew up the list?" Allbeck's voice was subdued.
"Eighteen. You've got to set goals and these are mine." Landers tapped a finger against the list. "This is my future."
Allbeck nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me about the girl. What's her name?"
"Cinda." The conversation's abrupt change caught Landers by surprise.
"And how did you meet her?"
"Well, you know it's been a cold, rainy summer in England and that slowed me down a lot, especially going through the Cotswolds. Bicycling in the rain is just plain stupid, you understand," Landers said, wondering why he felt a need to explain. "You never get far, you always, get sick, and cars can't see you. Anyway, I finally reached Yorkshire just as another downpour began. I stayed dry under an oak tree, but the rain never let up. For the next five hours the wind kept getting colder and colder.
"At about 6 o'clock, the rain finally stopped, but I didn't even make another mile before it started again. I was passing through this village, and there was a small pub, so I put my bike behind it and ducked inside. It was like I'd stepped into another century. Inside that pub it could have been the 1890s or the 1790s. The ceiling was low with thick beams and the walls were all made of wood that wasn't cut by any modern machinery. Most of the light came from the fire in this great, stone fireplace.”
"About 20 men were there, and most of them looked like farmers. When I walked in, they all turned and looked at me as if I'd just barged into their house, not their pub. It felt like a scene out of a Western where the stranger comes into town and everyone just watches him. Anyway, I sat down next to the fire to get warm, and this beautiful woman appeared. She asked what I wanted to drink, but when she saw I was shivering, she brought me a hot buttered rum. 'We don't make a lot of these in the summer, but I think I still remember how,' she said, then pulled up a chair in front of me and made sure that I drank it all.
"When I got warm enough to put together coherent sentences, we started talking. She said that her name was Cinda and that her father owned the pub, just like his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather, but he was off that night. She asked me what an American was doing in Yorkshire in the rain, and I explained that I was on my way from London to Edinburgh. That's when she said she'd never been to either city or even gone more than 100 miles from Yorkshire. Despite that, as she spoke, you could tell she was smart. And when we talked about the English country¬side, she was the one who could quote Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Keats.
“While we were talking, I didn't have to look around to know that the men at the bar were keeping their eyes on us, as if they were all Cinda’s uncles. It felt like I was on a date with 20 chaperons.
"Cinda got up occasionally to serve the men, but we weren't interrupted too often because, as she put it, 'They're here for the talking more than the drinking.' The evening passed and, well, you never know what people see in you, but at about 10 o'clock one of the men brought a pint of beer over to me and, eventually, all of us were sitting in front of the fire. When they left, each of them shook my hand and the last one, the biggest one, said in a real low voice, 'Good night, young fella. You be careful with our Cinda.' And there was no doubt that he meant it.
"When she began cleaning up, I helped because I didn't know if I was expected to leave too though I didn't want to. Afterward, Cinda put two thick logs on the fire and poured a full glass of brandy for me. Do you know those conversations you can have with only a very few people? Those times when every word's understood just the way you meant it, and you never have to explain any¬thing? That's what this was like. I told her about places I'd been, and she told me about the people in her town, and we told each other what we wanted in our lives.”
"We talked all night, and the funny thing is that I never got tired. Somehow, talking with her was restoring, almost restful. When it started to get light out¬side, she asked me what was the best dawn I'd ever seen. When I started to tell her about one, she just shook her head. 'The best dawn you've ever seen is the one you're about to see,' she said.
"The rain had stopped during the night, the clouds had cleared out, and there was a perfectly blue sky. She took my hand, and we walked up a hill that seemed to go straight up until, from the top, you could see the whole valley, which was wet-green, perfectly still and quiet. Below us were the farmers' fields, cottages and barns, and the roads winding around. The sun seemed to rise slowly; then suddenly it lit up all the mists in the valley and made them glow until they were iridescent.
After a while, Cinda looked at me and asked, 'Why would I want to go anywhere? I might miss one of these.' Then she let go of my hand, and I followed her down the hill. At the pub, she cooked me breakfast and I left an hour later."
“And that’s the whole story?” Allbeck asked.
"Yes. That night and that dawn will always be a great memory."
Allbeck considered the young man’s words, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. From a compartment behind the pound notes and dollar bills, he produced a yellowed, fragile piece of paper, pressed thin by its time in the wallet. Allbeck opened it carefully along the worn creases and handed it to the young man.
Landers' eyes opened wide as he saw the first line. He kept reading, at times out loud: "Graduate with honors from Cambridge ... Be a multimillionaire by 30 ... Own a Bentley ... Buy a suit at Gieves and Hawkes, I Savile Row ... Meet the Queen ... See the Great Wall of China." He looked at Allbeck, open¬mouthed. "My God."
"My life," Allbeck said. "Planned and charted when I was 15 years old."
"And the black Xs mean you did them? And the dates and places are the when and the where?"
Allbeck nodded.
Landers frowned. "You missed one," he said. "Number nine."
"I know," Allbeck said softly. "That's why I'm giving you the list. I want you to do it for me."
Landers looked at the older man.
"I got too busy with all the others, Allbeck explained. "I let it slide, and then I began to think it didn't matter. Will you do it for me?"
Landers twice began to speak, then answered with an uncertain nod.
Allbeck pulled an already opened envelope from a pocket, removed the letter, and pointed at the envelope's address. "That's where I live." He took the fragile paper from Landers, slipped it inside, and handed the envelope to the young man.
Allbeck turned away and looked out the window at the clouds.
Eleven months later, Brian Allbeck was sitting in his library sorting the day's mail, when his hands stopped. He picked up the envelope that he'd seen before, and, holding it at the corners, spun it once, twice, then a third time, considering what might be inside. He slipped the letter opener under the flap, carefully ripped through the adhesive tape, then, with two fingers, withdrew the yellowed piece of paper.
Allbeck took a deep breath and opened the page. His eyes swept down the column of black Xs and, for a moment, dread overcame him, then he saw the firm red check mark and "June 29, 1997, Yorkshire, England" on the ninth line, the line he hadn't been able to cross off himself, the line that read "Marry for Love."
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
No, Viriginia, There Isn't a Santa Clause. Really. No Matter What the Man Says. Word.
In keeping with the time-honored tradition of mainstream media re-running that whack "Letter about Santa Clause" every year by some obviously hallucinating young girl (yeah, right) named Virginia, I thought I would continue my own tradition, started in 1991, of running my own holiday missive. After 17 years, I believe it still speaks truth. So check back next year, I will probably do it again!And Virginia -- if that is your real name -- get real.
Chocolate and champagne, romance with a zing, black lace and Nyquil, a whip with a sting, old movies and kitties and gold nipple rings, these are a few of my favorite things."
"God, I just love the old-time Christmas carols," I thought as I hummed my way into the unholy specter of holiday shopping. The scene? Christmas Eve. I had an hour left until the stores closed. I was armed with an ATM card, $3,000 in cash, a Black Centurion Amex and absolutely no idea of what to buy for anyone. But I had a song in my heart and a thermos of cognac-laced espresso on the front seat. The velvet-clad valet parking attendant beckoned. "What the hell," I said, grabbing my Santa hat and candy cane. "It’s all for a good Claus." Ferreting out the truth
I bounded to the elevator below Neiman Marcus and hit the "up" button. The air filled with music. "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire ..." Ah, sweet thoughts of the Christmas Eve tree torching-to-come filled my mind.
Abruptly, the elevator opened and I was face to Shar-Pei wrinkle with a 140-year-old woman grappling with what appeared to be a large, beady-eyed ferret, or was it, oh no, a weasel, that was wrapped tightly around her neck. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the rodent and flung it to the ground. "Stand back!" I yelled. "It could be rabid!" Burying the heel of my Christmas Prada loafers in its skull, I felt the satisfying crunch of splintering bone. I held the poor woman close, out of harm’s way, as a pair of garish glass eyes rolled between our feet toward the cosmetic counter and the svelte pelt quivered She began to scream. "My wrap! My wrap!" "It’s all right, ma’am," I said. "Gift wrapping in on the upper level. Have a Merry Christmas!"
As I turned to make my way out of the store and into the holiday throng, it dawned on me that there were bunches of women wrapped in dead animal hides lurking all around me. Why, the entire store was filled with ’em! This wasn’t some Orwellian nightmare animal rebellion; these people were actually wearing fur. I was surrounded by hordes of dirty, rotten, stinking fur-skimos.
Ack! Ack! Phooey! Phooey! I glanced around furtively. Damn! There’s never a vial of fresh blood around when you really need it.
I could be Moses if I only had a larger staff
Christmas in the tropics is one thing, but Christmas at our house is another reality altogether. We face a clash of cultures, as Susan prefers the traditional, born-and-raised-in-the-Midwest approach. She puts on a happy stack of music, perhaps sweet dulcimer mixed in with a bit of Bing Crosby and soft piano, while preparing spiced cider and hot chocolate for our guests. She prefers to gather with close friends and family and decorate the tree with the handmade and heirloom ornaments we have collected, pausing with each ornament to reflect on its origin and reminisce on the fellowship and caring that the holiday season brings out in most of us.
Later, after the tree is finished and the piles of presents carefully arranged, after the train set has begun its never-ending circle cycle, champagne is solemnly sipped by all as plans for helping the less fortunate are discussed.
I, on the other hand, take a slightly less formal approach. First, I gut the garage and set-up a huge stage containing a completely robotic "Away in the Manger’’ diorama. The set includes a dozen anatomically correct farm animals, a 2,000-watt Star O’ David™ halogen spotlight, three full-size camels and a crib stuffed to overflowing with fire-retardant fiberglass straw.
My family and friends won’t be following the lights to just any old mangy manger. I proudly feature the ‘‘Baby Jesus of Nazareth’’ model, straight from the Franklin Mint’s Great Religions Signature series, equipped with a Holographic Halo-Head™ 3-D Son-O-God halo projection system, a Sign-of-the-Cross™ voice-box and a He-Heals-the-Sick™ holy hand gesture option.
After the wise men, and women, arrive, we gather together and all do multiple shots of chilled Grey Goose vodka, followed by my special homemade garlic, fresh tomato and artichoke pizza, washed-down with magnums of 1998 La Grande Dame champagne.
I’ve found that 50 Cent, the White Stripes, Was (Not Was) and the Black Crowes cranked until your ears bleed is perfect background music for the traditional glass ornament toss, where we all try to see how far away from the tree we can stand and still get the ornaments to stick in the branches without shattering on the wood floor when we throw them at the tree.
After all the ornaments are hanging or broken, we gather all the trimmings, tinsel and leftover wrapping paper in a pile, drench the tree with Grand Marnier and torch the whole thing in a towering inferno of brightly colored flames. Like I said ... Chestnuts roasting on an open fire ... I think it’s very important to set an example for the children, don’t you agree?
You say it’s your birthday
And I don’t think the fun should stop with the tree. On Christ’s birthday, as the sun rises, I traditionally get the ice cream birthday cake out of the freezer to let it thaw a bit while we all have a mimosa.
You know, I never realized it, but no matter how many multitudes we have over for birthday cake, there is always enough to go around. Sound fishy? Go figure. Then we gather for the ceremonial lighting of the candle. Now here’s where the arguments usually begin. You know, the "Is it one candle in the cake because it’s baby Jesus’ first year, or no candles because he’s just been born and won’t be a year old for a year yet," argument. Personally, I belong to the one- candle school. I mean really, what’s a birthday cake without a candle?
’Twas da night before Christmas
’Twas da night before Christmas, and all through the crib, we were both playing dress-up: I was wearing a bib.
Susan’s stockings had runs, but we just didn’t care,
Some like legs in nylon, I like my legs bare.
And while Kleo and our kitties purred sweet dreams of ham,
We toasted with champagne and cranked-up classic Pearl Jam.
When out on the lawn there arose such a racket,
I let go of her garters and put down the straitjacket.
Away to the window I blew in a flash.
I pulled out my Sig Sauer and stashed all my cash.
When what to my mascaraed eyes should appear, but a sled sheathed in leather and red Latex reindeer.
He was satin and lacy from his head to his foot;
he blew us both kisses, now how did that look?
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, pulled out French lace and spiked heels, then turned with a jerk.
And laying a finger underneath his white-powdered red nose, said: "I’m old and I’m chubby and I wear women’s clothes."
Happy Holidays. And a moment of silence of those whom we have lost, either in mind, body or spirit in the past year.
Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward men. (Except Cheney and Rumsfeld, of course).
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Bow Down and Worship T. M. Shine
For a number of years, I had the unique privilege to work with T. M. Shine, one of the most amazing and talented writers I ever dealt with in 16 years in the publishing business.
I just re-read, for the umpteenth time, his first book, "Fathers Aren't Supposed to Die: Five Brothers Reunite To Say Good-bye," originally published in 2000 and still available here at Amazon.
It is a tour de force that will leave you in awe. I'm not his only fan; Bill Moyers wrote the intro, and our former colleague John Hughes said it best..."If Elizabeth Kubler-Ross met Carl Hiaasen, T.M. Shine would be their bastard child. This book is laugh out loud funny, except when it's ripping your guts out."
Terry also has published several books based on his award-winning weekly column, Timeline, which first appeared in XS/City Link Magazine in South Florida; I ran across one of his columns that appeared after our former art director left to rub oil on swimsuit models for more money. It's totally worth repeating, with apologies to W Kelley:
Nothing to get excited over
T.M. Shine may have lost everything. That makes it hard to be
enthusiastic, even about the Monkeemobile.
Wang Dang Sweet Poontang
- Ted Nugent
8:10 a.m.: Looking for a certain phone number. I am afraid if I lose it, I will have lost everything.
8:15 a.m.: Shit.
8:28 a.m.: Shit.
8:47 a.m.: Shit!
9:04 a.m.: I have lost everything.
10:12 a.m.: Marketing guy is standing outside our office building, smoking a dainty, brown cigarette and looking as if he is the most pissed-off person in a world full of very pissed-off people.
10:13 a.m.: He eyes me and says, "If the question of the hour is, 'Deal or no deal?' my answer is, " 'No deal.' "
10:14 a.m.: Fuckin' A, I say.
10:14:12 a.m.: "Fuckin' A."
11:04 a.m.: Art guy announces he's taking a new job with a swimwear catalog. Everyone wishes him well, and then, he comes over to my desk and says, "All I have to do is set up photo shoots of swimsuit models in front of palm trees, but they never use the same palm tree twice, so I'll have to fly all over the world to exotic locales." Sounds interesting, I say. "Tierra del Fuego. That's where I report on my first day of work. It's already set up. The models are meeting me at the Tierra del Fuego Starbucks, and then, we'll go find a palm tree from there."
11:05 a.m.: "It's as if I spun the big wheel of life, and it landed on Utopia - or Fruitopia, even. You're jealous, huh?" he asks. Sounds nice. I wish you well, I say. "These aren't $150-a-day models," he goes on. "These are $3,500-a-day models. And they'll be undressing in front of me, because models do that. They just undress in front of whoever's there, and I'll be right there. And I'll be telling them how to pose and bend over to pick up seashells and stuff. If someone asks a month from now what I'm doing, it would not be a stretch to say, 'He's an international-swimsuit-model choreographer.' "
11:05:40 a.m.: I'll try to remember that if anyone asks, I say.
11:06 a.m.: I always thought you'd make a good choreographer, I add. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before continuing, "Oh, and they have accessories like purses and shoes and stuff that have to be photographed too, but it's not like they use ugly people who just happento grow gorgeous feet and hands. They don't play that game. Even the elbow models look like Heidi Klum. I'm telling you: This year, I'm going to be decorating my Christmas tree with swimsuit models. Can you believe it?"
11:07 a.m.: Pretty unbelievable.
11:07:13 a.m.: "You," he mutters. Me. What?
11:07:20 a.m.: "You could at least try to act like you're impressed," he complains. What do you mean? I said it was a very envious position. "It's the way you said it," he explains. How did I say ...
11:07:38 a.m.: "Never mind," he says, walking away.
11:08 a.m.: I don't know what he wants from me.
11:23 a.m.: Maybe that number is around here somewhere. I start searching my desk.
11:27 a.m.: Shit!
12:12 p.m.: Go to lunch and eat alone.
12:17 p.m.: Get text message from art guy: forgot to tell ya. know how on law shows the judge will be in his chambers and reach down into a drawer and pull out a decanter of whiskey and two glasses? at the new job every desk comes with a decanter of whiskey.
12:19 p.m.: Get second text message: With 4 glasses!
12:44 p.m.: I dated a model once. She undressed in front of me, but she threw stuff at me, too.
12:45 p.m.: Heavy, bulky stuff. Without warning.
1:28 p.m.: As soon as I return to the office, art guy comes rushing over.
"The job comes with a fat paycheck," he says, holding his hands apart, about two Big Gulps high. "And they don't have direct deposit 'cause the boss thinks it takes all the fun out of getting paid. So they just have this girl Cindy come around and hand you neatly wrapped stacks of cash." That's unique, I say.
1:29 p.m.: "And mixed in with the money are tickets to major sports events and concerts. The owner buys them in bulk for charity and then just gives them out because he believes sports and music should be shared equally with your neighbor." That's a good corporate attitude, I say. "Oh, and the string they use to wrap your money is edible. Kind of licorice-y."
1:30 p.m.: Mmmmmmm.
1:30:28 p.m.: "Did you hear what I just said? I'll be getting paid in fat bricks of money ribbon-wrapped in licorice? I'll be making so much moola I could buy and sell your whole family."
1:30:34 p.m.: To who? I ask.
1:31 p.m.: "Oh, and they give you a company car, and mine is the yellow 1971 hemi 'Cuda that Don Johnson drove on Nash Bridges," he says. "Yeah, the president of the company is a car nut, and the whole fleet is show cars from TV series and movies. He drives K.I.T.T. The VP tools around in the Munster Koach. You ought to see that thing loaded up with swimsuit models."
1:32 p.m.: "When I went for my job interview, they took me to lunch in the Monkeemobile."
1:32:21 p.m.: Where'd you eat? I inquire. "Where'd I eat? Forget you!"
1:33 p.m.: Most people have, I say.
2:11 p.m.: Marketing guy comes over and says, "I'm still counting on the jerk factor." His girlfriend broke up with him a month ago, and he figured she'd realize how many jerks were out there and come crawling back.
2:12 p.m.: "It's all jerks out there. We know that. Wall-to-wall jerks. I
wasn't wrong, was I?" he asks me. "I mean, it's been a month. She must have met 800 jerks by now."
2:13 p.m.: "I once met 910 jerks in one month," Tiara says.
3:10 p.m.: Art guy is back. "I'm going to have a huge office. Humongous," he says, getting in my face. Sounds spacious, I reply. "It's a bungalow, really - a bungalow on top of a skyscraper overlooking the city." I'm happy for you. "With a soda fountain and soda jerk named Victoria who will make me milk shakes whenever I wish." It sounds ideal. "And a shower with 44 heads and sleeping quarters with a racecar bed - and not one of those kiddie Rooms To Go racecar beds. A king-size racecar bed."
3:11 p.m.: That's neat. I didn't know they made them that big. "They don't. It's custom."
3:11:09 p.m.: Well, I hope the transition goes well. "Do you hear what I'm saying?" he yells. "My office is a bungalow on top of a skyscraper with a soda jerk named Victoria, a 44-headed shower and a king-size racecar bed - with working headlights. The headlights work."
3:12 p.m.: That's a nice option, I say.
3:12:18 p.m.: He glares at me. What? I ask. I don't know what you want from me.
3:13 p.m.: "Fuck you!" he says, storming off to a new life in Fruitopia where paydays are fat, Flaming Lips tickets are slipped in with the cash, decanters of whiskey are always at the ready, no two palm trees are alike, midday naps can be taken with the brights on, swimsuit models change outfits while hanging from Christmas trees and everybody rides to lunch in the Monkeemobile.
3:14 p.m.: Fuck you, too!
3:14:04 p.m.: You lucky bastard.
Diamonds are Forever ... More from Papa Smurf
Who needs fancy platitudes?
Here's the next in an on-going series of life observations by my whack friend Rusty Diamond, or, as we who faced raging Class VI whitewater together, and survived, know him as - Papa Smurf.
"The only pressure today is peer pressure."
Solid.
Here's the next in an on-going series of life observations by my whack friend Rusty Diamond, or, as we who faced raging Class VI whitewater together, and survived, know him as - Papa Smurf.
"The only pressure today is peer pressure."
Solid.
In a Perfect World: What the Web Version of the Front Page of the NY Times COULD look like
Thanks to dear friend Lori Gold for turning me on to this "perfect World" NY Times dream front page. Incredibly detailed and reproduced down to the last detail with working links and click-through stories...This is totally righteous! And thanks to Lori's cousin, Emily, who teaches architecture at Parsons and participated in the project. See the full-size version here.
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So I had to weigh in. Who wouldn't?
Michael says if only the fact were so black and white.
International agencies that have continually faced family planning issues in developing nations, struggled with AIDS and lack of education, and have been crippled by a neo-fascist policy blockade spearheaded for years by whack-jobs like Jesse Helms and other so-called holier-than-thou “moralists” that say "If you dare talk about family planning choices, (including not only the “A” word, but birth control, condoms and other methods of preventing conception) you don't get our glorious US $'s.
Instead, let’s give our “hard-earned tax dollars” to genocide-loving countries and leaders that mouth our moralist bullshit while murdering their opposition, imprisoning and torturing innocents, and use our financial and military support to maintain corrupt and repressive regimes that oppress and defile their own people.
Hundreds of thousands of unplanned, and unsustainable, children have been born, and died, on the bloody altar of “don’t ask, because we won’t let you tell.”
I say enough is enough.
Thank you, President Obama.