Tiger Scat

Guilty Pleasures.

2012-02-11T14:43:00.000-08:00

In a perfect world, we would have no need to refer to something we enjoy as a 'guilty' pleasure. That world would be free of shame, ridicule, insecurity, highbrow snoots and nutrition fact labels. But alas, in this world, we have all of those things in copious amounts. We are made to feel bad about liking trashy novels, fatty foods and Nickelodeon so we keep these from view lest we endure the pitying scowl of those who read nothing but 19th century philosophy or who get their news only from NPR. So without further delay, here's my partial list, and I welcome submissions of yours; now's the time to emerge from hiding, all you Journey fans and Hostess Cupcake hoarders.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Laden with fat, salt, sugar, empty calories and bereft of any real value other than providing a huge smile on my face after raiding my nephew's trick-or-treat bag and stuffing my pie-hole with four of them.

Coldplay. They were once cutting-edge cool, but that was way, way back in 2000 before the planes hit the buildings and the banks robbed our wallets. Since then, we've become too cynical to listen to songs like "Speed of Sound" or "Paradise". Every time I play them, I make sure to turn around to see who's watching me, or listening and I think of that scene in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin".

Model trains. If Mike Myers noticed this one, he would yell out, "Nerd alert!". But, I have a secret love for model railroading. No, I don't have the room, the money or the patience to take it up as a hobby, I just can't get over the detail, craftsmanship and commitment that goes into it. I guess there's just "...something about a train...".

Penny loafers. I've owned a few pair of Bass Weejuns and Sebago loafers, but I've long since abandoned them for sportier, edgier footwear. I was originally inspired by "The Preppy Handbook" and a favorite uncle who always added a certain flair to the Oxford cloth shirts and grosgrain belts he proudly wore. I saw him recently, and he still sports a refined Ivy-League look, sans college professor rumple and frayed collar tips. He also taught me to always insert a penny in the cordovan-color pair, but a dime in the black.

Barney. I think Barney is great. I also loved Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, but that's almost considered "retro-cool" at this point. No, Barney still gets slammed and dissed by the hipper than thou. I guess it's just not trendy to be a positive-thinking, kind, loving, caring, parade-and-marching-band obsessed purple dinosaur, but I say these days, we need more Barnies and fewer Cartmans.

Downton Abbey. I started watching this PBS series midway through an episode in the first season, and I was immediately hooked. It's completely unbelievable in that the lords, masters and ladies of the manor offer so much respect and kindness to the handmaidens, footmen and various other slaves in their employ, while they bicker, backbite and gossip about each other. It's also chock full of cheap "rich man-poor man" themes and plots. Dame Maggie Smith is an absolute treasure, even though they feed her all the best lines. It is altogether very bad television, and that's what makes it so good.

C'mon, man.

2012-02-10T15:23:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about sports this morning, why don't we. The Scatter-in-Chief (that would be me) and the Scat Staff (that would also be me) are sports fans, but in the wake of yet another New York Giants' Super Bowl victory, we have been scratching our heads over some recent and quite unpleasant encounters with fans of different colors.

This all started a few months back during an exchange with a good friend and business associate (let's call him Jimmy to protect the not-so-innocent). Jimmy lives down south, relocating several years ago from parts north and the Midwest. We communicate frequently via email and much of what we discuss involves sports, and hockey in particular. Jimmy happens to play the game and he also officiates in a club league so he feels uniquely qualified to comment on anything relating to it. I consider him my personal hockey guru, especially since he "skates on both sides of the ice" as I like to call it.

During one of our recent exchanges, I had become confused about his team loyalty, which seemed to be all over the place. He explained to me the reasons for his various and disjointed support for teams from Detroit, Boston, New York, California and, finally, North Carolina. His dad rooted for this team or that, so Jimmy followed suit, or he moved to yet another city, so he flew the local flag and remained a supporter until he moved to the next city. Fair enough, if a bit schizophrenic: I would have serious conflict issues if I found myself rooting for a team (any team!) from Philadelphia if I had just relocated from, say, Baltimore.

* * * * * * * *

In the run-up to Super Bowl XLVI, I began to notice an unsettling proliferation of New England Patriots paraphernalia cropping up in our leafy, and not so leafy, suburbs here in New Jersey, twelve short miles from New York City and about six clicks to the west of the $1.1 billion home of the Giants, the unfortunately-named MetLife Stadium. (The Jets happen to play there as well, but we consider them guests, reluctantly, at best.) Now, it's not too much of a stretch to be questioning the sight of jerseys, banners and caps sporting logos from teams around the nation here in our area; after all, it's not only a melting pot for people from other cultures and countries, it's also a destination for many folks moving around from other parts of the US. Spotting the occasional Seattle Seahawks hoodie on Main Street ain't so unusual when you consider that the metro area is home to nearly 22,000,000 people.

Even keeping this in mind, I found myself enduring a curious density of Patriots' supporters not only in town, but at our place of work. First, the odd spotting of cars with Massachusetts license plates and Pats flags affixed to the windows; I counted three of these in one day, and this in a town of only 38,000. Mind you, I had never before noticed this, so it had me thinking that some intrepid (and uniquely obnoxious) New Englanders decided to drive down for the day and parade around town in a futile attempt to psych us out. Then I deduced that we have families in town who own summer homes on Cape Cod, Nantucket or the Vineyard, and there is also a connection between the affluent suburbs here in New Jersey and the ivy-encrusted architecture in Boston, Cambridge and Holyoke, so that might have explained it. Either way, it was beginning to piss me off.

As I made my way up the stairs to our studio on another fine pre-Super Bowl day, I held the door for a middle aged woman who was sporting a Giants parka. I joked that I only held the door for her because of this; she laughed and said, "Oh, I'm actually a Patriots fan. This is my husband's jacket and I just grabbed it as I ran out of the house." Now it was really starting to reach me, and I was one more Tom Brady-jersey-wearing Beanhead away from losing my shit. I then worked on a client on the Saturday before the game, who I had assumed hailed from a family of Giants (or at the very least, Jets) fans, having grown up in southern Connecticut and maintaining residence here in NJ for more than 30 years. I had actually worked on her dad a few years back and I vividly recall having a lengthy discussion with him about the Giants. When she wished me, "Good luck tomorrow", I mentioned that her dad must be excited to have Big Blue back in the championship game; when she informed me that he was actually a Patriots fan, my face dropped and all I could manage to say was, "Really? That's too bad." I slammed the door behind her as she was leaving.

* * * * * * * *

But the piece de resistance happened this past Tuesday, as Giants fans were basking in the glow of a third Super Bowl conquest. I stopped in to pay a visit to a fellow tenant in our office building, who also happens to be an acquaintance (and an "arm's length" friend) for nearly ten years. Again, I had no firm idea of his team allegiance and at this point, I wouldn't have been shocked had he told me that he is a lifelong Cincinnati Bengals fan. But, he is a Yankees fan and a casual follower of the New Jersey Devils, so I at least expected an obligatory support for the Giants, especially in a Super Bowl. "So, buddy, that was some game, huh, what a win!". "Actually, I'm so disappointed." "What? You too???" "Yeah, man, I really wanted to see New England. I thought Brady and Belichick were overdue." "Overdue??? Overdue for what???" At that point, his phone rang and it provided me with the perfect excuse to leave lest I reach over the counter, lunging for his head to twist it clean off his fucking neck. I left glaring at him and muttering under my breath, "C'mon, man."

Shaking my head all the way down the hall to our studio, I could hardly believe what I just heard. Anybody who follows sports, and football in particular, and who thinks that the New England Patriots, one of the most successful franchises in the National Football League, winners of three out of four Super Bowls, with appearances in a total of seven, and with a future Hall of Fame quarterback and coach, a genuine dynasty by any measure thinks they were "overdue" for another victory cannot possibly have any conception of what has happened over the last decade-and-a-half and is therefore completely unqualified to offer any commentary on the subject. The only excuse I could think of was his reputation for being quite impressionable, you know, one of those guys who believes everything he reads if it suits the moment. I thought that maybe he had come across some editorial on The Boston Globe's website or some other regional media outlet that found itself licking the wounds left behind by a second meeting with a team that owns them, and he wanted to echo the sentiments.

* * * * * * * *

I have since been doing my level best to avoid this fellow, which is no easy task given that our offices are separated by about thirty feet of narrow corridor. His ridiculous and uninformed comments however provided the perfect ending to a ten day stretch that had me pondering what it is to be a fan, what makes people change their stripes and what would possess a Giant's fan to wear a Patriot's parka; I would have left the house in shirtsleeves before donning the colors of the enemy, but that's just me. As I told Jimmy, I couldn't possibly keep up with him, even if I found myself moving to another city, state or country. No, I keep it real: I was born in New York City, I've lived in New Jersey all my life. I "root, root, root for the home team." And when the Giants make it to Super Bowl XLVII, I might tell this story all over again.

Do the math.

2012-02-08T06:13:00.000-08:00

The staff here at Scat Central (that would be me) is still recovering from the recent flood of creative output that resulted in five, count 'em, five, posts in seven days. The string reached its zenith, of course, with Tiger Scat Post #100, an absolute masterstroke by any measure. So I thought I might slow things down a bit, and ease my way into the 'next one hundred' by offering you a simple photo, making a comment on it and leaving you all to ponder your own mortality.

I found myself in an especially intergalactic mood this morning, inspired by the missus and her frequent photo manipulations that resemble planets, moons, stars and supernovas far and wide, so you could imagine my delight at the sight of this photo on the home page of my favorite newspaper, The Guardian UK. The Carina Nebula was recently captured on film through one of the world's largest telescopes, and it is an absolute beauty. For those of you in the dark (pun intended), a nebula is basically a cloud of cosmic dust and gasses that can be found many, many miles in the distant universe.

Just how many miles, you might be wondering? The Carina is estimated to be 7,500 light years from the earth. I already knew that a light year was equal to at least many millions of miles, but before I did the research (and by 'research', I mean Wikipedia), I had no idea just how many: it seems as if one light year equals 6 trillion miles. That's 6,000,000,000,000. If you multiply that by 7,500, I'm not even sure what the resulting total number is. When we start to get into that territory, you need to use terms like "quadrillion", "duodecillion" and "vigintillion"; that last one, for your information, is the number 10 to the 63rd power.

This is heavy stuff indeed, especially at eight in the morning and before a second mug of strong coffee. Astronomers are accustomed to dealing with numbers that are accompanied by 63 zeroes, but it's out of my scope of practice as a humble blogger; let them do the math. I'll just enjoy the Carina Nebula from a distance (ahem), and admire the pretty colors from this interplanetary gravy of organic matter and hydrogen in way-outer space. Nanu-Nanu!

Welcome to Tiger Scat Posting Number 100. Pink not welcome. The color or the singer.

2012-02-02T18:50:00.000-08:00

It's days like this when I fully understand the old saying, "Hope springs eternal." I have been anticipating the publication of the 100th Tiger Scat posting and of course, I would want it to be of monumental proportions, and that my creative energies would collectively summon a blog entry worthy of consideration for the Blogging Hall of Fame. Well, here it is, fellow scatters.

I started to compose this entry last October, which, as most of you know, is "Breast Cancer Awareness Month". I let it sit for a few days, then weeks, then before I knew it, November had arrived. That month happens to be "National Diabetes Month", and I have no material yet gathered to rant on that particular subject. So, the post was eventually abandoned, exiled to the 'draft heap' until October 2012. But, lo and behold, like it is in Greenland, just as I thought the dawn would never again arrive, the headline that dreams are made of appeared like a beacon on the horizon: "Komen for the Cure, caving into political pressure, Pulls funding for breast cancer screening at Planned Parenthood." The gods of blogging were clearly watching over me; either that, or Tim Tebow put in a good word.

Ms. Komen's group is no stranger to controversy, especially in the health-activist and political extremist camps. She's even catching shit these days from some of her most loyal supporters who just might be growing weary of deflecting criticism over her shameless, aggressive marketing and questionable partnerships (Anyone remember last year's "Bucket for the Cure", brought to you by the fine people at KFC? That was a great idea: let's put some pink ribbons on a bucket containing GMO chicken parts coated with six inches of carbohydrate-laden batter then plunged into a bubbling vat of carcinogen-creating oil. Belly up, ladies, but don't forget your mammogram appointment next Wednesday!).

It's no secret that "Big Pink" is the undisputed leader, a tour de force of not-for-profiteering, raking in over $400 million in 2010; over $140 million of that went into "awareness" campaigns. I think you would be hard-pressed to find the person living in America (or anywhere, for that matter) who is not already "aware" of breast cancer, mammography and the need for women in certain age groups to get regular medical breast examinations. No, I'm not convinced that Komen's group is hellbent on awareness. And, they're certainly not saying too much about prevention, but they sure know how to sell pink hair scrunchies. The New York Times published an article last October that cast a fair amount of skepticism on the organization by suggesting that it's massive marketing blitz every October is "just another excuse to go shopping".

In the 30 or so years that Komen has been raising "awareness", they've also been very busy raising funds...to the tune of over $2 billion, ostensibly through organized foot races and the sales of pink products. In fact, the color pink itself has become so directly associated with "the Cure" that anyone wearing the slightest hint of it might be considered a supporter. We might need to rethink "pink is for girls" when outfitting our newborns and toddlers; I vote for the color yellow, which is a whole lot easier on the eyes and matches so much better with blue.

Now the latest news comes hot on the heels of a big Mitt Romney primary victory in Florida and the timing has not been lost on anyone. Our friends in the Republican party need to close up ranks at every turn so their man Mitt will be able to bring the fight to a sitting President who himself has proven to be a disappointment but who remains the current favorite. Komen's organization, is arguably, one that attracts folks from both sides (or is it now three sides?) of the political barbed wire fence, but with the decision to no longer write checks to Planned Parenthood, watch that balance shift way over to the right. Or, rather, the wrong.

I could go on and on about the largely unpopular reports about the dangers that exist in receiving a mammogram. I could also talk about my belief that cancer is, and will always, be here to stay; after all, it makes a whole lot of money for a whole lot of people and it therefore has become a vital cog in the world economic machine. And I could preach to you that it costs a whole lot less money to live a lifestyle that prevents cancer than it does to diagnose and subsequently treat it. No, I will instead leave you with a passage from an essay that my wife (aka "the missus") wrote last year; she's a fellow ranter and raver, who last October challenged women to take the very serious matter of breast cancer into their own hands and implored them to focus their energies on the disease proactively. No amount of pink hair scrunchies is gonna improve on that advice:

"To women stuck on the pink thing: if we had clarity, there would be no need for organized charity... where your money goes, nobody really knows. Take back your power and forget about 'the cure', and instead focus on healing yourself, and others, every day of your life."

Shameless plug.

2012-02-02T10:08:00.000-08:00

It's not often you'll find an unconditional product endorsement here on Tiger Scat, but two things converged today to inspire me to rave about Larabar, and the "Lemon Bar" variety in particular.

I found myself waiting on the checkout line at Whole Foods for an unusually long stretch, so in my growing boredom, my eyes scanned the shelves nearest the checkout area. They are stocked, of course, with all sorts of handy little items that are arranged to appeal to the impulsive behavior of shoppers. I knew I was being trapped, but when I noticed they moved the Larabars to a more prominent location, I temporarily abandoned my basket to grab a handful. It had been a while since I enjoyed one, so the timing was just right. Well, that, and I needed material for this post, the 99th here on the 'Scat.

I then noticed that a friend had posted a playful request on Facebook for someone to drop off a tasty treat to her workplace, but it had to fit her requirements: Non-GMO, vegan, dairy free and delicious. Well, look no further than the Larabar. These cute little numbers never contain more than four or five ingredients. The Lemon Bar variety proudly boasts only dates, cashews, almonds, lemon juice concentrate and natural lemon flavor. Just the right balance of tart and sweet, and just the right size for a midday snack; hell, it could even stand in for dessert, it's that good.

In addition to the above listed features, the Larabar is also gluten-free and Kosher. It contains 6g of protein, oodles of potassium and a smattering of minerals. I can't think of a better way to satisfy a sweet tooth craving when you just can't justify another chocolate chip cookie. I'm hoping the good folks at Larabar see this post and send me a check for my shameless plug. If it works, look for more of the same here at the home of integrity, Tiger Scat.

Any day now...any day...

2012-02-02T09:31:00.000-08:00

We are closing in on the 100th post here at Tiger Scat. Just last week, we celebrated our 1-year anniversary, so it's been very exciting here at 'Scat Central, as you can see from the photo above.

I've been ruminating about the subject matter for the milestone entry, hoping that my creative powers will be at their absolute zenith on the day I decide to post, but as we all know, that's not how the artistic process works. I do have the luxury of working without a deadline so without that pressure, I'm free to just wait until the magic happens and make a beeline to my keyboard to bang out another priceless treasure. The best work often comes from spontaneous creation, so that's what I'm banking on.

I have been on a creative tear lately, and that's due in no small part to the extremely light work load during the past week or so. February is traditionally a 'soft' month in our business, as it is in many businesses. Oh, sure, we'll get the sudden rush of gift certificate purchases in the run-up to Valentine's Day but sessions are few and far between, especially in a massage practice that has become quite exclusive. A full 85% of our clientele are from direct referrals, and we do not advertise. I've started to refer to it as a private therapeutic massage 'club', and our clients like it that way.

So, in the meantime, I'll keep writing as long as the spirit moves me and I can still afford to pay the monthly FiOS bill, and I'll just hope that when the train does arrive for that 100th post, I'll have a duffel bag full of rants and raves slung over my shoulder, and I'll be ready to jump on board.

We appreciate your patronage. Really, we do.

2012-02-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

I'm not in the habit of trashing local businesses, but sometimes it's necessary to call some of them out. I'm in an especially chippy mood today, so I thought I might strike while the iron's hot. Or, in this case, the griddle.

Our local diner recently reopened following an eight-month hiatus due to a fire. According to whomever you choose to believe, the intensity and subsequent damage caused by this fire ranged from "minimal" to "serious". I remember chatting with another local merchant who, when asked about the event, leaned in close to me and confided, "That fire was nothing. The stove went up and the back wall, and that's it." Needless to say, what followed was a prolonged period of construction permits posted on the front windows accompanied by a crudely handwritten sign that boasted "We will be back soon" and a bunch of people who were beginning to suffer the side effects of watery-coffee withdrawal.

What ensued was a period of speculation, gossip and here-say that left me feeling completely indifferent as to when or if this place would actually serve another Velveeta cheese omelet ever again. It wasn't as if I totally depended on its existence; there's a bunch of places to choose from in our neighborhood, but it's nice to have a real, honest to goodness diner in the mix just in case you crave a chocolate milk made with Bosco syrup and a footed dessert dish filled with rice pudding that resembled joint compound in need of a good mixing.

So, a week or so after the 'soft' grand opening, I paid my first visit to the refurbished interior, resplendent in freshly-stretched naugahyde booths and (finally) repainted walls, sat at the counter and ordered up some scrambled eggs and coffee. My plate arrived with two of the loneliest, smallest eggs ever condemned to a whisk, two slices of dessicated bread, and three slivers of the kind of orangey-reddish hothouse tomato that was all the rage in 1973 at the Food Fair supermarket. I was famished, so instead of complaining and demanding a 're-do', I chowed down. It took about 27 seconds. Then the bill arrived: $6.90. That's seven bones for a meal that would find its way through the first two-thirds of my digestive system in about 35 minutes, leaving me hungrier than I was before I walked in. Throw in the tip, and I was out almost nine dollars for this.

I wondered at first if the waitress ripped me off, but thought that unlikely because she knows me by name and the missus and I would sit at a booth in her station a few times every month on late nights after work at the studio. Miffed but willing to remain loyal, I decided to give it another shot a few days later for lunch. This time, it was a bowl of lentil soup and a club soda with lemon to go... $8.10. That particular bill was accompanied by an unprovoked dirty look from one of the owners who plays the role of maitre 'd and who I once had a friendly, ongoing exchange with about our competing soccer teams. My waitress noticed this and comforted me by saying that he was 'just in a bad mood'. Hey, I know the feeling, but I don't appreciate him taking it out on me, especially after shelling out almost nine dollars again for a supremely mediocre lunch.

That was the day I vowed never to return. I've since been confirmed about the prices by a client and diner regular who posited that the prices went up about 25% because, she guessed, they were probably too low before the fire, and since they were reprinting the menus anyway (What, they went up in flames, too? I thought it was just the back wall!), she guessed they figured now's the time to strike. While the iron's hot. Or, the griddle. Or the ex-patron who is telling everyone to avoid the recently reopened diner with its spankin' new naugahyde booths, clean (for a change) walls and surly host who supports the wrong soccer team.

Now we're talking beer.

2012-01-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

In the run-up to the BIG game next Sunday, I thought it would be quite appropriate to talk about beer. But I don't want to offer any critical reviews about pale ales, porters or 12% alcohol Barleywines. No, I'm talking real beer, the one that started it all: Pilsner.

I love many styles of beer, and I appreciate the tireless and endlessly creative efforts of the craft brewing community but I always have on hand a six or two of the real deal, Pilsner, the pale golden lager against which all other beers should rightfully be judged. I have had a gripe with the various beer enthusiast websites that publish lists of "The Top Beers". You could run down the first 50 or so with nary a Pilsner in sight; the lists are choked with "Russian Imperial Stouts", "Double IPA's" and "Belgian Quadrupels".

I recently took issue with the publisher of one these sites, voicing my displeasure at the beer snob's rejection of the humble Pilsner. I argued that the beer drinker's taste buds have become overwhelmed by all these styles, what with their roasted malts, dried fruits and coffee beans. I was told once by a homebrewer that it actually is much more difficult to produce a good Pilsner; the balance of hops, malt, alcohol and brewing environment required a very skillful touch and just the right conditions.

So lately I've been undertaking my own personal tasting of the golden nectar, in search of the perfect blend of refreshment and character. I've found that combination in these, so I must share the findings with my fellow 'Scatters...

RADEBERGER (Radeberg, Germany): German lagers are plentiful, but if you've had the opportunity to sample them (or, rather, suck them down like there's no tomorrow) in the homeland, you're not getting the whole story. Unfortunately, many of them don't seem to travel well either. Radeberger is a relative newcomer in package stores around here, and it's a good one. Very clean, bright and refreshing, and it stands up 'til the last drop.

SCHWELMER (Schwelm, Germany): I've had the good fortune to drink this one at the source in Schwelm, a tidy little village in the German region of Westphalia. We walked up the hill and through the gates of the "brauerai", welcomed by a white-shirted attendant who directed us into the barroom, explaining the various styles. In the end, the simple "Pils" was the winner, with a thick creamy head and a delicious finish. You will have difficulty finding this one here, so don't even bother trying; just take my word for it.

VICTORY PRIMA PILS (Downingtown, Pennsylvania, USA): This one regularly wins "Best American Lager" at all of those assorted beer festivals and competitions, and for good reason: it is a fine representation of the style. Lots of taste, character and lasting enjoyment.

AUGUSTINER PILS (Munich, Germany): To have a discussion about German pilsners and lagers and exclude the Bavarians would be a crime. Muncheners are fiercely loyal to their beer, almost to a fault, but they do know how to make it... and to drink it. Go to any beer hall in Munich to find out for yourself; you might not have the testicular fortitude to keep up with the crowd. The one from Augusiner is definitive of the Munich style, a little rounder and fruitier, but just as appealing. Prost!

Career Builders, third edition.

2012-01-29T13:21:00.000-08:00

This might come as a surprise, but your Scatter-in-Chief had a brief stint as a full-time construction laborer/building site assistant. I took this detour off my already non-linear career path because of an acquired hatred for my first office job. I was inspired by a brother-in-law who seemed quite happy in his job at the utility company, a working-man's life that offered good pay, generous benefits and plenty of vacation. So off I went to help build America.

First, some essential background: after the dismal failure of the coach's hot dog van, I spent the remainder of that summer working for a local contractor who handled everything from installing new kitchen cabinets to paving driveways. His previous "donkey" was a big, strapping dude, the high school's discus and shot put star from a few graduating classes ahead of me, so I had to have been a disappointment upon first sight, all 120 pounds of me. But I was lean and mean and willing to break an honest sweat for my day's pay.

Trouble was, I loved the work. My parents were hellbent on sending me to college and then watching me climb the corporate ladder. Little did they figure on me climbing a ladder to deliver a load of shingles to a roofer but it really shouldn't have come as such a shock to them. Before becoming a full-blown funeral director, my dad was an undertaker who embalmed dead bodies for a living, physical work indeed, especially if you factor in all the associated requirements of the job. His father before him was the groundskeeper on a big estate in leafy Greenwich, Connecticut. My mother's father was an oil-burner technician and he also owned a car wash with his brother. He would build closets and furniture in his spare time and packed his fishing pole on every vacation he and Nanny would take. These guys worked with their heads and hands, so why wouldn't I inherit that instinct?

But working against my family DNA and wanting to please the folks, I reluctantly entered the world of neckties, cubicles and commuting nightmares. At first, I found a certain appeal to making my own way into the big bad city every day to earn a living while most of my friends were finding jobs in nondescript suburban office parks. As I made my way across 59th Street, skirting Central Park South and passing some of the most expensive real estate in the world, I felt rather important, even privileged, an essential participant in the world of big commerce.

But it soon began to wear on me; the commute was long and uncomfortable, my latest boss was a coffee-guzzling, chain-smoking, unhappy bitch whose very presence I grew to loathe, and I spent most of my afternoons watching the clock. I just couldn't take any more memos, sales forecasts, spreadsheets, out-of-stock reports, intra-office squabbles and childish water-cooler gossip. I would however miss the many lunch hours spent with the guys checking out the parade of skirts, wackos and Eurotrash tourists on Fifth Avenue but I couldn't bear another stifling, 45-minute delay on the broken-down "A" train out of Columbus Circle. So I marched into my director's office one particularly maniacal day and quit on the spot.

After taking a few weeks to collect myself and "regroup", I scoured the newspaper for construction jobs, anything that would have me swinging either a hammer or a pickaxe and leaving me with a sense of accomplishment that I rarely experienced at the office. Back in the heady days of the mid-1980's, jobs were plentiful so if you hated your current job, you could up and leave knowing that another, better job was yours for the taking. So, just as expected, I found the construction job of my dreams and before I knew it, I had traded in my Johnston and Murphy's for a pair of discounted Red Wing work boots, hoping to soon have them sufficiently scuffed, stained, torn and tattered.

I have so many memories from the two and a half years spent cleaning up jobsites, digging trenches, hauling lumber and, most importantly, handling the morning coffee run for the crew. Getting my feet wet was not going to be easy; expecting to fit in with a bunch of guys who practically came out of the womb with shovels, screwdrivers and circular saws in their hands was asking a lot. I suffered many a day filled with all the indignities of getting cursed at for delivering a coffee that had one too few sugars in it or for picking out the wrong size of nail from the supply shed. I needed to remind myself that the fellas on the site were, by nature, angry men who were universally pissed off at themselves and the world at large for being stuck in a blue collar life while they watched company directors and CEO's move into the six-bedroom houses they labored so hard to help build.

One of my most triumphant days on the site came about a year or so into my employment. We were all anticipating the arrival of the materials from Deck House, a very high quality, New England-based post-and-beam home manufacturer. The builder I worked for was one of the few in the area with a crew that had the skill, patience and qualifications to assemble this type of structure, which in no way resembled the typical "balloon" framed mini-manses he had become expert at throwing up. After handling the huge beams, joists and millwork for eight months or so, picking up a few 2 x 4's felt like handling matchsticks. These homes were almost 'over engineered' with all their 16-penny galvanized nails and six-inch thick rigid insulation panels.

My first duty on this day was to help guide in the tractor-trailer loads through the tight turns and various overpasses on the long climb up the mountain to our building site. There I was, 27-years old, with a two-way radio in hand and a hard hat hanging strategically from my tool belt, responsible for safely delivering a $250,000 stack of mahogany, glass and spruce and left alone to handle this without the assistance of the boss. In short, I felt very important for the first time on this job. I was no longer just the guy who swept up after the sheetrockers; I was an honest to goodness transportation foreman.

Based upon my success at directing the arrival of this precious cargo, I was subsequently "recruited" by Bobby, the chief carpenter, and his talented crew (or what we liked to refer to as "The A-Team") to be the lead laborer on the Deck House project. This was quite the honor, and a little victory for Bobby as well; at the time, I was spending a lot of time in the trailer with the site boss who had taken me under his wing. He knew that my future was not in filling up dumpsters or digging septic fields, so he taught me how to read architect's blueprints, how to measure the pitch of a roof and how to accurately figure a framing order, down to the last two-by-twelve.

Yet here I was looking to escape the world of paperwork and calculators, and instead I spent much of my day smack dab in the middle of an air-conditioned office trailer. Don't get me wrong, knowing the difference between a "swale" and a "berm" would come in handy when dealing with the town engineers who inspected our sites, but I wanted my flannel shirt to be covered with sawdust, not pencil eraser shavings.

In the end, we struck a fine balance when my boss split my time between the inside operation and the field. He could clearly see that I was in a transition phase in life and although he thought it best for me to return to the business world, he recognized my need to let off a lot of pent-up steam. The lessons learned at this job were sometimes hard to identify, but rarely a day passes that I don't think about the experience. I eventually returned to corporate, but I made sure to keep the connection: I spent the next 10 years as an advertising manager for a big publishing house in their heavy construction division so instead of actually operating the backhoe, I was now helping my accounts sell them. And if, for any reason, you might need me to pick up a coffee for you, I'll make sure to order it light and sweet... just the way you like it.

The whore of Babylon

2012-01-29T08:20:00.000-08:00

Now that I've captured your attention, let's talk about football and fan loyalty. We might also touch upon religion, so if you want to bail on this post, now's the time.

Super Bowl XLVI (that's "46" for the Roman-numeral-calculation-challenged) will be a rematch between The New York Giants and The New England Patriots. I still think they should be calling themselves the Boston Patriots, but in this day and age of globalization, we need to regionalize everything so nobody feels left out.

Big games like the Super Bowl tend to bring out the inner fan in even the most distant followers of sports, and that's okay by me. Just don't invite me to a Super Bowl party when my team is playing. I don't want the distractions brought on by any sports 'neophytes' in attendance asking what a first down is or what it means when the coach pulls a red flag out of his sock. I'm there to watch the fucking game, not to help educate somebody's wife about the difference between a touchdown and a home run.

I will be watching the game with other fans like myself who suffered through the dark days of the 1970's when the Giants managed to win only 23 games in six years. We watched them as they fumbled, stumbled and bumbled through these horrible seasons, enduring the obstructed views in the old Yankee Stadium and then freezing our asses off at the Yale Bowl while their new home in the Meadowlands was being built. Names like Alex Webster, Bill Arnsparger and Ray Perkins still resonate with us and will forever be associated with coaching failure.

So when I settle in to watch my team play in their fifth Super Bowl, and hopefully win for the fourth time, I can truly say I was there in good and bad times. And I'll actually be watching the game, something I rarely bother with when the Giants aren't involved, so please don't ask me to explain to you what a cornerback does or what a touchback is.

Happy Birthday, Tiger Scat.

2012-01-25T19:27:00.000-08:00

It is hard to believe but one year ago today Tiger Scat was borne from the forced exile of the winter of 2010-11. We were all either digging out from the latest storm, hemmed in by the mountains of snow and ice left behind by the one before that or nervously anticipating the next one approaching from Canada. That's the first and only time I'm going to trash poor ol' Canada in this post.

We have covered a lot of ground here on the 'Scat, and thrown our fair share of tomatoes. I thought it would be nice to do a "year in review", selecting the top stories from each month from 2011, and sharing them with the Tiger Scat faithful. You might call this collection "Tiger Scat's Greatest Hits". Or, you might call it a total fucking waste of time. Either way, we've had quite a ride up until this point, so here's to another year of overpriced pickles, shaving cuts and papooses!

JANUARY: Somehow, I made a connection between the price of cantaloupe and Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. One of the first posts on the 'Scat and already I was creating awareness like you've never witnessed before. A glimpse at the greatness that would soon follow...

FEBRUARY: I took some potshots at a very easy target, the Oscars, and Matthew McConaughy, in particular. I recently noticed him in print advertisements for some expensive clothing line (Prada, maybe?). They have succeeded in airbrushing all the detail out of his disappearing chin.

MARCH: I shared my one and only experience as a passenger on Concorde. Actually, two, if you count the return flight from London. Forgetting the fact that a $400 bottle of Burgundy loses most of its character at 60,000 feet, this was unforgettable. I urge you to re-read this one: it's worth the trip.

APRIL: The missus and I chased down the sun for two weeks in Mexico, and lemme tell you, it was one of our best vacations ever. In this post, you'll find the world's best dive bar, the world's best street food, edible termites and no drug cartel street murders.

MAY: This was quite the month of creative output: a virtual tie between the pickles and shaving, but the pickles won out. Arguably, one of my best rants ever, the $12.99 glorified cucumbers from Brooklyn. Looking back, I now feel regret at never purchasing my very own jar. In the end, my bit about shaving claimed second place because I've finally discovered the secret to a relatively close shave without the need to live in a Ecuadorian rain forest. I plan on sharing that with all of you in a future post.

JUNE: I performed a genuine service to suburban wildlife by helping save a road-crossing snapping turtle from certain death whilst suffering many a bird-flipping from the motorists who were inconvenienced by this act of kindness.

JULY: While vacationing (Wait, another vacation? Don't you fucking people ever work?) in beautiful Cape May Point, I overhead a mom warning her young son about all the creepy men who would attempt to offer him candy in the rest room at the national lighthouse park. I've since stopped even smiling at babies on the street lest supermom thinks my last name is Sandusky.

AUGUST: "Baby Bust". A modern classic, by any measure. This particular post is nearly flawless from start to finish. You might even consider it my 'signature' post. When my wildly popular published memoirs get adapted for a Broadway musical by Stephen Sondheim, this one will take center stage.

SEPTEMBER: The U.S. Postmaster General thinks that his place of employment has a future. I suspect he also assembles model airplanes as a hobby and plays Mah Jongg every Tuesday evening with the other 140-year olds in his condo village.

OCTOBER: I attacked a genuine sacred cow, breast cancer awareness and the 'pinking' of America. Most of you won't like it, so it might be best to avoid altogether.

NOVEMBER: I introduced you all to "Meatfest", wherein I summoned my inner Aborigine. This is the point where my papoose-bashing began. I eventually apologized to all you mommy-daddies for that, so give me a break.

DECEMBER: This was a tight call. I exploded the Santa Claus myth by exposing the portly, white-bearded folk hero for the mom-stalker he really is. I also published my top albums of 2011 in hopes that many of you would be running off to Amazon and iTunes to devour what I considered to be the best music of the past year. In the end, ol' St. Nick prevailed. Even though he tried to slip mom the tongue under the mistletoe.

The Black Keys for you

2012-01-24T06:04:00.000-08:00

The Black Keys are getting a lot of press these days. Seems as if everyone's found them, and that's a good sign for music, the blues especially. They were once on a small label out of Mississippi, Fat Possum, which was (is?) so defiantly small and 'anti-hip' that they are actually 'hip'. When they jumped ship, I feared for their cred, but the album from which "Gold on the Ceiling" was picked, "El Camino" is one of my current favorites and is probably one of the best white blues artists records I've ever owned. I hope you enjoy this video (Check out drummer Patrick Carney deciding to keep wearing his Carhartt jacket throughout the performance!)...

Weird but real.

2012-01-23T10:05:00.000-08:00

Hey fellow 'Scatters, I was just thumbing through some photo files and I wanted to share some of the more interesting stuff. I know, you're probably thinking that Photoshop was used in these, but I don't think so. That Kit Kat is, indeed, green, a new product introduction in Japan. Where else? The brains behind that one can one day say that his pea-soup shaded candy bar flopped in most major global regions, but it was "big in Japan".

The two-headed fire truck? That's also for real. These trucks are used in the mountain tunnels in Switzerland, fitted with two cabs so they don't need to turn around in the tight space. Really strange looking, but cool.

And, yes, that is a real KLM 747 flying a few feet over the heads of cars and tourists on approach to Princess Juliana Airport in St. Maarten. I found lots of these on Bing images, and they never cease to blow me away. Pun intended.

More of what we've learned.

2012-01-23T08:14:00.000-08:00

The past couple of days of snow, sub-freezing temps and, now, bone-chilling rain have afforded me abundant opportunities to spend more time here on the 'Scat, spreading the word, sharing knowledge, increasing awareness. Well, that, and our massage studio is closed on Mondays... In that regard, Tiger Scat is performing a valuable service to our society at large... or at the very least, the ten people that follow us.
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The missus and I watched a movie in the comfort of home the other night, delivered directly to our doorstep by the fine folks at Netflix. "Catfish" (2010) was suggested to us by a friend who considered it a 'must view' due to the alarming amount of time we spend on Facebook. This particular friend maintains a Facebook account but she does not spend a lot of time there, or so she claims, and she has a general wariness for posting personal thoughts, opinions and other information on social networking sites. Ahem.

"Catfish" is listed as a documentary film, but it had us wondering throughout if it was actually created from a screenplay. In the end, it really didn't matter because we both considered the film to be an excellent statement about human relationships, not specifically about Facebook. The social networking revolution has certainly made it much easier for us to adopt false identities, but let's face it, this movie is really an updated, albeit revised, version of the Cyrano de Bergerac legend. Remember "pen pals"? How about "The Talented Mr. Ripley"? No, "Catfish" was so good because the main character who gets caught in the trap only temporarily feels "duped" by our modern-day identity thief. Instead he turns within to question his own innocence and sense of trusting, both of which remain intact. A great movie for the times, you should all see it.

The first person who figures out why this post is accompanied by that particular photo gets a Tiger Scat tee-shirt. Once we get our logo designed. And our tee-shirts printed up.

Career Builders, part two.

2012-01-21T18:04:00.000-08:00

I spent the good part of my senior year in high school and first year in college as a parking valet at an expensive Italian restaurant. This was so much more than a job, in fact, it was a veritable proving grounds for the skills I would eventually need throughout my life as an adult. It's too bad I didn't fully realize this at the time; maybe I would now be schussing down the slopes at Cortina instead of spending a snowy Saturday making snow angels in the backyard. I must tell you however I have nothing but warm remembrances of my days spent jockeying expensive import cars into tight parking spaces on the lot of a wildly popular Italian restaurant in my hometown.

I learned how to drive standard shift, something that every man should be able to do. Of course this came at the expense of the gearboxes of untold numbers of Jaguars, Alfa Romeos and Corvettes, but whenever one of these beauties rolled up, we waited until the owner was safely inside the restaurant's breezeway before I climbed in. One of the other attendants joined me in the cockpit as I hunted for first gear. When I finally locked in, we would lurch uphill then turn out of sight before I handed over the actual parking duty to my mate's more experienced hand. The smell of burning clutches would fill the nighttime air, but it was all in the sake of knowledge. I eventually got so good at it, the guys would save these for me, knowing I couldn't wait to display my newly found skill at motoring, albeit for about 300 feet in a parking lot.

This job also required a certain flair in dealing with demanding clientele. In other words, we all learned the fine art of kissing ass. Anyone who could afford to eat at this particular joint and who arrived in a hand-built Italian sports car to do so needed to be handled with a bit more finesse than some schmoe pumping gas who eats a chili dog every day for lunch. Our pay was based upon the amount of tips we brought in, so the more we sucked up, the fatter our paychecks.

It afforded my first few brushes with celebrity, local and international. Christine McVie stopped in while on tour with Fleetwood Mac, and offered a kind smile as she handed over the keys to her nondescript rental. Of the more banal variety, when the wealthy owner of the place eased up in a new Cadillac Seville every few months, I knew I had arrived when the senior members of the crew offered me the privilege of stationing his car at the coveted solo spot in the very front of the property.

The job was also responsible for introducing me to some of the more practical applications of long-distance running. The parking lot concession owners usually recruited kids who were on the high school track team. They figured our endurance training would come in handy when chasing down cars for the return trip to departing patrons. Little did they know it also enabled us to hide six-packs of beer in the nether regions of the lot, sneaking sips in between runs. Hey, I told you, "... it was a veritable proving grounds for the skills I would eventually need throughout my life as an adult!"

Career Builders

2012-01-21T11:32:00.000-08:00

I recently trashed the business networking site, Linked In, a popular target for many who question its viability and effectiveness. How many people, I wonder, have actually landed their dream job by reaching out to a "connect with" on Linked In? Of course, this started me reminiscing about my own very non-linear career 'path' (I hesitate using that word; it was more like a spontaneous ramble through a forest without the benefit of a trail marker, a map or GPS). And I've decided to share with you here on the 'Scat some of the more interesting positions I've held over the last 39 or so years.

Have I really been in the 'workforce' since I was twelve years old? Yes, if you count my first paying job, which was raking leaves on the sprawling grounds of my dad's old friend up in Schenectady. I received $7 for an afternoon's work, and I immediately made the relationship between accomplishment and money, and I liked it. That day also marked my first sip of beer (it was from a can of Carling's Black Label), and I remember liking that too! I welcome you to share some of your own exploits in the wonderful world of employment; herewith, the first installment:

"The Fort Lee 'Furter": Officially, this was my first 'real' job, in that I was expected to show up at roughly the same time every day and perform roughly the same duties and (hopefully) receive payment for my efforts at the end of the week. The 'Furter was a mobile hot dog vendor, a modified 1960's-era Chevy van fitted with all the necessary equipment required in the preparation of dirty-water dogs. I was fifteen years old, and in between my freshman and sophomore years at Fort Lee High School. The business was the brainchild of a popular teacher and basketball coach who thought it would be a great revenue producer for him during the summer and a way to keep a couple of his student-athletes off the streets.

A fellow student, Dave, with whom I had avoided contact thanks to his reputation as a short-tempered troublemaker, was, technically, my "manager", who at first resisted my joining the squad but who eventually accepted my presence in the limited-space environment as long as I understood who the boss was. The scars on his face from the various scraps he had gotten into on school grounds clearly communicated the chain-of-command, thank you very much.

The job lasted all of one week; the 'Furter didn't make it through July. The quick demise was due to one major oversight: a mobile food operation needs an established route in order to have any chance at succeeding. We never established anything close to resembling a 'route', instead we horned in on other vendors, trying to time it just right before they arrived at a particular stop at the lunch hour. This turned out to be a bad idea: not too many people like to eat their first hot dog of the day at 11am.

We also greatly underestimated the resolve of the competition. One fine day we were confronted at a local Esso station by a very angry "roach coach" operator who considered us trespassers on his sacred turf. I remember Dave stuffing an iron pipe behind the driver's seat as we loaded the truck up the next morning, anticipating more dangerous encounters throughout the run. That was the day I decided to seek employment elsewhere. I was already growing weary of slapping three-day old sauteed onions onto waterlogged Sabrettes anyway, so it was just as well. After sleeping late and farting around for a couple of weeks, I ended up with a local construction company as an unskilled laborer and thinking, "boy, this is gonna be a very, very long summer." Welcome to the world of work, matey, glad to have you aboard.

These are a few of my favorite things.

2012-01-18T15:46:00.000-08:00

Listen up folks, I'm still keeping it real here on the 'Scat, but let's lighten things up a bit, shall we? I'll be back as my bad-self soon enough, don't worry y'all. I just have an urge to fill you in on some of the stuff I'm diggin' right now, so here goes...enjoy it while it lasts.

Music: If you have not yet checked out Lanterns on the Lake (http://lanternsonthelake.com/) after my repeated urgings, you should. They're from somewhere in the northeast of England, they make absolutely beautiful music that defies immediate categorization (Folk? Pastoral? Indie?) with soaring piano riffs and lovely, spine-tingling vocals, and listening to them will make you feel better, all over. Trust me on this one.

Books: I'm currently re-reading (for probably the fourth time) "Big Sur", Jack Kerouac's chronicle of his days following the immense success and subsequent notoriety of "On the Road", wherein he continues his heavy, destructive drinking ways whilst attempting to maintain his fading sanity and tenuous relationships and finally attempts to save himself by retreating to a cabin in the redwoods. I cannot recall a more raw, personal and honest appraisal of oneself than the once-over Jack suffers in the pages of this book. Everybody should feel this kind of pain once in a lifetime.

Beer: The colder weather (although it's almost like Florida out there this winter, thank you very much!) calls for a brew with a bit more oomph, but without too much bitterness. I also believe that the high-alcohol beers (7.5% and over) are not a good bet either, unless you finish up with one as a nightcap; too much work for the 'indoor body' to process. So, go for a beer that's heavy on the malt but light on the hoppiness... my current favorite: Breckle's Brown from the world-class brewers at Anchor in San Francisco (http://www.anchorbrewing.com/). Of course, this is not the best weekend to promote a beer from San Francisco since they will be losing on Sunday to our beloved New York Giants, but I offer a pass in the name of... well, beer. It is absolutely delicious and the best example of the brown ale style I've yet experienced.

In the news: We are only a few short weeks into the new year, but I think I have a candidate for "top news story of the year" already: the horrific, unspeakable tragedy of the super cruise liner Costa Concordia. So many lives lost and a laundry list of collateral damage all because the captain wanted to offer a chum of his the nautical version of a fist bump by ignoring every rule of seamanship and recklessly steering his giant craft right into the rocks to sail close to shore.

Health and wellness: I am happy to report that several of our clients are improving their level of health and fitness by (finally!!) following some of our advice: eating healthy, taking some long walks and cleaning up their act, generally speaking. A doctor client of ours implored me to keep "spreading the word", until you're blue in the face. Okay with me, doc, as long as I've got a Breckle's Brown waiting for me when I get home! ... Be well, my lovelies, we'll see you next time here on the 'Scat.

In defence of papooses.

2012-01-13T06:24:00.000-08:00

The first anniversary of Tiger Scat is just around the corner. The 'Scat was borne from the long, cold winter of 2010-2011, one for the record books. The snow started falling sometime in late December and didn't stop until sometime in early April, resulting in extended periods of indoor living. In Wiccan culture, winter is referred to as "the season of wisdom", maybe because of the creative and intellectual output that comes from weather-induced exile.

The first several posts were of a mostly positive nature, in fact, they were downright upbeat. Even the entry describing the death of my beloved friend and brother-in-law, although laced with disturbing details, was eventually uplifting. Things started to deteriorate rapidly in late February, as I ranted about the Oscars, abusing poor ol' Matthew McConaughy and his weak jawline and Scarlett Johanson's inability to walk properly in a gown and heels. I need to turn this bus around and make nice, folks.

Lately, I have been attacking the use of baby papooses and those who are seen on our leafy streets proudly carrying their precious cargo in various modified slings and holsters; I've even noticed specialized parkas, oversized to accommodate the added bulk. As a childless adult, I really have no place criticizing this phenomenon, in fact, as I take a closer look, these devices seem quite handy, safe and, I daresay, "cool".

A good friend and 'Scat follower defended the young modern dads who I targeted in a post about meat-devouring "real men", having experienced enough of those in her lifetime and who welcomed the softer, gentler soul who dared carry a baby on his back in public. I revisited the papoose-bashing on a recent Facebook thread, and I find myself wondering why I would continually attack such a benign, caring display of parenting.

So, consider this a formal apology to anyone who might have been offended. I do let my passions run unchecked from time to time without consideration for those who might get caught in the crosshairs. And for those of you who fear I might be softening up, fear not, because I've got plenty more up my sleeve for future posts. I just need to occasionally take greater responsibility for some of my written actions and extend the olive branch.

The Short List, part 2.

2012-01-06T05:11:00.000-08:00

I know you've been waiting to find out what's on my mind this early morning (early for me, anyway), so here goes with some new information and a few scattered updates...

1. More rolling works of art: I recently published a short post on a Ferrari 458 Italia spotted on a street here in town, but I've since witnessed some other juicy gas guzzlers, including an Aston Martin Volante in British racing green. It was parked in the big municipal lot behind the studio, but I gotta tell you, this one has me peeved. It was filthy, inside and out. The windows were streaked, the tires and wheels caked with disc-brake residue and the interior had coffee cups, papers and other rubbish strewn about. I wondered who could possibly live in town and use a car that starts at about $275,000 as their everyday vehicle, much like it was a Kia Sorento? He probably has a license plate frame on his Ferrari 458 Italia that proudly boasts, "My other car is an Aston Martin Volante"!

2. The expensive pickles from Brooklyn are gone. Either that, or they've simply been 're-branded'. That's right, the $13 jars of glorified cucumbers are nowhere to be found on the shelves at Whole Foods. I guess there just aren't enough folks living in town who use a $275,000 car to drive to Whole Foods to buy their everyday pickles.

3. Shaving update: a friend who has grown weary of hearing my endless complaining about shaving gifted me with a fancy-schmancy shave cream from England, guaranteeing that it would completely transform my life behind the blade. It hasn't. I still cut myself, and I still miss spots and I still fucking hate shaving.

4. The US postal service has found a new way to save money: skip a day of mail delivery and hope we don't notice. I know it sounds paranoid, but I could swear that we don't receive mail on some select Tuesdays. We also seem to be receiving our mail quite late on most days, often after 4PM. I started noticing this on the odd days when I'm home from the studio before nightfall, but a client confirmed my suspicion when she told me she was handed her mail the other day (probably a Tuesday) by a carrier at 6PM. And I could also swear that one of the local landscapers was delivering the mail from his pickup truck last week. I know that's common practice in rural areas, but here? I was also recently informed that if the price of a first-class stamp was raised to 69 cents, it would erase the enormous debt that the USPS is saddled with. I'm willing to pay it, but only if I get my mail on Tuesdays.

5. I lied to all of you when I stated that I no longer make new year's resolutions. I hereby swear to never, ever mention how much I hate shaving. It's ridiculous how much time and effort I've spent on this when we've got so many other problems in the world; crashing economies, endless wars, crooked politicians, healthcare crises and plummeting value systems. I shall concentrate on those bigger issues from this point forward.

6. I hate shaving.

How to be a Revolutionary

2012-01-05T15:11:00.000-08:00

Welcome to 2012, fellow 'Scatters. I hope you all enjoyed ringing out the old and bringing in the new. I am sure more than a few of you have compiled your lists of resolutions, complete with promises to lose weight, join a gym, be nicer to your spouses and make serious attempts to stop using the word "fuck" so much. And since we are already six days in, most of you have probably slipped up a few times already. I, for one, don't make resolutions anymore; I'm pretty good to go as is. But maybe you should consider more drastic measures.

The Guardian UK recently featured an interactive quiz, "How Revolutionary were you in 2011?" in their online edition, in which they proceeded to ask us if we attended any Occupy events, followed the Arab uprisings via Twitter and/or the internet or if we joined any group promising to bring positive change and enlightenment to the masses. In other words, they considered you a 'revolutionary' if you camped out for a few unwashed days in a park, sent Tweets to other 'revolutionaries' supporting the angry mobs in a Middle Eastern street protest or donated money to any one of the dozens of organizations that have cropped up during this past year of outrage.

That, my friends, is the lazy man's approach to revolution. If you really want to make a statement, you must walk the walk. The status of 'revolutionary' cannot be achieved by sitting at a computer or pushing buttons on your smart phone, nor by writing a check (although if you feel absolutely compelled to do so, you may send me some funds so I am able to better assist you in becoming a revolutionary). Nor should it necessarily involve tossing Molotov cocktails at riot-geared Polizei and in turn getting pummeled with rubber bullets.

Revolutions don't usually start in the streets; they start at home. Some of the seeds of revolution are sown from the most subtle of changes, simple adjustments to your lifestyle and behavior that can make a very real difference, but only if many of us follow suit. And what revolution helps us all to achieve is personal growth; after all, as the saying goes, "Things do not change; we change."

I plan on doling out some steps on becoming revolutionary in posts to follow. Now, some of this advice, if followed on a grand scale and not just by the eight followers I now have, will result in job loss, which in turn will result in home foreclosure, bankruptcy and other such financial ruin, but to that I say, tough shit. I lost my very good paying job way, way back in 2002, a combination of the events of 9/11 and the actions of company insiders who withheld vital information from me regarding our relocation to London, resulting in me screaming my bloody head off on a mobile phone from the southeast corner of Hyde Park. We have since downsized three times and now find ourselves in a tenuous financial position but with our basic mores and values intact. Hey, nobody said revolution is easy. Some blood must be shed. I've been through it, you might as well feel the pain too.

Herewith, one of the first steps to becoming a revolutionary...

--Stop contributing to health insurance. That's right, I said it. My doctor thinks that if we all took the money we give into health insurance every year and socked it away in a personal or family health 'trust', we would have enough to pay out of pocket for most healthcare expenses and have enough left over for a nice vacation. You would probably be more serious about taking care of your health if you didn't have this costly safety net beneath you. The care your doctor is able to offer would drastically improve, in fact. You have no idea how much these guys spend on chasing down claims, getting reimbursed and on expensive insurance billing software; my doc tells me his practice starts out every year about $140,000 in the hole before he sees patient number one, most of that going to malpractice and upgrades in his infrastructure to handle insurance matters.

If you are currently prescribed any pharmaceutical drugs for a condition, you would need to pay out of pocket, but you would have the money in the fund. Eventually, the drug companies might even be able to drop the retail prices for their products if we would all stop paying into the insurance system. No loss of jobs there, but maybe a cut or two in CEO's take-home. We would return to a real doctor-patient relationship, without having to endure our doctor listening to your complaints while leaning on the doorknob in the examination room, as he anticipates the next patient on the log; after all, the higher the volume, the greater chance you have for getting paid back for the services.

Taking care of your health, after all, is not even your doctor's responsibility; it's yours, much like the lifeguard who really isn't in charge of your safety at the beach. The system has effectively taken health care out of our hands, and our doctor's for that matter, and we need to take it back. If all of this talk of mandatory health care really does happen, we've lost the chance to make a stand. But, you must agree, in concept, this idea is a good one. Stay tuned for more from Revolution Central.

He sees me when I'm sleeping? Really? That's just creepy.

2011-12-08T12:53:00.000-08:00

It's that time of the year again, when we deck the halls with boughs of holly fa la la la la la, and so forth. We break out the egg nog, painfully receive gifts that suck and make believe that everything is great and good in the world. Reality check, folks: "the Christmas we get, we deserve". Greg Lake was right.

The good folks here at 'Scat HQ don't want to piss all over your idyllic holiday season but let's face it: we were sold a big old sack of coal with all that Santa Claus bullshit. The holiday was hijacked by corporate interests that just want us to empty our wallets every day from the day after Thanksgiving (appropriately dubbed "Black Friday", now morphing into "Cyber Monday") until Christmas Eve, a day when most God-fearing Christians should be home celebrating the impending virgin birth with their families but are instead dodging traffic on the highway so they can pick up a pair of moosehide gloves for Uncle Mike during the last precious hours of the half-price sale at Macy's. But all of this mass consumerism has already been well documented, so let's concentrate instead on the imagery that surrounds much of popular Christmas culture by taking a critical look at a few of our most popular songs of the season:

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: Rudolph is the penultimate loser. A soft-spoken, weak-kneed runt with a most unusual birth defect, a nose that glows bright red. The other reindeer, all of whom sport large racks of antlers (an obvious sexual metaphor) and who 'laugh at him and call him names', are the reindeer equivalent of the football team picking on the pencil-necked geek in school who scored 105 on every math test but who couldn't get laid in a whorehouse with a fistful of fifty dollar bills. All of a sudden, he's called upon to "guide my sleigh tonight" (sorry, people, another obvious sexual reference) during a snowstorm. I am certain that poor Rudolph's exploits enjoyed a brief moment of celebration, and he was quickly forgotten about, only to retreat into clinical depression, leading to alcohol and drug abuse and was most likely found dead of starvation in some remote Norwegian fjord village.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town: This one is gonna hurt, so bear with us. We were led to believe that Jolly St. Nick was a kindhearted, generous, hardworking father-like figure who spends 364 days of the year managing a workshop staffed by little green-clad alien-like midgets crafting toys for each and every child on the face of the earth and exactly one day delivering them all, intact and on time, on a sleigh whose course is directed through a driving snowstorm by some freakish, neon-nosed, malnourished variant of caribou. These treasures then miraculously appear, wrapped up in foil paper, festooned with ribbons and bows, all neatly arranged under a pine tree that gets propped up in the living room every mid-December and stays there until early January whereupon it is deemed a fire hazard and is unceremoniously dismantled and begrudgingly hauled out to the curb accompanied by the profane mutterings of a wallet-drained father who is all too happy to say "Thank Christ that's over with until next year".

The truth? Santa Claus is a morbidly obese, unshaven and most likely unbathed dollhouse maker who has an unusual passion for gifting young children, who, by the way, only get to inform him of their choice of gift by sitting on his lap and confiding in his willingness to judge their behavior as "naughty or nice". He sees you when you're sleeping, and he knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good. You've gotta be fucking kidding me. Does he watch me when I'm masturbating? How about when I'm headed for the bathroom to take a crap? Does he witness that, too? For a 400 pound wool-suited giant wearing snow boots, he certainly gets around pretty nimbly. He sounds uniquely qualified to run the international surveillance division at Lockheed Martin. If we had Santa Claus keeping an eye out for the next Al Qeada attack, we would have no further need for the tens of trillions of dollars we spend annually on Homeland Security, tactical surveillance drones (hey, the sleigh seems to be more than adequate) and foreign invasions of supposed enemies of the state. Putting the big guy in charge of things, in fact, might single-handedly close the economic deficit and get America back on it's feet again. We might need to pitch in on that toy-making business, but since there are so many unemployed people, that's job creation in a nutshell.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: This one might have been responsible for sending countless adults into therapy suffering the after effects of post traumatic stress disorder, having experienced vivid flashbacks of their mothers sneaking a smooch from an old, fat, bearded man who sneaked in the house by way of the chimney, wearing a suit made from red velour and fluffy white faux shearling. But, we don't get the full story: Did the big guy slip her the tongue? Did he try for second base? Was Mommy wearing a lace camisole with matching thong? Did she know exactly when he was gonna arrive so she could plant herself "underneath the mistletoe" at just the right moment before he needed to dash off to deliver more toys (and more sexual favors to the other milfs in the neighborhood)? She tickled him underneath the beard? That cheating hoe had the nerve to creep down the staircase to make out with a home invader while her husband was dreaming of Christmas morning when his beloved family would awaken and gather around the tannenbaum to celebrate the fruits of his year-long labors. My advice to all children: stay wide awake on Christmas Eve, leave the cookies and milk for the fat one, watch him carefully from a safe distance and then make certain to lock all the doors lest you get frequented by any other mythical folk heroes looking to plant a wet one on mom.

My Top Ten (er, make that Eleven) of 2011.

2011-12-07T11:23:00.000-08:00

For those of you who care to know what I considered to be the best new music of 2011, read on. I had been procrastinating for weeks now, but I was finally shamed into publishing the list by Matt Goodmark, whose boundless enthusiasm for music that's good inspired me to get on the stick and tell the world.

The past year was a banner one for new bands and new music, in fact, as I made the list I was meeting with a fair amount of difficulty with the final cut (you will notice eleven, not the traditional ten, choices). My musical friends also know that I am a big fan of jazz and blues. Most of those releases are reissued material from days past, so they don't make the list; like I've said before, if the music was made by a dead black guy, I own it.

Top Ten (make that Eleven) of 2011, in no particular order:
: ) Dum Dum Girls: Only in Dreams. Infectious, from start to finish. These ladies have great voices and great songs and I can listen to this record forever. Includes arguably the best single of the year, "Coming Down" even though it sounds exactly like Mazzy Star. Maybe that's why it's the best single of the year.
: ) Fleet Foxes: Helplessness Blues. It is a rare occasion that a band's sophomore effort bests their first release, and this is one of those very occasions. I am embarrassed to admit that I actually bought this disc at the sales counter in the men's department at Nordstrom while I was waiting to purchase some underwear, in fact, the missus grabbed it and said, "Why didn't you buy this yet?". The shame of it all.
: ) The Kills: Blood Pressures. Alison Mosshart is just snotty enough to get away with the sneering tone that dominates this excellent modern blues record. I can't help but think that this duo (including Jamie Hince) is the "new White Stripes", and that would be a pretty big pair of shoes to fill. I think Alison and her friend might be up to the task.
: ) Young Galaxy: Shapeshifting. This past year was a good one for so-called "dream pop" bands, and this is one of the best, even though they're from Canada. When the single "Cover your Tracks" was first released on Gorilla vs. Bear, I think I listened to it 30 times in a row. I paid too much for this one, having ordered it directly from the record label, Paper Bag, and having to pay shipment from... Canada. Okay, that's the last insult of Canada you're getting in this post.
: ) Beady Eye: Different Gear, Still Speeding: I just can't help it, I loved Oasis. This record sounds a lot like Oasis. That's because 3/4 of the band was the former Oasis. (Are you noticing the pattern yet?) Liam Gallagher is loathsome: he is the penultimate drunken, bratty rockstar and that's why I love him. This one will not make it to any other self-respecting music-ista's list, and that's reason enough to include it here.
: ) The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Belong. My most-anticipated release of the year, having been forced to wait until the last week of March until they let go of it. The Pains get my vote for "most improved band", in that I had a hard time listening to their previous efforts from start to finish, and this one took up permanent residence in my cd player (what's that?) for weeks. Belong also includes another candidate for the year's top single, the title track.
: ) Washed Out: Within and Without. A late entry to the list, and almost overlooked. I grappled with this, but only because I couldn't believe I found myself listening to "this kind of music" (namely, "chillwave"). With all the synthesizing, the tape loops, the artifice, you would think this record was made of stone, but it's not: it's made of clouds. I challenge you to listen to "Amor Fati" and not get goosebumps. Simply beautiful.
: ) Trio Mediaeval: A Worcester Ladymass. You might be asking, "why would a recording of 13th and 14th century polyphonic music make it to this kind of list?" Because it is absolutely the most heavenly, ethereal sound you are likely to encounter in a lifetime. These Norwegian ladies have the pipes of angels.
: ) The Decemberists: The King is Dead. Another heavy-rotation disc in the 'Scat's system. Not lately, though, because I developed CMFS, Colin Meloy Fatigue Syndrome, after about the 100th spin, completed months ago. Undeniably one of the most talented bunch of musical nerds ever, the D's have finally made a record that doesn't leave you totally perplexed as to what they were trying to accomplish.
: ) Viva Voce: The Future will Destroy You. The past year was also a good one for "small bands", two or three well-intentioned folks who work their asses off to deliver great music to our ears. Viva Voce is one of these, and they do work hard. I emailed them a compliment about something or other and they got right back to me with a response. Courteousness is not a marketable trait for a musician, so they gained valuable points for it! Seriously, this little record is a hidden gem.
: ) Vetiver: The Errant Charm. This one needed to grow on me a little. I purchased it because I loved a song I heard on Deeper into Music (my favorite streaming site). When I first played it, I was like, "Where the hell is that song I heard?", then I realized, they were all excellent, but only after I spun them several times. That's usually the mark of a 'keeper' record. All indie bands should be this good.

Missed the List, and why:
--Adele: 21. If I included this on the list, I would lose all of my music snob friends, and I can't have that. But, I bought this for the missus, and found myself secretly admiring Adele's powerful voice and skillful arrangements. Let's hope it doesn't go to her 23-year old head.
--Death Cab for Cutie: Codes and Keys. I thought I would be listening to this much-anticipated record a whole lot more than I actually do, so that should tell you something. It's one of those records that I occasionally grab and say, "aw, c'mon, give it another chance", but it rarely makes it all the way through.
--Gillian Welch: The Harrow and the Harvest. This one made it to a few of my favorite dj's lists, and for good reason; it's actually a great record. I just don't like it that much, and this coming from a guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on Gillian Welch. I listen to her older records all the time, in fact not a week goes by that she doesn't get air time at 'Scat headquarters.
--The Rosebuds: Loud planes fly Low. A nice little ensemble out of North Carolina, a true breeding ground for some great new music. Helped along by none other than NC's proudest musical son, Chris Stamey, this album is quite good, but has too many weak moments to qualify for the 'Scat top list.

Missed the list because I don't actually have the record, but I like a lot of the songs:
--Lykke Li: Wounded Rhymes ... --Still Corners: Creatures of an Hour ... --Milagres: Glowing Mouth ... --The Horrors: Skying.

I give special mention also to: Sub Pop Records, who continue to find and sign some of the best new talent around; Deeper into Music, a streaming radio site that never disappoints (and influenced at least three of the above listed acquisitions); and KEXP, straight outta Seattle and still the best little radio station in the land. Until next time, keep your ears on.

The Short List, part 1.

2011-12-02T06:32:00.000-08:00

1. When your very sick mom dies and you have an open-casket viewing, it really helps if the embalmer knows how to make her look 20 years younger, naturally and compassionately.
2. The only advice that "they" can offer to help us pull out of this prolonged economic doldrums is to go shopping.
3. Shaving continues to be the bane of my existence. No matter what I do, the blood keeps flowing and the whiskers refuse to accept the fact that I hate them.
4. Albert Einstein did not actually play the guitar, but he did dabble on piano and violin.
5. The management of Facebook are hellbent on making our social networking lives miserable on a daily basis by eliminating an easy-to-use and helpful feature and replacing it with a confusing and annoying one.
6. The number one activity for most people is complaining. People are at their happiest when airing grievances, gripes and bellyaches.
7. The quarterback of the Green Bay Packers thinks that his number one receiver has been so successful this season because he is white. When I noticed that headline, my jaw actually dropped.
8. When a client on your massage table accidentally farts, don't make a big issue of it even when they apologize.
9. No matter how hard I try, some people simply will not listen to my advice for improving their health, but that will not prevent me from continuing to offer it until my face turns blue.
10. Shaving continues to be the bane of my existence. Oops, I already used that one. Oh well, never mind me: I'm just complaining.

Real men for hard times.

2011-11-21T06:06:00.000-08:00

You don't need me to tell you that we're living in some hard times. Tanking economies around the globe, depreciating home values, diminishing social mores and behavior, damaged interpersonal relationships, you name it, we're living it. Men are getting hit the hardest, I believe, as the role of father-husband-son-provider-protector is getting redefined with every report of job loss statistics and college football coach scandals. What real men really need is to spend more time with other real men so we feel reassured that we're not alone in this mess and that someone's got our back when the brown stuff hits the fan. And, that's exactly what I did last night.

We accepted an invitation to participate in what a good friend affectionately calls "MeatFest", an annual gathering of (mostly) men who set up an outdoor meat smoker, stuff it with every known form of animal protein one could imagine, throw wood into the firebox, and monitor the whole affair for seven or eight hours (or more). The result: the most deliriously flavorful and tender meat to ever fall off a bone. The process actually starts for days prior to the actual cooking, as the meat needs to be tenderized by brining for up to four or five days. It is an exercise in patience, something that must have been acquired from our caveman forebears by another epi-genetic influence.

The whole scene resembled what might have been the feast following a big prehistoric kill, in fact, as the meat was hauled out of the smoker, often barehanded, placed on a table covered in butcher's craft paper, and then carved and served up by a master meat handler. Pork loins and chops, endless racks of dry-rubbed ribs, oversized turkey legs, chicken, kielbasa... all served up with local bakery bread, huge slabs of which some of us used as plates. At one point, a few of us were just reaching into the mounds of meat, grabbing hunks and slices without the use of civilizing utensils, tearing and gnawing away at every last morsel as if it might be our last meal until the next sabre-toothed tiger appeared on the savanna.

We stoked the firepit with scrap 2x4's, smoked our pipes and cigars, toasted life with shots of bourbon, and drained countless bottles of cold beer. These were men with names like Bill, Bob, Vic and Frank. Men who tell dirty jokes in front of the women, men who are plumbers, bakery truck drivers, printers and power company foremen. Real men, getting down to their primal roots, cooking animal flesh by using wood as a fuel source, serving their wives and children first and then gathering around a communal blaze to tell stories from the past.

This gathering was such a welcomed, refreshing change of pace from most of the social engagements we participate in. You spilled a little pork fat on your shirt? No biggie, everyone else did too. Burned your hand while opening the cooker door without your gloves on? That's what happens when one's judgment is clouded by three or four shots of Rebel Yell. Quit whining, man up and stick it in the beer cooler for a minute or so. The informality of it all allowed me to ponder the plight of the hyper-domesticated young father who I see every day walking the streets of our affluent little town, baby papoose firmly affixed to his drooping frame, and how he might benefit from a night of pigging out and letting go of his inner Neanderthal.

There's talk of a cookout, island-style, planned for next summer. This will involve digging a big hole in the backyard, wrapping a whole pig in banana leaves and slowly roasting it on a spit over an open charcoal fire. I'm certain more than a few of us will feel the urge to get semi-naked, dance around the pit with our women and give praise and thanks to the tribal Gods who govern the earth and sky.

Hey, it's not all bad!

2011-10-14T07:50:00.000-07:00

My reputation for being a keen identifier of all the world's ills comes well deserved. Regular visitors to the 'Scat know full well my capacity for making us aware of the things that don't work so well in this mortal coil. That being said, allow me to catalogue a few bright spots, things that currently are right and good:

1. Occupy Wall Street: I'm a skeptic by nature, but my first impression of this movement was surprisingly trusting. Oh sure, they have their share of celebrities to guarantee some prime time coverage; Russell Simmons still maintains his street cred, but isn't he running his own little capitalist empire? And Susan Sarandon paid a visit or two, but it's likely she and her husband must have some of their dough embedded in a 401K and a portfolio or two somewhere. No matter, they're certainly not the most obnoxious Hollywood couple out there, and they always involve themselves in worthy causes, so they get a pass. The folks who are sitting-in, carrying posters and marching out their frustrations get my support. Protests have become a part of our nostalgic past, so this is a refreshing display of good old fashioned, American-style outrage. And this coming from a guy who has zero money invested on Wall Street... how's that for street cred?

2. Deeper into Music: This is a fully-independent, 100% listener-supported internet radio site that happens to play the best damn mix of music to be found anywhere. I happened upon DiM after some growing frustration with my favorite land-based radio station, located in Seattle, and I'm glad I did. They have provided me with countless uninterrupted hours of musical pleasure. I urge you to discover them too, at www.deeperintomusic.net.

3. Halloween: This was never one of my favorite holidays, although I do maintain vivid memories of dumping out my trick-or-treat bag onto the living room floor and sorting out all the goodies by 'category': chocolate here, Smarties over there, little sacks of candy corn (my still personal fave) all neatly piled up and ready for eager consumption. Of course, spirits got temporarily dampened by news reports of razor blades in apples and straight pins hidden in fun-sized 3 Musketeers bars, but that didn't stop us from hitting everybody's house within ten blocks, including the scary couple with the pet snakes and overgrown, weed infested front lot. This season always puts a smile on my face when I witness the excitement and commitment that kids put into it; the other day at the CVS, some young tyke could hardly contain himself as his mom asked him to get a cart so they can fill it up with bags of candy and battery-operated ghouls and goblins. As he passed in front of me, he turned and sang, "Halloween, halloween, here we go!!", and I laughed out loud.
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That's all I've got for you for now, 'Scatters, but I promise to bring you more cheerful, happy-happy joy-joy in future blog posts. You see, it's not all bad, is it?

How to make life difficult, by me.

2011-10-10T07:24:00.000-07:00

Herewith, the most recent list of things that I have a problem with. I just cannot pass up an opportunity to identify what's wrong out there, and since there is so much to choose from, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month: This will cause many a furrowed brow, but I have a big problem with granting a disease, no matter how serious or life threatening, a full month of "awareness". What this really boils down to is, of course, a whole bunch of people wearing pink. Don't get me wrong, I hate cancer as much as the next guy. I've lost family members and close friends to it just like you have. But no matter how many pink scrunchies you affix to your hair, without a real awareness of the causes of cancer, we'll be celebrating this particular month for several lifetimes if we don't take real action by taking better care of ourselves. The irony alone that surrounds some of the events that benefit some breast cancer research groups is startling. Kentucky Fried Chicken's association with Susan G. Komen is particularly odious. And we once attended a local event, a "Beer Pong for Boobs" party, complete with plenty of alcoholic drinks, burgers and hot dogs on the grill. Connections, anyone? I know you would probably get a lot less takers if the theme were "Coconut Water-Pong and Raw Fennel for Boobs", but at least you would be sending the right message.

Volunteerism run amok: It's a spectacularly sunny and warm October Sunday and as I walked home from the studio, I noticed a squadron of parents on the grounds of our neighborhood's grade school with shovels, rakes, brooms and leaf bags. I stood in awe, wondering why folks who already pay some of the highest property taxes in the nation would be called to duty to pick up leaves and yank weeds on the grounds of a publicly-owned building, especially on a Sunday. What is wrong with this picture?

Paul McCartney getting married again: I don't know why I have such a problem with this, I just do. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that ol' Macca hasn't written a good song since 1979; maybe it's because he has a particular attraction to heiresses to American business empires, or maybe I just don't like the way he's aging; he looks like the old woman behind the circulation desk at the library for Chrissakes. Maybe I'm amazed.

That's not a car, madam, it's a work of art.

2011-10-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

I'm no expert on art or automobile design, but I'm pretty damn confident that this car is one of the most beautifully designed pieces of motorized sculpture you're likely to encounter. This here is a Ferrari 458 Italia, the latest handmade masterpiece to roll off the 'assembly' line at Maranello.

They don't make too many cars at the sign of the Prancing Horse, in fact only about 6,000 new ones are sold each year; hell, Ford sold 1.9 million cars last year so that should give you a little perspective. This particular honey has little, deformable "winglets" built into the bottom of the front grille that automatically lower at high speeds to create more downforce for the car and prevent excess air from entering the engine's air intakes. It's little details like this that justify a price tag of around $250,000.

Some might bristle at that sum, thinking it foolish to drop a quarter of a million dollars on what is essentially a car, a vehicle with a primary function of getting you from point "a" to point "b" and back again, safely. To those poor souls, I must offer my deepest condolences. This is not a car, madam, it is a work of art. It's like the automotive equivalent of Michelangelo's "David", Caravaggio's "Conversion of Saint Paul" or a wool suit from Ermenegildo Zegna. One of these was parked out front of our studio the other day, and I gawked at it for a full twenty minutes. I regarded the gently scooped lines, enormous carbon brakes and the V8 engine underneath its glass dome, heat still escaping from the perforated panels tightly fitted on each side of the rear deck.

I then imagined getting strapped into the driver's seat, Formula One-styled shift paddles patiently awaiting my commands, motor humming behind me, the great road ahead of me. It was a transformative experience, and I enjoyed every second.

You're not fooling anyone, honey.

2011-10-03T14:13:00.000-07:00

The real estate market is not doing so well these days. Sales of new homes in the US hit an historic low a couple of months ago and things ain't much better on the commercial side either; I have a client who owns commercial properties and he tells me he has not signed a new tenant in more than 18 months. In the affluent community where I live (albeit in a style far removed from anything that would remotely resemble affluence), some of the large, estate-sized homes are selling briskly, skewing the perception when total sales in dollars is the indicator for sales performance. Once again, the wealthy are benefiting from an economy that has effectively excluded the rest of us; they are able to buy, sell, trade and otherwise operate freely, swapping out one out-sized Tudor for another while contemplating which Alpine resort to visit on their upcoming winter holiday.

But all of this depressing news has done little to dampen the optimism of your local real estate agent. I had some extra time on my hands the other day and decided to spend it 'people watching', seated comfortably in the fleeting sunshine in front of Starbucks. A late model German sedan pulled up and out popped one of our local property peddlers, resplendent in hot pink boucle jacket, slim pale-lime Capri pants and brightly-ornamented designer mules. As she dashed in to fuel up for the day's activities, I wondered if she were on her way to some lucky six-year old's birthday party to make animals out of balloons. I then realized she was probably spending the day in the field, and very likely to have at least one appointment with a "live one" who is about to sign up for a lifetime of sleepless nights worrying about mortgages, roof leaks and termites.

It then struck me: a brightly colored suit is the de facto uniform for real estate ladies. Can't decide what color to wear for your next open house? Wear 'em all! Pinks, yellows, oranges, reds and greens, like a walking patch of zinnias. Guaranteed to put your client into a great mood and a positive frame of mind, creating smiles and releasing copious amounts of serotonin, oxytocin and all the other "feel good" neurotransmitters, and will have them lunging for their checkbooks in minutes flat. Just like suggesting to the seller to bake some bread and wash all the slipcovers with an extra dose of Tide, this garish display of all the splendor of a freshly-sprouted rainbow is one of the many tricks used in a tough market where inventory is well outpacing demand.

I wonder, is anyone buying this? I'm not sure how these insidious attempts to coerce a separation from us and our money can possibly be successful in this nightmarish economy. Most of us, I believe, have become quite aware of our condition and a new economic vigilance has emerged, not to mention a reluctant frugality. But that's not gonna stop 'em from tugging at our heartstrings ("Oooh, you smell those chocolate chip cookies in the oven? Reminds me of grandma's house so much... where do I sign? I must have this house!!") or toying with our emotions at a time when, arguably, emotions are at a fever pitch... after all, you are purchasing the house where you will measure your growing children's height on the kitchen door jamb, entertain good friends on the pressure-treated wood deck (which is most likely rotting from within) and drink endless cups of coffee in the tiled "Florida" room with your beloved and devoted spouse as you count your blessings from a bountiful life of grandchildren, well-performing portfolios and acceptably good health.

My father-in-law employed his own unique method of house inspection whenever he accompanied my wife and I on our own search of potential first homes. While the rest of us were oohing-and-aaahing at the size of the dining room or the quality of the fireplace mantle (never mind that the flue was probably caked with 45 years worth of firewood residue), he would make his way down the basement stairs, into the very bowels of the physical plant, to assess the condition of the furnace, the water heater, the electrical panel and the rest of the subterranean secrets hidden well beneath all that genuine hardwood flooring and farmhouse sink bullshit. Beads of sweat would start to form on the agent's brow as she feared his discovery of the black mold creeping up the walls or the San Andreas Fault-sized crack in the floor behind the workbench. If the mechanical underbelly did not pass his personal muster, he would emerge, voice his findings and quickly gather us up to move on to the next stop on the tour.

I hope the housing market does make a comeback, especially since it is such a vital barometer of our country's financial health. But a few things need to happen first, not the least of which is a steep drop in prices. When you drive past a 2-bedroom, 1-bath house on a 'nice' street in a 'good' neighborhood that is listed for $400,000 and it's considered a 'bargain', something's wrong. Oh, and the real estate lady needs to wear an outfit in charcoal grey and/or black to reflect the real mood of the market; until then, you're not fooling anyone, honey.

Of postal services, space junk, Facebook and deathrow's last meals.

2011-09-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

1. How not to run a business: The US Postal Service is in deep trouble. Again. They've been losing money for what seems like forever, but this time, its for real: after tallying an extraordinary $8 billion loss in 2010, they are about to become 'insolvent' unless the government steps in and bails them out.

The Postmaster General tells us that the primary reason for the mounting losses is the fact that over 60% of us now pay most of our bills on line. He of course still receives and sends his bills by 'regular' mail, but then again he probably still uses a tea cozy and drives a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. The problems at the USPS started well before the digital age, in fact the very structure of the agency invites disaster. It is a 'quasi-governmental' entity in that it basically runs on its own, much like a corporation, with a board of directors, managers, and so forth, but is still beholden to the Constitution and is required to operate with supervision that is ultimately determined by the President. Sounds like the makings of a real "Swiss watch" operation to me.

So, like any "company", the USPS is looking to cut back operating hours and to hire only part-timers to sort and deliver those letters lest they are required to offer healthcare and unemployment benefits. Your local post office might also become more like your local CVS or the check-in counter at Continental Airlines: self-service.
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2. Space junk: While we are on the subject of wasteful government agencies, NASA tells us that one of their big ol' satellites that has been orbiting the upper reaches of our atmosphere for the last twenty years is breaking apart and one of us here on earth is in imminent danger of being struck by some of the various bits and parts. I was tuned in to NPR the other day and caught part of an interview with the only person known to have been actually struck by space junk, a woman living in Tulsa, Oklahoma. One day many years ago, she felt something "tap" her shoulder while simply walking in a park. She turned to find a piece of mesh-like material on the ground behind her and alerted the authorities. It turned out to be a piece of a Delta rocket that is apparently used to launch satellites. When told about this latest threat of falling debris from the sky, she asked, "They don't think it's gonna hit Tulsa again, do they?"

3. Last meal? Really? I don't know what upsets me more, the fact that we have capital punishment as a means of exacting justice or the fact that we grant the condemned a final meal of his or her choosing. How crazy is this? I mean, does one actually maintain an appetite when they know they're going to be entering the big dirt nap by the next sunrise? And, even so, why should we extend such a courtesy to someone who has been tried and found guilty of crimes unspeakable? Who gives a shit whether or not one of their last memories will be of their 'favorite' food before they bid farewell for the last time? Lawrence Brewer, who met his maker yesterday, decided to take full advantage of this privilege. He was executed by the State of Texas for the murder of James Byrd over a decade ago, which was carried out by tying him to a pickup truck and dragging his body for miles before his head finally snapped off. Mr. Brewer "ordered" a veritable white trash feast: two chicken fried steaks, a triple-meat bacon cheeseburger, fried okra, three fajitas, a pound of barbecued meat with a half-loaf of white bread, a "meat-lover's pizza", a pint of ice cream and some peanut butter fudge. I'm not sure what the beverage of choice was, but I'm guessing it was probably a liter and a half of Mountain Dew. ... BREAKING NEWS: I have just been informed that Texas will no longer accommodate death row inmates' last meal requests, effective immediately.

4. Facebook changes: As you all know, Facebook is at it again, but this time... they mean business! Many improvements have been made to our profiles and to the way we navigate the world's most popular social network. Most of these changes, of course, are unnecessary, but the one that sticks out most for me is the discontinuation of email notifications for FB activity. I don't know about you, but I don't get much email; I only have about three friends, and most of our clients contact us by telephone. I liked getting notified when something happened on Facebook; it prodded me to log in and check things out, make some comments, maybe get a new friend or two. There's a certain immediacy to email that causes one to take action, and with that element gone, I suspect I will be taking less action. Photo albums, poking and other such activity have also been revised, all needlessly. Here's what I think: the FB database is enormous, and to maintain it, they need to keep the numbers manageable. With all these changes enacted at once, I'm certain at least a million people finally threw up their hands and said, "Fuck this, I'm outta here!", thus making things a little bit tidier. Housecleaning, if you will. Maybe they should get in touch with the Postmaster General for some more helpful hints on how to run a business... into the ground.

"No new ground broken here".

2011-09-16T17:48:00.000-07:00

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If you regularly visit the 'Scat, you would know that I voice strong opinions about other people's opinions, especially when the subject at hand is music. I have found that most of the fortunate souls who call themselves "critics" make very heavy use of metaphor, comparative association and cliche when they offer us a review of an artist's new work; in other words, they break almost every rule of what is generally considered "good writing". One of my favorites is "No new ground broken here" when they are telling us whether or not we should run out and buy the latest work by an established artist.

In this instance, the artist is Liam Gallagher, half of the front end of the greatest Brit-Pop band ever, Oasis. The Brothers Gallagher lived out publicly an ongoing rivalry that most likely had its roots in their early childhood, complete with violent outbursts of verbal and physical abuse, frequent threats of leaving the band and embarrassingly childish behavior; the most famous of these is the taping of their MTV "Unplugged" segment where Liam claimed he had a sore throat, pulled out of the performance only to have the cameras find him sitting in the balcony with the rest of the fans, drinking beer and smoking, while brother Noel held down the fort (quite capably, I might add). Whether or not this was 'staged' by the production team or management or was agreed upon between both parties, it was a brilliant and classic display of rock and roll irreverence.

But I digress (I'm always doing that, somebody stop me please!); point is, the critics were at it again with Liam's new venture, Beady Eye. Yes, it sounds a lot like Oasis. That's because 3/4 of the band are here. Yes, it sounds a lot like Liam's vocals with Oasis. That's because he happened to be the lead singer of that particular band. No, they've not broken any "new ground", unlike Sting or Elvis Costello who decided mid-career to venture into Elizabethan lutes and chamber music, offering "new" material that was absolute rubbish by any stretch. They broke new ground alright, and hit a big old sewer line filled with shit. Beady Eye decided to stick with what Oasis did best: make good fucking songs, heavy with major chords and trite lyrics and serve it up with a sneer and a shit-eating grin.

I wonder what the reaction would be if wine critics used the same trick when describing the new vintage from top chateaux in Bordeaux, as in, "Chateau Lafite-Rothschild have not broken any new ground with their latest masterpiece from the same soil and vines that have been producing masterpieces since 1680", or if the wankers who write about fast cars complain that Ferrari have run out of innovations every time another one of their flawless works of art rolls off the "assembly" line in Maranello. The last thing you want in a 12-cylinder, 750 horsepower rocket ship is a cup holder big enough to handle a 7-11 Big Gulp. That's new ground that I would rather see remain unbroken.

Fabulous at Fifty?

2011-08-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

I have never had a problem with the concept of 'age'. I have been blessed with a keen sense of awareness about my health, my looks and my state of mind, and when one is aware of these vital statistics of life, one tends to safeguard and respect them. That being stated, I'm thinking that "50" is less than fabulous.

When I was about to turn the corner on 30, I had already been married for six years, owned a share in a nice house in a nice town and I was gainfully employed by a rock-solid company that itself was almost 100 years old at the time. I was fit as a fiddle and things were looking good. Ten years later, we had already left the house behind, purchased a smaller place and I was in the employ of a madman who, although he paid well and stacked up the perks like crazy, left us fearing that it could all crash just as fabulously as it flamed. And that's exactly what happened.

Picking up the pieces was a gradual and at times painful process, but, like cats, we landed on our feet and moved forward. My health remained tip-top, in fact my doctor would marvel at my prostate and cholesterol readings, as he does to this day. My 'good' cholesterol is double what is normal for a man my age (which is 50, in case you've lost track). I have a BMI of 19, which I might add is the same as President Obama's. I always knew I should have chased the dream of political office! And yet, I feel like I'm getting older by the minute, and here's why...

I have hair growing in spots that I've never noticed before. On the tips of my ears, for instance. Not much, not exactly the Amazon basin rainforest, just a rogue hair jutting here and there, but enough to make me take notice (and to take swift action with a pair of sharp scissors). Hair has also been growing at a more rapid pace inside my nostrils. I've noticed some men in my age group with hair so long hanging out of their noses that they could make dreadlocks out of it. I've always been on top of this, especially since becoming an in-demand (ahem!) massage therapist, fearing that a client, when in the face-up position, would sneak a peek into the fuzzy underbellies of my looming nostrils and get so grossed out that they would abruptly discontinue the session, using some phony excuse about a queasy stomach. To all my clients (and potential clients): I've been clipping my nose hairs three times a week for more than ten years now so if you open your eyes during the session you won't think you're getting rubbed down by a caveman.

But, its not just the increase in unwanted hirsuteness that has me worried. At the risk of personal ridicule, I must tell you I am also experiencing a noticeable decrease in my sex drive. Perfectly normal, mind you, for a man between the ages of 47 and 55 to start noticing, but annoying nonetheless. A handful of my clients, male and female, have expressed this same development to me as well, and these are folks with plenty of good looks, good health and satisfactory family lives and jobs, so my "misery-loves-company" meter happily kicked off, making me feel like I'm not alone. I'm taking holistic steps to address it, by the way, not willing to give in and lay down my arms to some silly drop in blood testosterone levels.

Sleep? Pretty good overall, but I've found an increase in both extended hours (some weeks, I have up to two nights of 10-hour plus slumbers) and in interrupted, poor sleep (last week, one night of three hours and another of waking up four or five times in an eight-hour period). It can't possibly be "andropause" because in that wonderful phase of life, the body usually gets flabbier, less hairy and the mood swings mimic those of our female counterparts entering the not-so-silent passage themselves. I've never been leaner, hairier or less irritable.

Why the complaining? Many men my age are visibly changing, and not for the better, even those who are taking steps to improve things, like exercising more often, eating better and trying to get more sleep. Meanwhile, I've been told that I've never looked better, and in many ways, I've never felt better. But, there are days when I absolutely need a derrick to hoist me out of bed, and my eyes need two hours and three cups of strong coffee to start focusing. Our weakening financial position, the continuing insecurity about "what we're going to do when we grow up" and our constant downsizing (house to condo to one-bedroom apartment, giving up one of our massage studios, import car to Ford, you name it, we've been downsizing it!) are all starting to wear on me. Oh, that, and clipping the little hair that keeps reappearing on the top of my left ear.

Make that a vente soy latte with foam, please.

2011-08-23T06:09:00.000-07:00

A report has been issued that spells promising news for us...well, at least, most of us. Violent crime is down significantly in the city that was once dubbed "Murder Capital USA", Washington DC. From a purely sociological perspective, one could argue that when the crime rate drops, the quality of life improves. But not for crack dealers.

In a recent Guardian UK article featuring the latest statistics, a former street-bound entrepreneur was quoted lamenting the loss of business and I could hardly contain myself after reading his assessment of the change in landscape: "This here is where I did most of my business, right around these few blocks. Even sold shit down by the White House, a block away. Made a lot of money, too. We owned this city. Now, it's just like every place else. One giant coffee shop!"

You looking for Trouble?

2011-08-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

What's with that? Volume One.

2011-08-14T11:12:00.000-07:00

Why do some people who have cell phones never use their voice-mail? They went through the trouble of setting it up with a greeting, passcode, and so on but they never, ever check their messages. What's with that? Is it some form of urban-cool-hipness to say to people, "Oh, I never check my voice-mail, don't bother leaving one." Why not? You have a phone, you have people in your life who call you at the number attached to that phone, and maybe, just maybe they have something useful/important/interesting/life-altering to share with you. Next time I call one of my friends who neglect voice-mail (and you know who you are!), I'm going to leave a message, "Oh, hey, Joe, I just wanted to share some good news. I recently came into some serious money and I wanted to give you some, not much, just like a thousand dollars or so. Too bad you didn't pick up, I'll try someone else." Then, when I next see them, they'll inevitably say, "I noticed you called the other day, what's up?", to which I'll say, "Check your voice-mail."
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Why do automobile manufacturers continue to install directional signals on their cars? Nobody ever uses them, so one would think the exhaustive marketing research that most car companies undertake when designing new models would unearth this well-known fact about drivers' habits. Leave out the needless turn signal indicator stalk and increase the size of the cupholder to accommodate a 7-11 Big Gulp or vente Starbucks soy latte frappa-crappa-supa-dupa-chino. I was driving to the studio the other day and I counted no less than seven (7) cars making turns left or right with absolutely no indication. It's not like it's a bicycle, people; when a cyclist is making a turn, most of the time his or her body will be leaning into that turn and that is usually enough to warn you of their next move. Come to think of it, the other day I noticed a cyclist actually making the official right-turn signal, using an extended left arm bent at the elbow at 90 degrees, and I thought, "how quaint". Maybe GM, Ford and Chrysler are set to announce their new "intuitive" directional signal, which will read the driver's mind and an automatic right- or left-turn blinker will deploy... one less thing to do in your car so you can concentrate on texting and/or applying makeup.
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Why, oh why, does Facebook not recognize the word "Facebook"? You mean to tell me with all the so-called improvements they continuously shove down our throats, they can't figure out a way to include the name of their own service in the vocabulary? That annoying red line is especially irksome to a wordsmith like me; I am proud of my grammar skills, diction and my use of well-placed metaphors (ahem!). It makes me feel like I'm misspelling, which I most certainly am not. I even tried it in all lower-case like the actual facebook logo. Blogger recognizes "Blogger". iPhone recognizes "iPhone". Facebook? I could have done without that obnoxious black border "letterbox" feature on the photos in favor of a simple spell-check update thank you very much. I would call Mark Z. himself with the suggestion, but he probably doesn't check his voice-mail.

The votes are in.

2011-08-12T20:20:00.000-07:00

Few things in life bore me as much as government. I have no real problem with politics, mind you, as a science, a subject for conversation or a touchstone for debate however mayoral campaigns, congressional shenanigans, exit polls, vote tallies...all of it induces sleep with me. But nothing brings on the z's for me quicker than a bottle full of Sominex than government, especially of the local variety.

It irks me that on those rare occasions that I decide to actually turn on the 32" flattie that occupies a significant amount of real estate in our antique hardwood "entertainment" armoire, I have no less than 25 channels from which to choose for programming that is primarily governmental in nature. Sixteen of those are 'local' channels, a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me, especially in the internet age. Do you have any friends who actually tune in to Channel 32 to check in on the operating hours of the North Caldwell public library? If I did, I would most certainly reassess the terms of our friendship and I would seek a way to "delete" them much like one would do on, oh, say, Facebook.

Oh sure, I've settled for a few minutes on the occasional town council meeting broadcast with some heated discussion about the government's plans to switch recycling pickup from Tuesday to Thursday or some disgruntled shopkeep who is trying, and ultimately failing, to replace his worn out sign with a fancy new model complete with lighting and custom graphics that might actually bring in more paying customers. I love to sneak a peek when an angry, overtaxed resident puts up a fight to some bloated councilman basking in the glory of his fleeting power while seated behind a folding table in the room that will serve as a theater for the fifth grader's production of "The King and I" over the next three days. But for the most part, these channels are a waste of precious bandwidth.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could 'take back' those media portals to broadcast real and useful information that you don't get much of? How about a channel on philosophy? I think the public would be better served if they knew more about Jean Jacques Rousseau, a man whose writing influenced much of the infrastructure of modern government and political thought. Or maybe an audio-visual book reading channel? Get some pleasant-voiced woman (preferably with a Midlands of England accent) to read us an entire book over the course of a week or so, chapter by chapter, with the text scrolling on screen so we can follow along. Sounds like a much better way to unwind after a rough day at the office than to find out if traffic on Oak Street will be detoured tomorrow for the annual cleaning of the catch basins.

Baby Bust

2011-08-03T17:04:00.000-07:00

I am publishing this post at my own (considerable) risk. I usually don't have any misgivings about speaking my mind, especially on a forum that, well, belongs to me. My little ditty about dogs probably pissed off a few readers. My views on sending kids to college, the creative restrictions of suburban living, and the cost of boutique pickles from Brooklyn will also cause a ruffle or two, but that's the chance you take by "putting it out there". So buckle up my lovelies, because what's coming next is gonna rock your world like nothing before.

I never wanted to have kids. Not only that, my wife never wanted to have kids. I'll give you a minute to pick up your jaw from your hand hewn, ancient-forest maple hardwood flooring before I continue...

I was on a flight home some years ago from London, sitting on a jumbo during one of those interminably long taxis at Heathrow, and seated next to me was a gentleman of obvious Indian subcontinent descent. We chatted in that way that air passengers do with each other to pass the time, fill the void before the long haul, feeling each other out to gauge the compatibility factor that will determine the relative comfort of our seven-plus hour involuntary relationship.

This man was quite well composed, regal in a sense, his headdress perfectly wound, full beard neatly combed, crisp white shirt and neat slacks, a pair of reading glasses suspended from a cord around his neck. I was looking sharp myself, in fact, in suit jacket and Thomas Pink shirt, dressed for a business meeting even though I was on my way home, feeling quite liberated from more than a few of them that had my head spinning out of control with numbers, marketing concepts, shipping dates and countless deadlines. My boss at the time implored me to "...always wear a jacket when traveling, even in coach; you get better treatment and you distance yourself from those poor fuckers in the back of the plane." He might have been on to something, taking the time honored advice of "overdressing" for the particular event at hand; and, to tell the truth, I did feel superior to the sweatpants-and-sneakers crowd who would have shown up at the gate in their pajamas had it been socially acceptable.

We got through the usual niceties, "where are you from", "what brought you to England", "why do you guys always wear those turbans, anyway?", and the like, until we arrived at what I like to refer to as the point of no return: "And, how many children to you have?" Oh, crap, I thought, I'm about to tell a guy who probably has 30 children, 90 grandchildren and three thousand nieces and nephews something that is going to have him lunging for the flight attendant button to demand an immediate seating relocation. "We don't have any children." "What is this?". "We have no children, none." "My goodness, by choice or by circumstance?" "It was a conscious choice, in fact." "Why, that is against nature, it is against God."

My first reaction was one of astonishment, that a stranger who would be sharing personal space with me for the next seven to eight hours could have the nerve to voice an opinion on a subject that is considered in almost every society to have the same degree of sensitivity as politics, religion and human rights. I actually cannot recall my immediate response, but I do remember asking him why he thought it was "...against nature...". He believed the primary purpose (I think he really meant "function") of marriage was to procreate and he suggested that any married couple who did not have children by choice were somehow terribly misguided on the prescribed path of human existence. Courtesy and decency prevented me from asking him how he could possibly justify his way of thinking, especially considering that he hailed from a country of 1.1 billion souls, many of whom live in poverty, hunger and squalor, and maybe, just maybe, the strict religious doctrine that runs the show in India promotes overpopulation, a phenomenon that contributes to a fair amount of the world's major social, economic and interpersonal problems.

Again, I'm shaky on the details of the remainder of our journey, although I can tell you that most of it was spent in complete silence. I had the good fortune of traveling in Business Class, usually requesting a window, for many of my trips abroad and the seating configurations are usually two across, with plenty of breathing space and legroom in between so this played to my advantage whenever I needed to visit the head or to check in on the poor unwashed back in economy. I do remember feeling very isolated from not only my row-mate but from the rest of the cabin and the rest of the world passing underneath us at 30,000 feet. My wife and I adore children, we coo at babies and we cherish the miracle of childbirth; we also respect the decision (most of the time that is) of couples to have children, especially if they can afford them.

We are often branded as "selfish" for our decision, choosing a life that is blissfully free of poopy diapers, bicycle training wheels, all-night homework sessions, sweet 16 party weekends, soccer and lacrosse meets, college tuition costs, kids moving out, then moving back in, then moving out, then back in, car and mortgage co-signings, grandchildren's poopy diapers, bicycle training wheels, all-night homework sessions... but the fact remains, nobody, and I mean nobody, is physically forced into having kids. It should remain a 'choice', first and foremost, much like not having them should.

I have since settled into a life that is far removed from high-pitched business negotiations and high-priced four-hour lunches in foreign lands, and finding my way back home with three hours' sleep and a liver that was begging me to stop testing it's ability to metabolize overpriced first-growth Bordeaux. But I will never forget this encounter, and I often think back on what could have been an enlightening exchange of thoughts and ideas between two people save for the narrow-minded, limited views of a man who was confined to a rigid set of beliefs that have been handed down through countless generations, without question, without opposition, and to be clung to without exception, without detour.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the missus and I are on our way over to our friends' house to visit with them and play with their beautiful, 14 month-old twins.

Panic? What panic?

2011-08-01T07:43:00.000-07:00

Let me begin this post by asking a question: what is it about making your bed in the morning that makes you feel so good? I once worked with a guy who said that he likes to start his day with "a little victory" and the successful completion of this simple task was his way of accomplishing that. I just made our bed and let me tell you, it's given me hope for a great day.
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Now that we've got that out of the way, I have a confession to make: I have had absolutely no interest in the current national debt "crisis". If pressed, I would have great difficulty in explaining it to anyone who asked me what was going on these last few weeks in the land of the free. I knew we had some money problems, I catch the occasional news blip when I'm switching stations on the radio and I'm forced to endure the four-minute NPR national news update before I can hear more music. The figure was something like $14 trillion or something, right? I'm not even going to "Bing it up" to make sure that's an accurate figure, that's how apathetic I am to the whole affair.

President Obama was on the tube last night letting us all know that the imminent danger of the government 'defaulting' was over, the impasse has been bridged between the parties and we can all enjoy the rest of our summer. Every time some government money crisis happens, it conjures in my mind horrible visions of impending doom: streets spontaneously caving in and swallowing cars whole, playground equipment crumbling, windows in government buildings being blown out, buses and trains halted in their tracks as the fuel gauges suddenly hit "E". I mean, what actually would happen if the government goes into default? Will our bank accounts lose their "FDIC" protection? Does word get out to the Al Qaeda operative cells in Providence and Portland that now is the time to strike, when we are at our most vulnerable?

I don't know about you, but I try to avoid falling into a state of panic whenever the opportunity for panic presents itself. For a few days this summer, jellyfish were found floating in the ocean and at first sight of one of the gooey, translucent blobs washing up on the shoreline, moms were snatching up their children and urging the lifeguards to raise the red "no swimming allowed" flags. When was the last time you heard about anyone actually getting stung by a jellyfish? I thought so. They are, for the most part, harmless, and your child has a greater chance of getting crushed by falling playground equipment the next time our government defaults.

Bill Ryder-Jones - A Leave Taking

2011-07-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

This just in, latest edition.

2011-07-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

It's 'Scat Time again, people. I know you've been waiting impatiently for more from the worldwide web's preeminent non-specific-subject-matter blog, but the midsummer heat wave has the Chief Scatter in a bit of a malaise, an ennui as it were. But I've gathered the strength and mustered the squadron and I'm ready to let loose a fresh batch of...I'll say it once more...'Scat:

1. Tennis: I have recently laid my racquet down, most likely for good. Last year was a banner one for me and my tennis game, with good late-season weather and a host of readily available partners. This year, a chilly spring, rainy weekends in early summer and a gradual fading away of people to hit with, due to injuries, obligations, travel for work and unspecified lack of interest have all contributed to a frustrating effort to play a game I once loved. Part of the problem is the local area, stocked with country clubs. All but one of my partners are members of this club or that, shelling out thousands of dollars to get on the schedule, join various teams and receive lessons from the pro. Spring leagues, summer leagues, fall leagues, winter leagues...when you can play in Rene Lacoste whites on a perfectly manicured Har-Tru court and follow it up with a g&t at the 19th hole bar, who would want to hit with some schmoe at the neighborhood court with it's fraying nets and rusting gates, tennis-ball-swallowing clumps of weeds in every corner and surface cracks the size of canals?

2. Dogs: Sometimes I think I'm the only guy in this town who doesn't have a dog. Every family seems to have at least one, and many have two of them. I'm all for pets, but I seriously question the logic of adding yet another obligation to households that have working parents, demanding children, lawns to be mowed (but not by the kids, heaven forbid). The infrastructure alone that is required to support a dog is incredible: sacks of specialized-diet food, cedar-stuffed beds from LL Bean's, leashes, bowls, cages, pens, invisible fencing, even dedicated dog parks within people parks. We have a local dog park that cost a whole lot of county taxpayer money to build; I can't quite find the actual figure, because it's lumped in with the cost to refurbish the, ahem, tennis courts. A scant year later, it cost another $100,000 to get "realigned", whatever that means. It's a whole lot easier on the environment and the pocketbook to maintain a cat. A couple of cans of Friskies Mixed Grill, a water bowl and a litter box. That last item is for indoor cats only; outdoor ones poop in private, unlike their canine cousins who think of nothing when strolling down a sidewalk to sniff out a designated drop zone for their copious amounts of solid waste emissions. As Alec Baldwin keeps telling John Krasinski, "I don't have a dog. My neighbor does."

3. Olive Oil: Did any of you know that the olive oil industry has its own version of OPEC? It's known as "IOC", or International Olive Council. They track consumption, help set prices based upon demand, and generally try to control the market in the interests of their producer members. I often wonder how olive oil is so readily available everywhere, I mean, how many olive trees must there exist on earth to keep up with the supply needed to satiate the needs of everyone? Every time I pick up a bottle at a certain food market that stocks its shelves with overpriced organic, free range and naturally-rendered products, I marvel at the process involved in getting the actual oil from the fruit. Olive oil was never a staple in my house growing up, even though my mom cooked great meals for us every day and night. The olive oil 'craze' in the US is somewhat recent, but it's yet another factoid I'm having trouble locating, like the cost of the doggie park. Nonetheless, you can now purchase very good quality olive oil nearly everywhere, freshness is a sure bet due to its popularity and therefore heavy product turnover, and it tastes great with everything.

4. Portion Control: There was a great bar in my hometown of Fort Lee, "Frank's Cozy". When we weren't either working our night jobs or hitting the dance clubs, my buddies and I would make a habit of frequenting this little place, with its Naugahyde booths and no-nonsense bartenders. It was the quintessential drinking man's bar, a real shot-and-beer type of joint, right down to the "No Dancing" sign on the wall. A careful smile would always form on the face of whomever was tending bar on the nights we would come in, because they knew we would be freely spending some dough and we lowered the average patron age to about fifty, adding a dash of youth to the aging surroundings. They did some minor improvements over the years, like adding a toaster oven to heat up the Geno's Pizza Rolls they sold by the plateful. That was big news at Frank's, but one thing that sticks out in my mind was the size of the glasses they served the draft beer in.

They used those six-ounce footed pilsner glasses that you would get at every neighborhood "old guy's bar", filled with Schmidt's or Rheingold and costing all of sixty cents. What a concept: freshly drawn draft beer, cold from the tap, into a small glass that, subject to the laws of thermal dynamics, would remain cold almost until the last sip. You drained that one, ordered another, and then another. Nowadays, you get a full pint, and unless you're either a champion drinker or a raging alcoholic who is able to knock back 16 ounces (or 20 for a full English) in one or two gulps, that beer is gonna grow warm before its drained. After two or three, I'm ready for a quart of ice water, and that's an item that I am loathe to demand at a real bar lest I get tagged as a health nut/pansy who can't keep up with the real elbow leaners. I think they should reintroduce those little six-ounce workhorses to the bar scene; think of the repeat business, not to mention the quality of the beer drinking experience. When it comes to beer, cold beats out warm every time; we might even have them hang up a "No Dancing" sign to complete the scene.

5. Saying too much: It has recently been suggested to me by three people that I talk too much. One of them went so far as to complain that when I ask a question, I like to provide the answer, and this might be true. Most of the time, I'm trying to help them efficiently piece together a suitable response. In my defense, I am often called into the role of trained monkey at parties, barbecues and brises (that last one was a stretch, I've never actually attended a bris, but I hear that they serve "cocktails"). People will literally look at me, waiting for my next sharp commentary, witty rejoinder or bad joke lest we all sit there to endure one of those painful lulls of silence that produce sighs and air-filling comments like, "Yep, yep, yep, yep...". But since my long-windedness has been pointed out to me by three people in three different social and work settings, I've decided to clam up and say whatever I need to say right here on Tiger Scat. And that can only mean good news for the seven people who actually read my posts... those other three can kiss my ass.

Get your summer on!

2011-07-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

Ramblings, rumblings, and some scattered praise

2011-07-13T05:59:00.000-07:00

I've got a lot on my mind today, as you can gather from the pensive-mood image above. It's a bit rambling, maybe unfocused, but cut me some slack: I've had way too much sunshine and downtime this summer, which provides a perfect segue into my first thought...and my fifth:

1. I need to make more money. I'm not sure how to go about this, especially in this economy and job market, so I'm open to suggestions. The problem is, I need the money now. I can't wait for a new venture or 'next big idea' to take root over the next 12-18 months; I need the money within the next 12-18 weeks, or better yet, within the next 12-18 minutes.

2. Eating out just ain't what it used to be. Everywhere you go, it's more expensive, the quality of the ingredients and the preparation has deteriorated, service is spottier than ever, and the seating is less comfortable. Many of you will secretly agree with me, while publicly denying this, defending your decision to go out every weekend, doling out big bucks for mediocre food, and telling us all how 'awesome' it was. I have but a few places remaining that I can recommend, but I'm not sharing that information with you lest the additional patronage negatively affect their ability to satisfy my needs.

3. Any of you watching the Tour de France? It's a really big bicycle race that happens every year at this time, and most of Europe goes absolutely apeshit over it. I don't care if some of the participants are on performance enhancing drugs, all professional sports have that problem. I like watching it because it's literally a rolling panorama of human endurance, beautiful scenery, technical wizardry and lots of time-honored sporting behavior. Did you know that if a top contender falls back out of the big group of cyclists (the "peloton") because of some mechanical failure or crash, word will reach the group and they will actually slow down to wait for that one guy? And, did you know that other teams will actually respect the guy wearing the yellow jersey enough that they will give up space on the road so his team can protect him through to the next stage? Now, that's what I call gentleman's rules.

4. I like Adele. There, I said it. The missus asked me to buy the record, and I like her voice and her songs, and I don't care what my snobby music-ista friends think of that.

5. I'm starting to feel a twinge of guilt about the amount of holiday time I've taken this year. It's not as if we can really afford it, although we are not going into debt (not yet anyway!) to fund all of these days "en vacance". Our line of work just happens to feature an inconsistent schedule, and that seems to get worse every summer. So, we figure, why not pack up and chase the sun while it's up and shining? Trouble is, it's getting harder to justify the downtime, especially for a guy like me who has boundless energy. Maybe I should view this as some sort of 'refueling' for an upcoming surge in business? Or maybe someone has me in mind for a new project they need help with (as long as it pays me within the next 12-18 minutes)?

The end of the world as we know it, part 23.

2011-07-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

I must admit to being one of those Americans who had failed to regularly check in on the government's color-coded terror alert system way back in the hysteria following the 9/11 attacks. Remember those frightening days of "Severe", "Elevated", "Guarded", and so on? We've since migrated to a new, two-part 'advisory' system that promises to provide a less vague idea of the level of vigilance that we should all be practicing to keep ourselves and our families safe from the next big one. But after what I overheard today, I am stocking up on batteries, flashlights and canned food, and as soon as we return home, I plan on sealing our windows with heavy-duty polyethylene and duct tape. It's obvious we are forever on "Orange' and that the bad guys are hiding around every corner, waiting to pounce.

We overheard this strict admonishment, offered to you here exclusively on the 'Scat, verbatim, at Cape May Point State Park, given by a mom to her two young boys who were about to enter the public restroom. "There will be people who are going to be nice to you and offer you candy. Don't speak to these people, okay? Stay away from them. I will be waiting for you right outside the door." ... Did you catch that? Mom was warning her sons to beware of anyone in the men's room at one of the most benign locations in the entire state, visited by tourists who want to look at birds and lighthouses, interests of arguably some of the tamest people on earth. She feared that some bad man might be hiding in one of the stalls, Ziploc full of lollipops and fun-sized Butterfingers, seeking to violate the next 7-year old that came in to take a piss.

I know what you're thinking, no place is completely safe (has it ever been?) and nobody should be considered completely harmless (have they ever been?). And, for those of you who know me, childless and therefore blissfully free of the standard obligations and restrictions that come with parenthood, you are thinking it's easy for me to judge this as needlessly alarmist and overly protective, no matter the circumstances and location. I don't think being a parent is a requirement to identify this as a terrible message to be sending our children. Who needs government-issued terror alerts when mom has the capability to instill this level of fear in a young heart? Will her kids always avoid contact with any stranger who they might encounter on a street, in a store, on a beach, or, I'll say it, in a restroom, who offers a kind smile, a friendly hello or helps them reach the paper towel dispenser?

As we walked away from this, made more angry and saddened by the continually deteriorating human condition, the missus turned to me and said, "Why can't she just ask her kid to react to his instincts? If someone appears creepy or dangerous, stay away or run away from that person." Great advice, I say, coming from yet another childless adult who, incidentally, considers herself an advocate of developing minds, someone who wishes to instill a more naturally-guided approach to upbringing. How else are we to help our kids navigate a world that has admittedly become more treacherous and evil, if not to return the authentic kindness of people they've never met? ... This scenario reminded me of a passage from Wayne Dyer, one of those self-empowerment gurus that I try hard to avoid during any channel Thirteen fund drives. His advice was quite the opposite of our terrified mom. He thought it odd when mothers would bundle up their kids in their winter coats, sling their fully-loaded bookbags across their narrow shoulders and warn them to "Be careful today". He wanted them to say, "Take some chances today, honey, be brave, see what happens."

I think the government should introduce a new 'alert' system, call it something like the "Hope and Faith Advisory" or the "Trust and Communion" scale or the "Support and Understanding" forecast. How else are we to close the widening gap that is forming between people, breaking apart families and relationships and to escape the paranoia and fear that has infected every facet of our lives? Instead of returning home to buy duct tape and canned peaches, I'll be stocking up on pitted dates and organic fig bars. Hey, if I'm gonna offer sweets to a kid, I'm gonna make sure it's got some nutritional value.

Gettin' the Point

2011-07-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share some photos from our first week at the beach, with comments (of course, you know me, I'm just arrogant enough to believe that you don't want the pictures to speak for themselves!).

The top photo really doesn't quite belong in the album strictly because of location, as it was not shot at Cape May Point, but, I couldn't resist. We noticed these guys at a tackle shop along the road and felt compelled to pull over and snap some pics. They just hauled in this 400-lb. marlin and were scrambling to get photos. What struck me was their humility about the whole affair; no boasting, no grandstanding, in fact, the captain of the boat needed to be coaxed into posing with the crew and the prize catch.

Next up, that strange road sign. My translation: "Share the road with cyclists, joggers and really bad 1980's era Corvettes."

St. Agnes RC church is a restored gem of American "Carpenter's Gothic" architecture, with it's pointed arches and sawn-wood details. Breathtaking, from every angle. If I lived down here, this would be my parish.

Ahhh, sunsets. The cliche image of every beach vacation. But some are better than others, and I think that every sunset needs a few well-placed fair weather clouds to make it really shimmer. This one shimmers.

The preferred mode of transportation in this neck of the woods: a bicycle. But not just any bicycle. You need a vintage steel-framed, 12-speed "Free Spirit" model, straight from the Sears Roebuck catalog, complete with wicker basket, bell and a chain with just enough rust to produce that telltale squeak as you pedal your way to the beach and the farm market. By the way, the basket on this one was just big enough to fit a six-pack of beer, a container of blackberries and a bottle of sunscreen.

1-800-LIFE-ALERT

2011-07-02T08:40:00.000-07:00

This, my friends, is something known as a "Luther Burger". It is believed to have been first served in a bar somewhere in Georgia, named after the late Luther Vandross, who is said to have been involved in its conception. Mr. Vandross, who suffered from diabetes and hypertension, died in 2005 of a stroke. The Queen of Cholesterol herself, Paula Deen, had a hand in it's subsequent "improvement" when she decided to add a layer of fried egg to the already horrifying components. Need I say more?

I found myself at a curious, and quite uncomfortable, loss for words upon discovery of the Luther Burger. (Apparently, that loss was temporary, because now I can't wait to tell you all about it.) The news is filled with ugly statistics about the ever-increasing American waistline even though everybody I meet seems to boast about hitting the gym three times a week, going to "hot" yoga classes and improving their diet. Fact is, we are getting wider, and it's not entirely our fault. Public relations firms are in business to sell you more Pringles and Pop-Tarts, and if that comes at a price to your blood pressure and BMI, it can only add to the business of selling more Lipitor. Now, that's what I call "vertical marketing"!

I'm not here to scold you, especially on a July 4th weekend that will find many Americans knocking back burgers, hot dogs and beer by the barrel. But let's run through the makings of the deluxe version of a Luther Burger, just to put this into perspective: a quarter-pound hamburger, with cheese, a fried egg (fried in butter, of course), two (or more) strips of bacon, and, the piece-de-resistance, in place of a bun, two Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnuts. It takes a sinister mind to place that much fat and sodium between that much fat and sugar, you must admit. The fat content in this champion of all artery-cloggers is estimated at around 50 grams, but I suspect the number is higher. The recommended fat intake for most people varies based upon age, weight, fitness and lifestyle, but this sucker most certainly eats up a day-and-a-half's worth. I'm one of the lucky few who can afford between 80-90 grams of fat daily, but don't follow my lead.

If you add in the sodium, sugar, hormones from the beef, nitrates in the bacon and all other nasties lurking about in the Luther, this meal might just qualify as one of the all-time unhealthiest, so what I'm about to say might shock many of you: I actually would love to try one. I plan on making one of these beasts before the summer's end, and if I get around to it, I will offer a full review. On the day this happens, I will make sure to purchase a subscription to Life Alert, because I might fall and not be able to get up.

Summer rental done right.

2011-06-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

The missus and I are spending some time at the beach this early summer season, specifically, at a lovely spot known as Cape May Point. My sister- and brother-in-law introduced us to Cape May proper many years ago, and I hereby give them full props for turning us on to this southernmost part of the state. The Point in particular is unlike any other spot down the shore...it's absolutely the "anti-Snookie", with it's meticulously well-kept homes, lush greenery, private little cove beaches and lack of sausage-and-pepper stands (although I have no problem with sausage-and-peppers, believe me, but when the craving hits, I'll drive over to Wildwood, thank you very much!).

I found this little pied-a-terre online from the local newspaper's rental listings. The owner was immediately engaging without being too forceful on selling the place for the weeks she had open. We've had a great run of "sight unseen" rentals for vacations lately, so I was up against some stiff competition, not to mention a wife who would string me up by my shorthairs if this place turned out to be a cobwebbed haven for bedbugs and black mold. I'm delighted to report, quite the opposite has happened...

The apartment occupies the space above the garage. It is finished in cedar shake shingles, a la Nantucket standard building practices. The interior beams were left exposed and the floors were sanded but not varnished. No corners were cut in the construction, maintenance and presentation of this place. I could only imagine what the main house is like, but maybe we'll get a peek later in the week before the new renters pile in. The attention to detail is almost obsessive, down to the folding nickel plated coat hangers at the staircase entrance and the three (count 'em, three) types of colanders. The dinnerware is from Portugal, the appliances from Germany. A basket found in the laundry closet is stocked with all manner of detergent, fabric softener and spot remover. On the day we arrived, we opened the fridge to discover a bottle of Prosecco welcoming us. Bikes, kayaks, beach chairs... even the beach tags (four, count 'em, four) are provided.

Did I mention the exact location? No, and don't expect me to. All I will give you is this: we are situated smack in between the ocean to the south and a large bird sanctuary/nature preserve to the northeast. It's one of those places that will make me quite unhappy to return home from, and I can't say that about too many other places, nice as they've been. I mentioned to the owner that she might have to call in the local sheriff to remove us on the last day of the contract. She laughed, "Oh, I'm so happy you're enjoying it". I haven't yet told her I wasn't kidding.

Summer's here, and the time is right.

2011-06-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

Summer has arrived and although the weather today is quite dreary (in fact it is downright miserable), our thoughts turn to vacation. You would be hard pressed to find the person who doesn't possess at least enough wanderlust to throw a pair of bathing trunks, a few t-shirts and some flip flops into a duffel and head to the hills or the beach for a week. If you had a nice, tidy VW camper-van like the one pictured here, you wouldn't even need to rent a room. So top up the tank with gas, fill up the cooler with beer, empty the mind of obligations, and hit the road, Jack.

Still life? Never.

2011-06-24T05:10:00.000-07:00

Change is in the air. Feel it? Feel it. It is all around. Some of it is good change, some is not. But change will come. The earth is shaking and the sky is complaining. When you wake up, you will find me. You might even find yourself. Through change, we grow. And we enable others to grow around us. The moment that you want is coming if you give it time. When you wake up, you will find me.

The Miners' Hymns

2011-06-24T05:03:00.000-07:00

I am an unapologetic Anglophile, as many of you know. But I take the good with the bad: it's not all about winning football teams, great music and royal weddings. It's also about the terrible hardships endured by miners toiling in the pits of England's north east. This clip is from a Bill Morrison film, "The Miners' Hymns" with music from Johann Johannsson, an experimental artist out of Iceland (a country with an enormous creative output that is completely out of proportion with it's size and population). Gritty, dirty, dark and very real. Enjoy at your own risk.

Slow down. No, wait, speed up.

2011-06-08T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's been conspicuously quiet here on TS, you might have noticed. The seven people who actually read my stuff have probably been scratching their heads for the past week, wondering how they will possibly make it through yet another day without a dose of the 'Scat. The lack of activity has something to do with annual late-spring-into-early-summer malaise, certainly, but it's more than that: I simply can't keep up.

Disgraced congressmen, retiring talk show legends, exciting basketball and hockey finals, graduations, bar mitzvahs, weddings, baby showers, signing kids up for camp...who has time to read blogs? Oh, I suppose I could fill you in on the latest developments around here like the disposable razor boil test (thus far successful, as I've been using the same razor for almost two weeks), the overpriced pickles (no longer spotted on the shelves) or the status of the under-employed college graduate (still underemployed at the supermarket) but all that pales in comparison to genital-exposing, skirt-chasing politicians and trying to get junior into one of the last few slots at Frost Valley.

The real news around these parts is...well, really not much. Folks around here tend to get caught up in their own lives and they need to concentrate on the full plate of obligations and requirements that dominate those lives. The social networks seem to be in a bit of lull as well, in fact, some of my Facebook friends have suddenly dropped out in the last few days. When asked why they deactivated, they will most likely feed us the worn-out excuse, "Oh, I just lost interest and I wasn't really on FB all that much anyway...". Right. See you in a couple of months when the methadone wears off.

It is true, people have made themselves very, very busy. And this reckless level of activity crosses seasonal boundaries; yes, people still find the time and the money to take a vacation in the summer but they find themselves scrambling madly to make up for the lost time once they return to work and their daily routines. Not to mention the guilt: most of my clients who tell me of their vacation plans deliver the news with more than a smidgen of remorse, as if they've not earned the right to cool their heels for a week or two as a reward for punishing themselves during the other fifty. I attempt to relieve them of this burden but it falls on deaf ears, especially in an affluent, 'progressive' suburb where success and personal happiness are measured by productivity and income.

I find myself in the familiar position of existing on the fringe of my local globe. I don't personally know of anyone else who is sitting at his or her laptop at 9:02AM on a Wednesday, banging out an entry in a blog and not getting paid for it. My entire lifestyle is one fashioned on slowing down, not hurrying up. Massage therapy is performed in an atmosphere of calm, quiet and peacefulness; the best massages are administered slowly and deliberately, not quickly. Need more slowing down? As I write this, we have a pot of slow-cooking, steel-cut oatmeal simmering on the stove, which takes about 30 minutes if you do it right. Of course, I need to have clients who live completely differently than this, otherwise we would really be broke, so I'm certainly not suggesting they let up the pace anytime soon!

All this comes about because of what happened to me yesterday. I assisted a large snapping turtle in his painful effort to make it safely across a very busy street here in town. I spotted him simply frozen in place on the double yellow lines. My first attempt to prod him along failed as he turned to see if I was within biting distance. He made a few halting steps, then abruptly stopped. At this point, traffic was at a complete standstill and the back-up was getting worse. The poor fellow must have sensed the growing impatience of the drivers who had jobs to get to, kids to drop off at school and meditation classes to attend, so he started to move steadily, making it safely to the other side and over the curb.

It was an exercise in contrasts. Here I was, risking life and limb to save a turtle, the very symbol of patience, from what would have been most certainly his last day in the pond, and I was forcing people who were rushing to fulfill obligations and meet deadlines to slow down in the process. Most of them applauded my effort, so I consider the whole event a guarded success. But of course, the turtle needed to cooperate by climbing out of his comfort zone...he needed to speed up.

Busted.

2011-06-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

Here's an image from the run-up to Sasquatch, the big annual music fest held each year in Washington state. I certainly hope I'm not the only one offended by the phony desperation expressed by the occupants of this BMW X5, a vehicle with a sticker price ranging from $46,000 to $59,000. "Sasquatch or Bust!!", really, dudes? Mommy and Daddy lent you the family Bimmer to navigate the dangerous highways leading up to a festival that offered a $5,000 special VIP "Supertickets" package, complete with "furnished Safari tent". They undoubtedly had the benefit of On-Star, GPS and deluxe sound system to help guide the way through the wilds of the great Pacific Northwest, along with full use of the credit cards to fuel up the car and to keep the kids well nourished. Bust? I don't think so. Run out of money to buy some $45 commemorative tee shirts? Just pick up the iPhone and speed dial Daddy to wire some more bucks. Take a look at the "Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace and Music" documentary if any of you would like to see what an odyssey to a summer music festival should really be like. Plenty of those kids got 'busted' along the way, you can count on it.

Cass McCombs - County Line

2011-06-02T17:45:00.000-07:00

Somebody strop me.

2011-05-24T19:40:00.000-07:00

Just when I was about to start carping about the horrible people at Gillette, Schick, Bic, Wilkinson, and all other manufacturers of shaving blades and razors, along comes a product that does the complaining for me. Please allow me to introduce you to the RazorPit.

The good folks at RazorPit are most likely just as fed up as I and the countless millions of men who emerge from their morning shave looking like we went fifteen rounds with Sonny Liston even though the razor we used was barely into it's third shave. For years, these companies have been shoving down our throats one innovation after the next in this lucrative category of men's grooming: first it was two blades, then three and four, all promising the closest, smoothest finish this side of Yul Brunner's shiny pate. Lubricating strips, 'sensitive' skin-specific blades, pivoting heads, textured rubber grips, even a fanciful "spring loaded" number known as the Sensor have been brought to market. Yet we still leave the house in the morning with nicks and scars and those little scraps of toilet paper soaking up the bloody mess left behind, just like our dads used to sport on their own shredded faces, leaving us wondering if they would remember to remove them at some point along the way to work.

I suspect these companies, like all others, have simply been cutting corners to save costs, using cheaper raw products but churning out a final product that will firmly fit in to their corporate ethos: lather, rinse, repeat, all in the effort to empty your pockets and fill theirs. But the RazorPit claims that residue from shave foam, accumulated skin and beard hair, grit, dirt and all other left-behind nasties build up and dull the edge. This may be so, but I've used new razors straight out of the blister pack that proceeded to slash across my throat like a switchblade in a gang fight, so I say "phooey" on that residue theory.

I am prepared to drop the $25 on the RazorPit, even though it's nothing but a big chunk of specialized rubber, but I am first going to try something more economical albeit also more time-consuming and potentially much less fun. A former boss of mine, legendary for his stinginess, once suggested that I throw my razors or blades into boiling water for a few minutes after their first three or four appearances on my face, guaranteeing that their life will be doubled, even tripled. I never tried this, thinking that it was just more ridiculous advice of a cheapskate who had trouble ponying up the three or four dollars for his portion on pizza Fridays. After all, this was a man who actually claimed to like hospital food. I suspect he gleaned particular satisfaction from assuming that the meals were included in the room rate, sort of like getting 'free continental breakfast' at the Ramada Inn.

The RazorPit claims that we could expect up to "150 shaves from a single blade". The field test for that boast was probably done on a 13-year old who is just beginning to sprout hair in all those places that a young man covets at that age but who will eventually lead an adult life of taming the dense carpet of underbrush on his face, chest and back lest he end up looking like Lon Chaney in The Wolfman.

Here's one thing about shaving that grooming product conglomerates fail to mention: the environment in which it is performed. My best shaves were accomplished in steam rooms, using no shave foam at all, or on hot, muggy summer days with no air conditioning. Humidity is the best friend of a good, close shave and no amount of sharpening, boiling or changing blades is going to improve on that. Doubtless the RazorPit will get much business in Manila, Mississippi or Mexico City (yes, the alliteration alarm has been activated!).

I welcome any of you hirsute fellows out there who have invested in the RazorPit to give me your honest review. My first boiling-test will be conducted in the morning but I don't expect much improvement. I'm willing however to try anything to consistently get a close shave, comfortably, and without the need for a tourniquet every morning. It's either that or move to Kerala or Kuala Lumpur.

This just in!

2011-05-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

Every now and again, I go through all the posts on the 'Scat to see what's happened since they were given the light of day. This little review helps me determine the timeliness and therefore relevancy of my words. Turns out, mostly everything is both timely and relevant (ha!), but some developments have been made. Some are quite significant in fact, so I hereby offer the following update because I want all my followers (er, "readers", I mean, don't want to get all Harold Camping on you) to be as current and modern as I am.

1. "Wow, the world really is small": The friends who were heretofore boycotting BWM, Bayer and other German companies are seriously considering the purchase of a BMW 5-series as the lease expires on their Honda. Hmmmm, let's examine this a bit closer...Honda is a Japanese multinational company that was one of the first to co-mingle their manufacturing efforts with the USA, but, they are first and foremost a Japanese company. Japan, now one of our closest allies, could arguably be put in the same evil boat as the Germans, no? But, I digress... point is, it's nice to see that my friends agree with me after all, that the world has indeed become unmanageably...small.

2. "Decisions, decisions" and other posts: I seem to have an unusual affection for alliteration, especially with words beginning with the letter "B", as in: "Brooklyn, Boston, Baton Rouge" and "Bayonne to Bay Head". I hereby declare that I will strive to use other letters in any future alliterative passages. I'm already considering the inclusion of Detroit, Dunkirk and Dusseldorf in a future post.

3. "Sticker shock, part two": In a return trip to Whole Foods, I noticed the $12.99 pickles were being sampled. All three varieties were on offer, all bite-sized and toothpick-poking-ready for the big test. The results are in: not worth the do-re-mi. And, by the way, they are on sale for $8.99. Ha!

4. "Everybody loves a winner": The 2011 French Open is underway, with many first round matches decided. I really like Jelena Dokic, an unseeded Croat who plays for Australia and I was rooting for her to go deep into the bracket. She won the first set against her draw, Vera Dushevina from Russia, but dropped the next two sets. So, I am now rooting for Vera Dushevina from Russia and I could care less if Jelena Dokic ever again in her life picks up a tennis racquet.

5. "No more Mr. Somewhat nice guy": Wherein I blasted the press for placing Kate Middleton (oops, sorry lads, she's now officially The Duchess of Cambridge) on a prematurely high pedestal, now they go and start putting her sister, Pippa, on the cover of their magazines in an obvious effort to capitalize further on the sputtering royal wedding hysteria, pitting sisters against each other to see if a big ol' catfight will ensue. No updates, here folks: the press still roundly suck and I still like British rock bands.

Decisions, decisions.

2011-05-20T12:59:00.000-07:00

The recent 'Scat post on boycotting oil companies got me to thinking about choices that we make, and how many of those are made in total freedom. The answer: not many.

Many of us live near the place where we were born. There's a host of reasons for this, the analysis of which is better suited for a session or two with your local psychologist. I suspect that we find comfort in the familiar, and since few things are more familiar to us than our hometowns, we either resettle there or within an arm's reach. The exceptions to this find themselves living farther afield, but many of those moves come about due to job re-locations; someone else made the decision for you, you lucky bastards. I remember as a kid being told that an older cousin and her husband were moving to Greece for just that reason and I wondered if Greece was on another planet; now, I am wondering if Saturn has any nice villages with easy access to a mountain, a beach and a good dive bar.

My last job had us re-locating to London before the rug was suddenly pulled from underneath. One minute, we had visions of sipping 'champers in Mayfair, next thing you know I'm sitting in Economy, angry and defeated, returning to New Jersey with a carry-on bag full of items from the Claridges' minibar and another suitcase full of regrets and what-ifs. I've put most of that behind me, and we could have pulled up the bootstraps, packed up the Mini and headed off to someplace we really wanted to be, but the relative safety and support of family and friends provided shelter from the storm and we lost the urge to start all over...again.

Others make the choice themselves because they have the financial ability and/or an incredibly large set of balls that enables them to do so. I once thought I had the former, but I begin to question myself when I get hit with the sort of comment that I received in response to that oil company blog post: "Move to Brooklyn. You won't need a car." This is true, but moving to Brooklyn, Boston or Baton Rouge would require a locomotive to pull me through at this point in my life. We have been in business for ourselves for the last seven years, doing our work in three towns and five different locations and frankly, I'm tired. Sure, I wanna pack it all up and practice my skill on the beach at Phuket, but I would need help from each and every one of you to accomplish that. Doubtless I will find any takers on that offer.

Here's the thing: I only have a car because I live in a suburb. I only live in a suburb because it's near our hometowns and I only eat because living things need food to survive. All of these choices were not entirely made by...me. I have exceptions of course, not the least of which is the decision not to have children. And that's really a decision "not" to do something! I always joke that I will be most remembered for something I didn't do rather than for something I did.

This is not to say that I don't have my fair share of free will. Economics, psychological barriers and other such life matters have just eaten into that fair share lately. Some bitter pills have been swallowed, but we soldier on, making the best of things and finding solace in everything that is good in life.

Let's circle the wagons back around: oil companies, cars, boycotts, right... for those of you who are interested, the car we drive is 18 months in our possession and has just over 9, 000 miles under the hood. That's about half what it is expected to have, so that speaks to our conservation effort. We work 1.4 miles from home, so that helps. The car gets a workout every so often to drop us off at the in-laws or up to Vermont, but mostly it's for trips to Whole Foods to check out the $12.99 pickles on display. I wish we could have an old draft horse as our means of transportation, but feeding, boarding and taking care of the nag's health would do more damage to the environment I'm certain. So, there it is, another decision made by me: don't buy a horse.

Wow, the world really is small.

2011-05-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

I was doing the bills this morning, one of which was from the fine people at Exxon/Mobil, and as usual when I'm doing something I absolutely despise doing, my mind began to wander. My first thoughts drifted to my stomach and my immediate future, i.e., what should I have for lunch today? Not being able to make a decision in that department, I started to think about what my life was like back in March of 1989 when the Exxon Valdez disaster struck. Let's see, I was already married for about four years, working for the man but still too young to have been in that predicament. We were living like two cats in a third floor walk-up, eating mostly potatoes and broccoli for dinner, spending a lot of time with family and getting by on a meager income.

The Valdez incident really hit me hard, as I had always been sensitive to nature, the environment and man's indifference to preserving them. I decided to immediately cancel my Exxon credit card and to avoid at all costs feeding my car's engine with any Exxon products. I was able, I recall, to maintain my personal embargo for a very long time, well over a year. I took on a Mobil card, thinking that trading in one demon for another was probably a compromise made in the face of a solitary protest, but at least I was making a stand on an issue that was important to me.

Then came the summer of 1990 when the missus and I took a trip up to Nantucket, successfully avoiding any Exxon gas pumps along the way. The return trip home started out uneventful save for our need to make several detours as we had the pleasure of the company of my walnut-sized-bladdered niece on board. I could have made a scrapbook with pictures of every rest stop from West Yarmouth to Fairfield and posted it on Facebook, had Facebook existed in the summer of 1990. I kept a very close eye on the fuel tank needle as it flirted with "E" and I steadfastly avoided what seemed like nothing but Exxon stations on the highway. Panic set in when I feared that I might become suddenly stranded on the side of Interstate 95 with a wife ready to kill me and a niece with a backed-up urethra if I continued my hunger strike. I finally caved in near Groton, reluctantly pulling into the sign of the tiger and pulling the handle on the pump.

Eventually, Exxon and Mobil would merge, Mobil stations are now non-existent in New Jersey, having been taken over themselves by Lukoil, another symbol of the petroleum oligarchy, this one owned by the Russians who, in the time between 1989 and today, have traveled the spectrum of political status with the USA from "evil empire" to "cautious ally" back to their current status as "probably really bad guys but let's wait and see what they can do for us before we start the next Cold War and boycott the next Olympic games they get awarded".

My point? I think it's great that we have the ability to take personal action against governments, corporations and any other institutions that harm us in some way. I have Jewish friends who continue their own parents' steadfast avoidance of BMW and Bayer. I remind them that BMW builds many of its models in South Carolina and that Bayer is so huge that it is likely that one of their subsidiaries might be embedded somewhere on their own 401K's, but I respect their political stand nonetheless. I still feel a twinge of guilt every time I pull into an Exxon station and a dull ache in my wrist as I write the check to settle my debt with them, but I find comfort in the fact that I tried, I really tried. What else can one do, after all, in a world that has become almost unmanageably...small?

So, here's to hunger strikes, sit-in's and freedom marches, grass roots boycotts and protest songs. "People have the power", as Patti Smith once defiantly proclaimed, "the power to dream, to rule, to wrestle the world from fools".

Everyone loves a winner.

2011-05-14T17:55:00.000-07:00

Sports. Gotta love 'em. They bring out the best and the worst in us. The inner beast gets released in every weekend warrior who grabs his tennis racket or nine iron, ready to unleash some pain and suffering on his opponent. Swarms of kids can be found on soccer, Lacrosse and field hockey pitches and baseball diamonds across the land. The sound of middle-aged knees creaking, ligaments tearing and lower backs seizing up can be heard in local basketball courts from Bayonne to Bay Head. And, let's not forget the professional teams we all worship slavishly, following every game and player stat, scarfing up team merchandise and lining up at arenas ready to cheer our team on to victory, ending up hoarse-voiced and sleep-deprived come Monday morning.

Trouble is, the teams that I root for rarely take home the hardware. Truth told, I'm getting sick and tired of rooting for losers. So I'm considering a new approach. I'm going to wait for the last week or last game or last inning to decide what team I really want to win it all.

Manchester United just claimed their 19th Premiership title today. I like some of their players, but I'm a Tottenham supporter. The Spurs won the big one only once, and that came in the days before the top-flight league was really put in place, so, really, does it count? Let's face it, English football has four ponies every year and the rest of us are left in the paddock scooping up the shit that they leave behind. My beloved New York Rangers drank champagne out of Lord Stanley's Cup once during my lifetime, and that is a moment that I will cherish until I take my last breath. But the way things look, that might not happen again in my lifetime. I remember the image of a fan holding up a poster at the end of that historic Game 7 that read: "Now I can die in peace." I hope that guy is dead by now because I doubt he's been at peace for the last 17 years.

The New York Giants are a proud and powerful organization, but last season had many of us scratching our heads, if not outright pulling our hair out, especially the last four weeks. What the fuck happened, we collectively wondered. If Eli Manning didn't seek emotional counseling or a Reiki healer during the off-season, we're looking at 9-9 again next season...if there is a next season. I also follow Formula One, and I've been a fan of Scuderia Ferrari for a long time, but even that hallowed legacy of motorsport have been reduced to a third place on the podium most races the last couple of seasons and have been left in the dust by the young bucks at Red Bull and McLaren.

I casually follow baseball and I have a distant respect for the Yankees, having grown up in the shadow of the shrine in the Bronx and being given the opportunity to witness a few big games in my lifetime. They usually win, so I really can't complain. Count them out of this argument, or count them in as the lone exception. Knicks basketball hasn't moved me since Anthony Mason and John Starks, so I'm left far behind in that scene; again, I'm woefully inadequate to pass judgment or to cast aspersions, but they are perennial losers by any measure.

All I'm saying is I would love to see my guys win it all, just one more time, before I go through that big stadium turnstile in the sky. Until then, consider me a big fan of the following teams, athletes and horses: the UCLA Women's Softball team (2010 National Champions), the South African Rugby Union team (2007 champs, the last tournament held), Animal Kingdom (the 2011 Kentucky Derby winner) and the Edogawa Minami, Tokyo Little League team (2010 Little League World Series champs). Fair weather? You betcha.

Don't get rubbed the wrong way

2011-05-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

Lemme tell you a little something about the massage business: there's a whole lotta bullshit going around in it. Seems like every day I hear about a new modality of bodywork promising to permanently rid the body of all aches and pains and transform you from a listless blob of "blocked energy" and stale karma into a life-giving, vibrant ray of power and light, brimming with vitality and robust health. News flash: it don't work that way, folks.

Fact is, there's not too much happening on the therapeutic massage scene. It's not a field that receives a whole lot of research funding that will lead to some dramatic new treatment approach with enough clinical proof to boast a cure for slipped discs, arthritis or even chronic muscle tightness. There's no money in it, you see: no revenue for the pharmaceutical industry is gained from a visit to your massage therapist. The insurance industry has no gain either, as most plans do not cover massage therapy for benefit claims. So to counteract this, the industry needs to create new ways to drum up business, and that comes in the form of a 'breakthrough' treatment, given an impressive, clinical-sounding name and thrown out there to see who will bite. Oh, that, and the education market. Massage schools are filled to capacity with students seeking refuge from a heartless workplace and many of those will emerge enthusiastic and full of hope but, sadly, will quickly become discouraged by low wages and a burnout-inducing workload as a return for their efforts.

Once upon a time, Swedish massage was the only game in town for many years, and it filled the need for most customers seeking relief from their complaints. But like any commodity, new 'needs' appear and new ways to satisfy them will eventually emerge. Some clients come in and proceed to regale us with tales of sessions spent with massage therapists that literally bruised and battered them with sixty minutes of unbridled deep, sustained pressure and they become convinced that this is the road to relief. In the long term, that brand of massage accomplishes nothing but a desperate reach for the Advil and ice packs and a renewal of pain a day or two later.

In our practice, we aim for a 60% success rate. That might appear like we're shooting low but the fact is, we understand the limits of our scope of practice. We don't have the depth of training of a physical therapist, but we have the luxury of time on our side; we can approach your problem a lot more 'creatively' because of the lower risk of harm that massage presents. But it's a two-way street: it is absolutely imperative that you arrive for your session with an open mind and a willingness to accept the work without hesitation and that you understand the need to make a few return visits. Just like the physical therapist, the acupuncturist or the chiropractor, a commitment to change and improvement must be established if you want to get better.

One guarantee: you will leave the session feeling better and knowing that a trained and compassionate person made a serious attempt to mitigate your problem. Then again, if you still want to get pummeled for an hour or so, I might be able to land you an appointment with the guy in the picture above.

Kicking and screaming.

2011-05-13T18:41:00.000-07:00

I come from a long line of music lovers and audio equipment enthusiasts. My father and his brothers were all heavily into music and each of them has some musical talent. Dad plays the harmonica like a champ without the benefit of knowing how to read music (he does it "by ear", as they say); Uncle Larry would grab the mic without much prompting at weddings or big birthday parties and would lovingly warble a standard tune like "Stardust" or "That Old Black Magic". The dance floor would quickly fill. Uncle Joe played the drums, or "traps" as he would call them, in a jazz and standards combo in his spare time; Finally, Uncle Anthony plays the trumpet and can bang out anything from "Round Midnight" to Purcell's "Jubilate Deo" depending upon the mood or event. Me? I have a penchant for percussion, using everything from the dining room table to the dashboard to keep the beat. I also have a good set of LP bongos that gets a workout every so often, but I've never performed in front of an audience larger than a few drunken friends or the family cat.

All of us are (or were) audio equipment enthusiasts. Joe headed up the list with an expensive system that featured McIntosh tubed amps. He was a well-to-do doctor in town but was also quite stingy when it came to family, so I rarely got the chance to experience the sound. Anthony was the last of Noni's sons still living at home when I was a little kid and I remember getting scolded, as usual, for sneaking into his room while he was on a tour of duty in Vietnam. I was fascinated by his college-days portable KLH 'stereo', complete with a turntable that came in its own carrying case. He would eventually trade up to better stuff, but he always had less interest in the equipment than the music. Larry was the ultimate audio 'horse trader'. Nearly every time we visited, which was usually every Sunday, it seemed as if he had a new amp or speakers or performed some minor tweak that he felt vastly improved the sound. His love for the music and the equipment that delivered it to your ears was infectious. To this day, he tinkers with vintage radios and amplifiers. So, you see, the audio bug is in my DNA.

The music industry, which has lost about 31% of its value since 2004, has been through a lot since those heady days when everybody had a good quality stereo in their living room or den. Most of you do the bulk of your music listening on-the-run, either in the car or through your iPods. Nobody except for the audiophile has the time or the interest to critically listen to music these days, and that's a shame. Music is more readily available these days than ever before but the baffling choices of format make for a very confusing marketplace. Download files come in various shades of compression and quality, and believe me, there are significant differences between them.

And that's where the DAC comes in. Any serious music listener worth his or her salt has a good quality digital-to-analog converter, or DAC, in the signal path. These wonderful little items take the information fed to them by your computer, iPod or CD player (CD player? What the hell is that?), process it through filters and chips and other such electronic-scientific hardware and who-knows-what-ware and deliver it to your ears free of digital jitter (don't ask), smudge (please, don't ask) and other unwanted artifacts. What remains approaches the sonic quality of high-resolution compact discs, which for my money still remain the standard. Vinyl purists will bristle at this, but I stand firm.

I have a DAC, and a pretty good one at that, using it exclusively to improve the incredibly shitty sound of the mp3 files, streaming radio and other digital source material that I find myself listening to much more these days than I do my 'physical' media (CD's, that is). I have been reluctantly entering the world of digital media, kicking and screaming you might say, for the last couple of years but I have come to see the writing on the wall: get on the bus before the last bus leaves the station. Non-physical digital media is dominant, in fact, many of the newer artists release material exclusively this way for several months before considering pressing any CD's or vinyl for that fringe market. Anyway, I'm running out of shelf space.

You might consider this yet another of my rants and complaints, but again, read closely. I'm offering hope by finding alternatives that meet my lofty standards. Not content to stick those horrible little earbuds in and press play on the iPod, I have found a way to show proper respect for the good music I listen to and I'm suggesting that some of you do the same. I might be late to join the revolution, but at least I'm locked and loaded. Stay tuned and keep your ears on : )

Sticker shock, part two.

2011-05-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

Any visit to Whole Foods always presents an opportunity to marvel at the outrageous prices now being fetched for items that your mom would pick up at the Food Fair at about one tenth the amount. But nothing prepared me for what I witnessed today.

I was in the mood for pickles, and not your garden-variety Heinz sweet gherkins or Vlasic sours, no, I wanted something special, a real old-fashioned, pickle-barrel, briny-crunchy experience, stupid with garlic and spices and promises of all-night burping. And there it appeared, an oasis in the middle of the cheese department, a display of pickles, jars emblazoned with artisan-chic brown labels, the product name in that lower-case Courier font that usually suggests "small batch" or "slow-cured" or some other such boast that would set these little bastards apart from the crowd. I was intrigued, but, alas, no price listed either on the jars themselves or on the display card. So, I asked the clerk: "$12.99". I said, "Pardon?", and she, incredulously, "$12.99".

That's right, folks, twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents for about six small cucumbers, sliced in half and soaking in a jar of salty brine with some spices and garlic settled at the bottom. Thirteen bones for something that you will be serving with hot dogs, hamburgers and potato salad at your next cookout. Thirteen fucking dollars? I was speechless. I looked closer: they were indeed hand-selected, hand-cut, hand-whatever-the-hell-else in Brooklyn, New York, USA. Okay, I pondered, Brooklyn is about 17 miles due east of Montclair, so it's not as if shipping and handling were a big expense. And, yes, local labor around these parts runs at a considerably higher rate than most other places on earth, but, for Pete's sake, I could never, ever justify dropping the better part of a $20 bill on a single jar of pickles. Hell, I had a hard enough time forking over $2.99 for the 'organic' flat parsley that was already in the cart, headed for checkout.

I think we've reached a new low (or, 'high'?) with this phenomenon. This happened almost eight hours ago and I'm still reeling. I have had a five-mile walk, three client sessions, sat down to dinner and have sifted through e-mail, the bills and I even caught part of the hockey playoffs, yet I'm still disturbed. I almost can't wait until morning when I can have a cup of coffee brewed from our $12.99 per pound "Free Trade Costa Rican Excelsior High Mountain Organic Blend" so I can put this all behind me for good.

New Death Cab for my Death Cab Buddies

2011-05-10T18:20:00.000-07:00

Kismet

2011-05-10T17:35:00.000-07:00

So, we're walking along Pto. Vallarta's main drag, Blvd. Francisco Medina Ascencio, and we happen upon, of all things, a Volkswagen dealership. Not really surprising to me, as my last two VW's, both Jettas, were assembled in Mexico, just another result of President Clinton's NAFTA agreement and the increasingly shrinking universe we live in. But this place was special; they had on hand a number of restored, chopped, "pimped" and otherwise fucked-with Beetles that were out of this world. My favorite, of course, was "Scat", a bygone Bug that was tricked out with fat tires, two-tone leather racing seats and... this over-the-top custom boot-badge. Kismet? I think so.

Can 325,000,000 Buddhists be wrong?

2011-05-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

I often mention the 'Scat to my clients or others I meet at social gatherings, coffeehouse symposiums and tractor pulls. I ask them, nay, urge them to take a look and offer feedback. That feedback often sounds like this: "Oh, you're so angry, some of your posts are so depressing, oh my, tsunamis, unemployment, social decay, complaining about the nice royal couple..." Truth is, I'm actually a fun-seeking kind of guy although I do take my fun very seriously. More than half of the written posts here on TS are not all "gloom-and-doom" in fact they are quite hopeful and upbeat. People actually seek me out and invite me to share company with them because they enjoy hearing my take on things, something I usually deliver with a rapier wit (huh?). I'm a great mate to have at a bar even if I can't keep up like I once did. Kids like to play wiffle ball with me, and usually want me on their team. My clients keep coming back not only because of my skills, but because I smell nice and I often have good hair days. So there.

In spite of all the rollicking good times however I hew to the belief that life is mostly suffering, which also happens to be the first noble truth of Buddhism. Most people that I know are not practicing Buddhists, nor am I, so you can imagine the difficulties I experience when I offer this theory. Most people in fact try their absolute damndest to actually deny the existence of suffering, choosing instead to float through life on a feather-lined cloud of cheerfulness. It works for them on the outside, but I suspect that they suffer in secret.

This post was inspired by the attached excerpt from an article by Therese Bouchard, found on the website Psych Central. The article is entitled "Suffering: The irritant that produces the pearl" and was forwarded by my friend Juney the Great. To all you secret sufferers, read it and weep:

"Writing a commencement speech is like writing your eulogy: You have to nail down in 10 minutes or less a succinct message that represents your entire life. It’s best to capture all the sweat and tears, the laughter and sorrow, life’s drama in a few tight, coherent paragraphs.

Having been asked to give one in May to my alma mater, Saint Mary’s College in Notre Dame, Indiana, I have been studying Commencement addresses of the pros: J.K. Rowling, Anna Quindlen, Oprah Winfrey, and Steve Jobs. And here’s what all of them had in common: suffering.

Yep. The primary theme in each of these essays is that suffering is the rubble on which success is built. I’m sure that you can bypass suffering altogether, but then you’d have a rather boring Commencement speech. I’ve read some of those too.

It’s the First Noble Truth of Buddhism: “Life is suffering.” I’m very comfortable with that. Because I agree with that statement wholeheartedly. However, not everyone does.

In writing my speech I came across some very different philosophies. One friend told me that my early draft was depressing. “This is not going to inspire college kids,” she said. “It’s pretty much saying that life is one hard test after another, but you get lucky every so often with a moment of happiness.”

“Yep,” I said. “That’s accurate, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t,” she responded. “I would say that life is mostly good with an occasional moment of hardship.”

“Wow. Really? What kind of drugs are you taking?”

The Kills - Satellite

2011-04-19T18:24:00.000-07:00

'Atlas Hands' Official Video (HD) - Benjamin Francis Leftwich

2011-04-19T17:42:00.000-07:00

No more Mr. Somewhat Nice Guy

2011-04-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

If you are a regular visitor to the 'Scat and you read the last (mostly positive and upbeat) entry about our spring vacation, you were probably wondering if I was going to return to my typical curmudgeonly ways anytime soon. I am. With this post, in fact. so let's get things started: I just had a great egg-on-bagel sandwich for my late breakfast/early lunch in between client sessions on a busy day. Upon returning to the office, I noticed the latest copy of Newsweek in the waiting area, placed there by one of the other tenants. The cover has a photo of Kate Middleton, our next royal bride, with the headline "Kate the Great". The egg-on-bagel promptly made a partial return trip up my esophagus.

REALLY, NEWSWEEK? KATE THE GREAT? What has this person done to earn a spot on the cover of your increasingly shrinking (in size and quality) publication tagged with such a vaunted and remarkably presumptuous (and desperately premature) title? Just by virtue of having the incredibly good fortune of catching the fancy of the future king of England who, by the way, looks about 10 years older since the announcement of his engagement, this young woman has captivated the attention of the entire world. Hey, I'm not against pageantry and the whole "royals" thing, in fact I consider myself a bit of an Anglophile. I love British rock bands and football teams and I have an unusually special place in my heart for the Cross of St. George. I watched the last big royal wedding and cried at the last two big royal funerals. The English, for the most part, treasure their attachment to the figureheads that are the royal family, an attachment that ranges from the slavish to the reluctant. Even the most jaded, left wing punter in England will be watching this on television, you can bet a few pounds sterling on it.

The headline continues, "In a world gone to hell, thank God, a wedding." Just what we need: another diversion from the real news of the day like the continuing economic crisis, natural disasters and "weather gone wild", epidemic joblessness and social decay, and the list goes on... I don't know where the newly minted royal couple will be spending their honeymoon, but you can bet it won't be in Sendai helping to dig out the corpses from the mud, nor will it be spent on a corner in Hyde Park listening to people's suffering from the loss of a family member's job or the loss of their home and about the increasingly difficult task of putting meat and veggies on the table. Not that I would wish that sort of honeymoon on anyone, but let's face it: with the way things are going these days, it's gonna take a whole lot more than a wedding between the world's two most currently famous people to make us forget about our problems. God save the queen.

In a Mexican Minute

2011-04-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

We have just returned from a two-week swing in Puerto Vallarta, a resort city on Mexico's beautiful Banderas Bay. The place is familiar to many as the setting for the movie "The Night of the Iguana", which dealt with such heavy themes as statutory rape and defrocked priests, and the television series "The Love Boat" where the main character, the cruise ship, made many a call. That show dealt with such heavy themes as the failed love exploits of a sexually naive yeoman purser and the successful conquests of an oversexed yet incredibly nerdy cruise ship doctor. How Bernie Kopell's character scored so much snatch on almost every episode is beyond the imagination, but we might save that discussion for another blog post.

I'm happy to report that Mexico, at least the part I visited, is not populated by mustachioed bandits and drug gang operatives seeking out every visiting gringo as a potential kidnapping target. It is however populated by overly aggressive time share representatives and swarming beachfront vendors selling everything from 30 peso massages to prawns-on-a-stick but they amount to a minor nuisance once you learn how to firmly say "no". And we said "si" every time to the guy who offered fresh tropical fruit in a cup sprinkled with chili, salt and squeezed lime, the perfect snack for a day in the sun. We experienced nothing but warm and inviting people, incredibly perfect weather, great food at every turn and countless opportunities to relax and take a break from the madness. We lazed on beaches and around pools, visited artisan tequila, tortilla and cheese makers in mountain villages, learned about the difficult and painful yet ultimately triumphant history, and we ate and drank like locals, soaking up the scene in the back streets and neighborhoods.

We found Captain Don's, a great dive bar one block from the beach that is an outpost for many of the local downmarket expat Americans and Canadians and a sprinkling of informed locals who know where to go for good company and generous pours. I knew it was my kind of place when I asked about the availability of food and the answer was, "Well, we used to have food but we fired the cook." I guess they never bothered to fill the vacancy, but it didn't matter because you could get a freshly made quesadilla or taco with all the fixins' at the dozen or so stands on the surrounding blocks. Don't accept the advice about avoiding street food. If you see five local cops scarfing down tacos at a stand you know it's gotta be good. Captain Don's also holds the distinction for having the coldest and cheapest beer in all of Vallarta. For the equivalent of $1.30, you get a mind-numbingly cold bottle of Pacifico, all day long, every day. I cannot remember drinking a beer that started out stone cold and ended up the same; I honestly don't know how they do it. One of the denizens offered his theory: "the ice is colder in this bar." It supported my belief that Mexican beer isn't really that good, but I love the beer in Mexico! And not just because it's so cold; it's served with a genuine smile and you drink it surrounded by friendly and honest folks who just want to enjoy life and to 'let it be'.

We snapped photos of the local school's boxing and gymnastic exhibitions in the park across from our condo, took the bus everywhere for a flat rate of 6.5 pesos (about 60 cents US), often finding ourselves the only gringos on board, and I even sampled my first termite. No, termites do not taste like chicken, rather, they taste a lot like wood. Hell, I've had chicken that tasted a lot like wood so, I figured, what's the harm? I drank the water... from the tap. That's right, another myth dispelled. The water in Vallarta is probably safer than the water in Jersey City, so go ahead and drink up.

All in all, it was a great visit. Bear in mind, we were there at the end of the busy season and before Holy Week (or, "Semana Santa") when, we were told, well-heeled Mexicans visit the resorts and proceed to treat their less fortunate Mexican brethren like shit. Our condo-hotel was running at about half capacity for the first week and at 30% for the second, so it was blissfully quiet, checking out took all of 7 minutes and they had plenty of guacamole at the buffet table. And while we're on the subject, let me offer you a tidbit about guacamole, courtesy of Juan Carlos Lemos, arguably Vallarta's most passionate tour guide: early Aztec settlers thought the shape of an avocado resembled that of a testicle, so they named it accordingly. And, since the word "mole" means "sauce", the historical, literal translation is "sauce from the testicles". Belly up and break out the tortilla chips!

Another observation: many locals are self-deprecating to a fault. The staff at the hotel repeatedly poked fun at cliched references to their habits and behavior (like the one about things taking forever to get accomplished, thus: "in a Mexican minute"). The guy at the hat store directed me to the mirror, what he called "Mexican television". It's all in good fun but it can lead to a perpetuation of false perceptions, something that the tourist industry is fighting to prevent. If you get diarrhea in Vallarta, it's probably because your East Coast digestive system isn't accustomed to processing a meal made with ingredients that didn't spend two weeks in a refrigerated warehouse. And, if you're on vacation and you expect things to happen at the same reckless pace that is maintained at your home and work, you should spend your next vacation in the backyard where you have unchallenged access to a bathroom, a refrigerator and a dresser full of clean shirts. But if you prefer spending your holiday with the option of doing nothing but working on getting a savage suntan or everything from scaling the jungle canopy on a zip line to eating termites with a tour guide at the botanical gardens, go to Vallarta. And don't forget to drink the water.

Manchester masterpiece

2011-04-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

The Stone Roses: She Bangs the Drums, from the 1989 self-titled debut album. The lads managed to create, in one masterstroke, the seminal album from the late '80's/early '90's Manchester scene. Legal hassles, creative disagreements and other difficulties led to an inferior follow up in 1994 and eventual split, but rock & roll would have it no other way. Enjoy :)

The grass is just as brown...

2011-04-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

In difficult times when people of all walks of life are meeting with challenges at every turn, it's normal to look over the fence, down the street or across town to see how everyone else is doing. I've got news for you: they're not doing much better than you are. If you really want to feel better about your own sorry situation, take a look to the east about 7,000 miles or so and check in on the people of northeast Japan (I still can't get over the devastation, damage, chaos and suffering; it haunts my dreams). Still think things are bad?

I'm not a big fan of comparing lives, incomes, experiences and circumstances to 'take stock' in one's own life but since no man or woman is an island, the exercise is inevitable. A client and I were discussing the housing market and how Americans have collectively lost something in the neighborhood of $6 trillion in home value since 2007 and how maybe home ownership, once a difficult but achievable goal for many, is now a distant pipe dream. She mentioned visiting friends who have recently "upgraded" from a small rental apartment to a nicely sized home, and I expected her reaction to be one of envy as she described the winding driveway, the pruned shrubbery and the expensive doormat. She then described how both her hosts proceeded to get shit-faced drunk within an hour or so of the visit, and she thinks it might be a coping mechanism to help them deal with their newly acquired money pit. Meantime, she and her husband and two small children are able to pay the rent, lock the door behind them and go to Europe every summer for an extended stay with family and friends. Maybe those people are perfectly okay with their new situation even though it might take a toll on their livers. Maybe they have acquired a huge amount of stress along with their mortgage but are willing to sacrifice, tough it out and suck it up to make it all happen.

A home-owning friend of mine complained last summer that the family was faced with the choice of either replacing the old, rotted and virtually inoperable sliding door or go on vacation for two weeks; either way it was a $3,500 commitment. They went for the door, figuring that it might give them more lasting pleasure than two weeks in some overpriced rental on LBI. We went on a two-week holiday to the French wine country last summer with our nephew and his new bride and not a day goes by that I don't think about that trip. My friend (hopefully!) is getting lasting satisfaction and peace of mind from her new sliding door, but I'm getting the same thing from memories.

You see, it's all a matter of degrees, how much we are willing to push ourselves to get something, and willing to push even further to keep it. The problem these days is with distribution; the balance of economic power has never been more unequal as we continue to struggle with job losses, unemployment, under-employment, meager returns on savings and that aforementioned drop in home value. If things were really fair and the world was just, we all could afford both the sliding door and the 'vacance a la France'. The Zeitgeist Movement folks are all over this, of course, and they place the blame squarely on a "value system disorder" (there I go again!). If you're not in the money sequence, you're not in the game. Or you need to find another game. My advice is to take a look at your own life, 'take stock' if you wish. How's your health? Your children's health? Your relationship(s)? Car in pretty good shape? Closet full of nice clothes? Fridge have food in it? Still got most of your hair? You might not be able to answer positively to all of these, but neither will your neighbor.

Your own personal tsunami

2011-03-16T18:03:00.000-07:00

I've been getting some great feedback from the seven folks who have the courage to visit Tiger Scat and who actually read and offer commentary on the posts. Let's face it, much of what you find here is not comfort food. You would think I believe the world is totally absurd (it is) and that most people, although privately concerned, anxious and full of fear about the future, would rather not think about it (they would rather not). I have never been bashful about expressing my opinions, sharing my feelings or offering painful information, and the 'Scat is a great way to do all of this.

I am not by definition a 'negative Nellie' but it would certainly seem that way if you connect the concept of me with what I write, which is basically how I feel, not necessarily who I am. In traditional Eastern thought, "emotional identity" lies within our second Chakra, and we become defined (or rather pigeonholed) by it. Eastern thinkers would rather you say, "I am not angry, but I have anger. I am not sad; I have sadness" so as not to confuse your emotional identity with your true self. You should probably keep this concept in mind when reading these posts. One of my goals here is to find some sort of earthbound homeostasis, something that is in extremely short supply as we experience our own personal tsunamis.

Identifying what's wrong is an essential element, but if you look hard enough to find the beauty, you will see that I also identify what's right. Like I've said a bazillion times, social awareness and change does not come from "happy", it comes from "angry", but only if you consider anger to be a form of energy and not a force for destruction. ...While we're at it, let me tell you about something that I found to be so jaw-droppingly right with the world that it created one of those luminous moments of hope that I experience so rarely. One of the news networks ran some video the other evening from a store in northeastern Japan that found itself suddenly al fresco from having the front glass apparently blown out by the earthquake. Amidst all this extreme destruction, wreckage and confusion, the staff were quietly, mindfully handing out goods through the gaping hole of the storefront to a throng of people who were calmly queuing up, patiently waiting their turn, not panicking, not pressing and pushing up against one another. Some of them even managed to offer the slightest hint of a smile once they received whatever items were available.

I thought that this must be some sort of "epi-genetic influence", where in some of these people could have been descendents of survivors of World War II, maybe even survivors of the A-bombs, and they have somehow become biologically re-programmed to remain in a certain state of peaceful reserve when faced with such a disastrous and potentially violent situation. I then recalled reading an article on The Daily Telegraph's website (I know, I know, I'm obsessed with the UK press) that highlighted the curious lack of looting throughout the entire disaster zone. Now, if Chris Rock were to get a hold of these stories, he would have been ranting, "Nigger always taking credit for shit he's supposed to be doing", in that people aren't supposed to be taking stuff that doesn't belong to them nor should they be beating each other up to grab stuff being handed out at a store and maybe we should not be astounded by this news, yet I am. Utterly astounded, in fact, but it helped to slow down the effects of my own personal tsunami, albeit briefly, and opened up a space in my heart for the rest of us.

Of tsunamis and cutting the rug

2011-03-14T17:21:00.000-07:00

It is Sunday, March 13th and the day is starting with a flood of mixed feelings. The Japan earthquake and tsunami disaster is dominating my thoughts and I'm feeling a great deal of despair, yet we decided to go dancing for five hours at a house party last night. In hindsight, it seemed like an awfully indulgent thing to do, but we've all had it "up to here" with this bear of a winter and letting out some steam by cutting the rug felt goddamn good. I slept unusually well for a night heading into daylight savings, which could only mean one thing: I shall sleep like shit tonight. The images of the devastation in Japan are impossibly disturbing and, of course, they have me thinking that this was much more than a really bad storm; no, I think Mother Earth is very, very angry. "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned", indeed. If an economist were asked to weigh in on the tsunami, he would call it a natural "correction" just like recessions and other man-made, needless interruptions to the well being of our pocketbooks and bank accounts. He would say that we need the occasional disaster to clean out the dead wood, shake things out and rebuild. I think disasters are not coincidental; they are the result of accumulated insensitivity and abuse. They serve to remind us that we need to take stock of our environment and our responsibility to protecting it. Once we do that, we can all go dancing without suffering any mixed feelings the next day.

The wave of the future?

2011-03-11T08:11:00.000-08:00

I have been spending a fair amount of my spare time watching and studying the film "Zeitgeist: Moving Forward", a production of something known as The Zeitgeist Movement (TZM), itself an offshoot of The Venus Project, a utopian vision of the industrial designer Jacque Fresco. TZM is fiercely anti-capitalist in that it believes most of the ills of humanity were borne from unchecked corporate and government greed and profiteering and from the violation of many of the laws of nature. The folks at TZM aim to introduce what they call a "Resource Based Economy" in that we can become sustainable by utilizing the earth and its resources mindfully and sparingly, working together with nature to provide abundance to every human being on earth. Their plan is supported by research carried out by a number of scientists, psychologists and social architects, citing studies of infant and child development, violence in society, oil production and consumption and population growth. I think they are onto something, and that's why I'm devoting some of my energy to understanding their project. The film highlights a number of important sociological and psychological concepts and theories and my intention is to present these to you in subsequent Tiger Scat posts and to provide description and interpretation. You must know this: I have not bought into the entire TZM "dream-vision" and trying hard to temper my enthusiasm. Their work fascinates me however and since much of what I've already learned about it seems to be directly in line with my personal worldview, my ears and eyes are wide open.

Why art is so important

2011-03-10T10:05:00.000-08:00

Mark Rothko is arguably my 'favorite' artist. I don't possess an exhaustive knowledge of his life or his works nor do I wish to. I just know I like most of what he's done... okay, I'll say it: his paintings 'move' me.

Many folks will look at the painting above, which is officially titled "Untitled" but is most commonly referred to as "Orange and Yellow 1956", and pass it off merely as fields of color. That response would probably meet with some approval from the artist; Rothko was very much in touch with the similarities between great art and the naive drawings and scratchings of children and color, as we all know, is the primary element in children's art. Color was certainly at the front and center of his works, but for me, the abstraction is more effective if you take the time to interpret the meaning behind the colors.

I see this work and many of his others as landscape paintings. "Orange and Yellow 1956" suggests a bright sun, a horizon and the super-heated earth below. It is made more accessible or 'comfortable' by the soft edges around and between the colors as if the artist wanted us to imagine some other possibility without confining us to defined borders. Some others see a human form, an upper and lower torso. You see, this is part of why art is so important: few other means of expression allow for such creative discussion and interpretation by those who view it, making them a integral part of the work itself.

We have some sculptures from our good friend, the artist Larry McLaughlin, on loan in our studio (more on Larry in an upcoming post) and they have met with commentary ranging from "They are so wonderful" to "They are the most grotesque things I've ever seen". That's what you expect, in fact, that is what you want when it comes to art: well-intentioned, honest disagreement that leads to discussions supporting or defending all positions. I will be posting more Rothko throughout the life of Tiger Scat, and I hope you enjoy taking a peek... and I welcome your opinions.

Hear ye, hear ye.

2011-03-09T16:27:00.000-08:00

I was doing the ol' chit-chat yesterday with the girl at the supermarket checkout. She is a recent college graduate who can't seem to find a job in her field of study. She had worked here for the longest time, disappearing for a while and then resurfacing a few weeks ago. I assumed she was searching for a 'real' job, and, failing to land one, made her less-than-triumphant return to the checkout counter.

You should know that I have a particular respect for the working class, now that I've been a card-carrying member (in the form of a state license for therapeutic massage) for the last seven years. The way I see it, this girl is providing a much-needed service. Her job represents a vital link between my nutritional intake and me and she performs it with a smile. I doubt any position she attempted to land in some office setting would be as important as the one she now occupies. I had earlier that day worked on a client who informed me that the New York Times recently ran an item about the conditions that recent college graduates find themselves in, and it's not pretty.

I decided to share the bleak outlook with her. I do not have the actual quoted statistics, but you will get the idea: something like 45% of recent graduates are unemployed. Those that are employed are averaging salaries in the $35,000 range and thirty percent of these kids are living at home or with a close relative. A fellow on the checkout line behind me decided to join the conversation by offering that he "didn't want to hear any of this". As I gathered up my purchase and walked away, he thanked me, mockingly but good-naturedly, for "brightening up his day".

I noticed a newspaper poking out of his briefcase as I turned to say goodbye, and I thought to myself that he probably avoids reading such bad news lest it offer a glimpse into his own near future as he struggles to pay off a $120,000 college loan, passing his recently-graduated son asleep on the couch every morning while heading off for his long commute. If I were a parent of a kid in high school or college, I would actually seek this kind of information, but I can certainly understand why most would rather turn to the sports section. We don't want to be reminded of any bad decisions we might have made or of our slavish participation in a system that is simply not working anymore. It's becoming clear: supply is far outweighing demand. At some point, a crisis will happen, but I think we have already arrived at that point. Avoiding the news is not going to make it disappear. Now, who won the game last night?

Paul Weller: Brand New Start

2011-03-08T05:13:00.000-08:00

I wanted to share another pure gem from the Modfather himself, Paul Weller. In keeping with the spirit of the upcoming spring season, this one, "Brand New Start" fits right in. "I'm gonna clear out my head, I'm gonna get myself straight, I know it's never too late to make a brand new start." Paul sings it like someone who has tried and failed to accomplish all of this yet the song remains bright and hopeful (much like "Standing out in the Universe"). I love the metaphor of "I'm gonna fix up the yard and not fall back again" as if fallen leaves and branches are like our old, tired and useless thoughts and behaviors that need to be discarded to 'make room' for a fresh outlook on life. We turn the clocks forward this weekend, my fellow 'Scatters, so Lady Spring can't be far behind. Let's "clear up our earth and make a heaven on the ground..."

Paul Weller: Standing out in the Universe

2011-03-07T17:15:00.000-08:00

I don't normally reproduce the lyrics to the music selections I post here on the 'Scat, but these are so undeniably powerful that I could not resist. I invite you to sing along with one of my personal musical saviors, the hippest, moddest dude ever, Paul Weller in this joyful song, full of hope and promise.

Standing out in the universe

on every life in store

hope is where you lift your head

written in the dawn

Sending out like an SOS

and everyone agree

now's the time to change your mind

it's the time to change your mind for free

Standing out in the universe

for every new star born

God speed the light you make

and shine down on us all

Sending out to the universe

that hope is on it's way

now's the time to open eyes

and realize that we are all parts to play

Now the world's at a place

people torn and disgraced

there's no time - there's no time - like today

To feel the wings of change

Let it shine on us all

Now the worlds at a stage

born of war, raised in rage

so little time - little time

like today

To feel the winds of change -

Standing out in the universe

for every new star born

God speed the light you make

Let it shine down on us all

Sending out like an SOS

let everyone agree

now's the time to change your mind

now's the time to change your mind for free

Standing out in the universe

Standing out in the universe...

I'm baaaaack....

2011-03-06T06:43:00.001-08:00

Hey there, fellow Tiger Scatters, with this post I announce my return to form. Yes, I had a temporary lapse of judgment with some positive thinking and a walk down memory lane but let's face it, that's just not me. Be warned however that I've let myself ramble a bit, so you will need to have your compass at hand to get through it. And lest you get any idea that the image above has me in a jovial mood, think again. Just like ol' Aristotle, I'm thinking, "What's it all for, Homer?"

This all started a few nights ago when the missus and I decided to pay a visit to our local Target to pick up a few items for an upcoming trip. (I don't know if any of you have noticed, but Target has gone seriously downhill in the last year or so. I don't do too much shopping, so maybe the change was more gradual, but the last time I was in Target, the departments were well-stocked and maintained, the restroom was moderately clean and I could usually find what I needed without too much effort; now the place is an absolute shithole. "Tar-zhay" no longer.) The anxiety settled in immediately as I observed hundreds of shoppers, their carts overflowing with clothing, grocery items, pillows, baby supplies and two women hauling gargantuan sleeves of Bounty and Charmin. That last item had me thinking about all the bowel movements that were going to be happening in that household; honestly, who needs to have 24 rolls of toilet paper on hand unless you happen to live in Versailles?

In the middle of all this, I noticed a man on line with exactly one item: a box of Mallomars. I wondered if he made a special trip all the way to Target to satisfy a craving. Or, did he do all his shopping earlier only to discover that he forgot one crucial item? This is crazy, I thought, and why doesn't he buy three or four boxes just so he has them on hand? I wanted to ask him, but of course that would have made me the crazy one.

It required two or three trips to the fitting room to settle on a pair of swim trunks to replace the ones I've been using for the last three or four summers, and I am generally satisfied with my purchase but my sleep that night was haunted by the unbridled consumerism that defines our culture of acquisition. Hell, did I really need to replace the swim trunks? My old pair had a bleach spot or two and some pilling was happening on the rear end, but they still had another summer in them. I had comfort in the fact that, well, at least someone else will get some use out of them as I deposited them in the Red Cross clothing box. And few things can make you feel as good as a new pair of swim trunks, with all their promise of sunny days lounging around on the beach and splashing about with the kids at the neighborhood pool. They will also one day become part of the cycle, as they acquire their own bleach spots and rear-end pills and then end up in the donation box and then on some garbage scow floating out to sea.

So, what about the art that I have defaced, what's the point, big fella? (special thanks to Gerald Meccia, photo manipulator extraordinaire) It would help to know the genesis of the original painting, "Aristotle with a bust of Homer" by Rembrandt, probably the most masterly of the Dutch masters. It was commissioned by some well-heeled Sicilian nobleman who wanted a painting, any painting, and left it up to Rembrandt to deliver the goods. So this is what he got: a great philosopher 'contemplating' a statue of a great poet. If you ask me, he looks rather bored, detached, even tired. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, and rather uncomfortable in his gold bathrobe with some bling carelessly slung across his torso, an afterthought prop. It's entirely posed, that is, unnatural and forced. Even substituting Homer Simpson failed to get a reaction out of him!

I look at this as a metaphor for our condition. Here's a man who was arguably our greatest philosopher paired with the author of our greatest epic poems, and captured on oil and canvas by one of our greatest painters, but any mystique and power it might hold is entirely lost on me. Aristotle has been reduced to a studio artist's model and he appears as if he would rather be catching forty winks instead. So, I ask you to contemplate your own existence, your own life and come up with a few answers to the big question, "What's it all for, Homer?" I bet you will have more trouble with it than you think.

Flights that are Fancy

2011-03-03T10:59:00.000-08:00

With spring just around the corner (see post below, keeping it positive folks, take advantage of it while I'm in a good mood), and summer not far behind from that, our thoughts turn to travel. We try to get away a couple of times every year, and we've had some incredible journeys over the last several years. The indignity of traveling by air is well documented; every one you meet has at least half a dozen tales of a canceled flight, of being stranded on a tarmac for three hours, seat assignment screw-ups, vomiting toddlers.

It's too bad most of you have never experienced Concorde. I had the good fortune to do so before these beautiful birds were grounded for good in 2003. You see, I once was in the employ of a very eccentric spendthrift who was, at the time, on his fifth or sixth passport book. It was his dream to fly Concorde and he invited me along for the ride. Our flight was about six months after the planes were back in service following the Air France crash and about three months after 9/11. As if the average person doesn't suffer enough anxiety when boarding an airplane, we had all of this to contend with. The experience was not as 'mind blowing' as you might imagine, it was more subtly dramatic. First off, the interior of the cockpit is not very comfortable, which doesn't matter much because only the most jaded of global trekkers would dare sleep on Concorde. This is due to the narrow profile of the aircraft, still considered the pinnacle of aerodynamic engineering.

No, you don't do too much relaxing on Concorde, spending most of your time picking up your jaw from the fuselage floor as you feel the gentle thud in your chest when the captain switches on the afterburners and the cabin monitors announce the speed of the aircraft; when we reach Mach 2 (which, btw, is about 1,300 miles per hour) you know you're part of something pretty special. They tell you at several points to look out the windows to see the curvature of the earth and for the occasional 747 flying below us. You see, no other commercial plane could climb to 60,000 feet without exploding in midair.

The experience starts well before you even board the plane; JFK and Heathrow both had separate terminals specifically built for Concorde with exclusive lounges serving top-shelf booze and gourmet snacks (Was that Charlie Watts in the corner with some of his entourage? I think so!). Check-in was like the front desk at the Ritz-Carlton. Well-mannered and well-trained staff coddled you and your luggage with a degree of professionalism and courtesy that was oddly unsettling.

I remember we were running a bit late for take-off, but as we taxied to our designated runway, we were informed by the flight crew that it was mandatory practice for all waiting aircraft to yield to Concorde as she elegantly made her way to the apron. I will never forget the sight of wheeling in front of an endless line of planes, given right of way as if the Queen Mother herself were on board. The return flight from Heathrow (appropriately named "BA Flight Number 1") was notable for one reason: we departed at 10:00AM London time and arrived at 9:30AM New York time on the same day. That's right: you arrived before you left.

They also gave you a load of s.w.a.g. befitting your $12,000 round trip ticket fare. Leather daily journal, sterling silver pen, premium luggage tags (one of which I still have knotted to a piece of luggage so I can impress all those sorry non-Concorde-experienced travelers with me at the carousel). They also had private concierges at Heathrow ready to cater to your every whim once you landed, making certain that your trip to the motherland would meet with no needless inconveniences. My distant memory of Concorde is cold comfort whenever we travel "like everyone else"; no supersonic speeds, no leather journal, no first-growth Bordeaux, lobster brioche, caviar on toast points, Belgian chocolate mousse, and no rock stars. All I have left is a luggage tag and a dog-eared boarding pass receipt, but they serve as reminders of an unforgettable experience. Wish you were there.

The power of positive thinking

2011-03-03T04:51:00.000-08:00

For those of you who know me, I can be somewhat 'serious'. One run-through on Tiger Scat will have some of you thinking I'm reaching for the single-edged Wilkinson's to put me out of my misery; some folks just are too timid for my particular brand of rant-rave so, with all this chitchat about spring on the horizon, I thought I would join in. Officially, spring is 18 days away, but as we all know, late March into mid-April is usually nothing but chilly, overcast, soggy... oops, sorry, "think positive, think positive". I was thinking about posting a link to the History Channel's "This day in History", but all I noticed was the bombing of the Ho Chi Minh trail in 1965, the crash of an airliner in 1974 and all the other bad stuff that happened, and that would have me back on the stump again, so instead, I offer the above image from Weissner Woods in the untouched wilds of Stowe and I welcome the upcoming spring season with open arms and open heart.

A touch of class

2011-03-02T19:50:00.000-08:00

Bryan Ferry, the ultimate "gentleman of rock & roll". I don't think he's ever been captured on film or print looking anything less than fabulous. "Yes, the picture's changing every moment. And your destination, you don't know it." Enjoy this touch of class and elegance for a late-winter's Wednesday evening. And make sure the Prosecco is chilled.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

2011-03-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

I think I was well into my 30's before I realized why those god-awful daytime programs my Aunt Millie would watch were called "soap" operas. When I was in college (which was a big mistake in itself but more on that in another entry), General Hospital was all the rage. Dorms would hold viewing parties, co-eds were cutting classes and everyone would refer to "Luke" and "Laura" as if they were close friends and confidantes.

So when I discovered that Proctor & Gamble owned some of these productions, I discovered a deep truth about the culture of consuming: that its one big, very, very big machine that wants you to do one thing, and that is to consume. We do it very well in this country. I'm a victim myself; I like buying new shit just as much as the next guy, but I know my limits. Most people don't. They adhere to the rule, "Lather, rinse, repeat". Just in case you didn't know it, when you apply shampoo to your hair, you're damaging it. That's right. We really don't need to wash our hair with anything but fresh water. The natural oils are there for a reason. If you get a little itchy, just rub in a little eucalyptus oil and wait it out. But the folks at P&G don't agree. They are in the shampoo business (and the soap business, and diapers, razors, batteries, and all the other things that we positively, absolutely cannot live without) and they are very big and have lots of shareholders and employees and they need to sell as much Pantene as humanly possible. To do that, they want us to use more of it than needed. Public relations firms make sure that we do just that by producing misleading advertising and other propaganda to support the theory. I'm not calling for a boycott on personal hygiene; hey, I'm a massage therapist, it is imperative that I smell and look good for my clients. Plus, I'm a vain son of a bitch, so I wouldn't have it any other way. But, I can tell you this: I lather, I rinse. I'll wait until tomorrow to repeat.

Mogwai - How to Be a Werewolf (in Thirty Century Man)

2011-02-28T18:37:00.000-08:00

RPA and the United Nations Of Sound - Are You Ready

2011-02-28T18:04:00.000-08:00

2011-02-28T08:57:00.000-08:00

I am reluctant to admit that I was one of the (claimed) one billion people who tuned into the latest version of the big Hollywood back-slap bacchanal last night. I limited my face time to exactly one hour; a half hour of red-carpet and a half-hour of the actual broadcast. I don't watch a lot of television, and I spend about $20 a year on movies; I prefer my entertainment to be of the more 'interactive' variety, so I might be inadequately prepared to comment on the Oscars, a forum that celebrates the worship of what is mostly a collective of very regular people who have irregularly good luck and not much else.

The red carpet moments illustrate this quite vividly; every celebrity interview that I caught (save for the one with Robert Downey, Jr. who was natural, relaxed, honest) was an awkward exchange of empty platitudes, plugs for yet more movies (honestly, Matthew McConaughy needs to take a cue from his jawline and disappear forever) and visions of starlets tripping on their D&G's (Did you catch Scarlett Johansson? She would have looked more comfortable with crutches). Hollywood does not do impromptu very well. The industry is built on illusion, fantasy and dreams. Simply put, these people require scripts.

The opening of the show held even less promise for what was to come. Our young hosts were painfully mismatched and the whole "aww shucks" gig with moms and grandmothers in the audience was something straight from the Planet Cornball. And Melissa Leo needs to consult her Letitia Baldridge: curtsying to Kirk Douglas was more than entirely inappropriate, it was downright offensive. I know big Hollywood legends are the closest we can get to actual royalty in this country (now that all the Kennedy's really are dead), but, get real honey. The guy made movies for a living, and some really bad ones at that; a double-cheeked air kiss and a hug would have been more fitting. Save the other stuff for dukes and future kings. For me, it was the ultimate "WTF moment", and I'm glad it occurred within my strictly-imposed viewing window... All in all, it was the best 30 minutes of television I've seen all year!

Rainbow Arabia - Without You

2011-02-24T19:09:00.000-08:00

All things must pass, part one or two.

2011-02-24T18:22:00.000-08:00

There are two types of people in the world: those who feel and those who do not feel. That's it, plain and simple. Some people feel too little, some too much. Both of these types of people are 'feelers', but of course, the ones who feel too little will matter little in this discussion. They feel 'just enough', and then they bail. Those folks can be talked into, persuaded, even coerced, into feeling a lot, but when they get a taste of it and see how outrageously incredible it can be, it scares them. Then the inevitable happens; things get difficult and begin to fall apart, and they seek comfort in the safety of their policy of "feeling just enough": they say, "see, I told you, I felt and I felt and I felt, and now things got messed up and it's just another annoyance added to my busy life." So, for argument's sake, let's just put that sorry lot into the category of "those who do not feel". For those of us remaining who actually "feel", life is not easy. I happened to walk past a gift shop on the avenue just the other day, a day like most others in the dismal month of February, grey, bone-chillingly cold, dirty and slushy underfoot, and noticed a rack placed on the sidewalk with scarves hanging on it, priced at $14 each. This rack has been placed on the same spot for many weeks, and I wonder if the shopkeeper has actually sold any of these sad little items. Then my mind starts to drift to the effect that the elements might be having on these scarves, the wind, the occasional sun, the splashing about of pedestrians. Feeling too much, you say? Wait, there's more... I eventually settle on a disturbing vision of underpaid immigrant hands laboring at the controls of unsafe weaving machinery somewhere in Macau or Vietnam and I think about the children of these unfortunate souls, impatiently waiting at home for the return of their mothers to cook them rice and fish broth. The way I see it, I'm just making a connection. No, I'm not angling for some quasi-liberal argument of unfair labor practice in developing nations; we've been through that already. The global economy is too big a bear to invite to a wrestling match and I don't have nearly enough information to put up a worthy challenge. I'm just feeling the journey of that inanimate object, a scarf, something meant to be stylishly knotted around a neck, draped elegantly across shoulders, a simple adornment to one's outfit for a day out in town. I'm feeling it way too much, you might say. It eventually passes, as does everything given time and space, this overwhelming angst about something so inconsequential as a scarf. I feel this way wherever I am, in nearly every situation. When hiking a mountain in Vermont, I can feel the difficult history of the earth beneath me, and the seasons that have passed through every rock and frond of fern. It sounds dramatic, but it really isn't. It's just 'feeling'. It's what I do.

George Harrison - All Things Must Pass (Music Video)

2011-02-24T18:12:00.000-08:00

Perfection connection

2011-02-24T17:18:00.001-08:00

One of my all-time favorite songs is "What Have I done to Deserve This?" from The Pet Shop Boys, a duo from the 1980's new wave scene that many people tend to dismiss as purveyors of vacuous dance-floor fluff, but they actually made some very good music with some smart and often witty lyrics. The real star on this song is Dusty Springfield who delivers one of the most amazing vocal performances in the history of popular music. The Boys invited the legendary Springfield to feature on this song, which had been written years prior to the actual recording's release. Will Tennant was (is?) a big fan of Dusty and wanted badly to record with her earlier, but her management bristled at the suggestion. Then the Boys hit it big with their debut album in the states, "Please". With Dusty's career going nowhere, and the chance for renewal with an entirely different audience of record buyers, the arrangement was agreed to. Rumor (or is it legend?) has it that she demanded perfection from her vocals during the sessions, so much so that every note was scrutinized until the mix was just right. If you listen to this, and I mean really listen to it, every note is perfect. "How am I gonna get through?" is the key line, to the song's meaning and to Dusty's incredible range. It builds throughout, the dialogue between broken lovers both wondering how they will survive the end of this relationship, but Dusty gets the last word by repeating the line over and over, finally speeding it up and screeching it one time, but so elegantly, ending with "Right?". She even steps it up with, "We don't need to go to hell and back every night", but we are still left hoping that she will "get through". Perfection.

Pet Shop Boys - What Have I Done To Deserve This

2011-02-24T17:18:00.000-08:00

the Smartest Monkeys

2011-02-22T19:59:00.000-08:00

The earliest birds

2011-02-18T16:08:00.000-08:00

The temperature reached into the low 60's around these parts today, which happens almost every February for at least a couple of days. The sun was strong and warm, the air was fresh and nature seemed poised to free itself from the tight grip of a long, hard winter. It is a hopeful sign, especially considering the weather we have all been forced to endure. The mercury will almost certainly drop like a stone again before we can really say "Bub-bye" to the cruelest of seasons, but the first signs of impending spring are already peeking through, the most promising of which is the presence of the earliest birds. I stood transfixed yesterday as three or four restless sparrows flitted about on the bare limbs of a pin oak tree outside of our studio. They seemed uncomfortable, confused almost, anxiously hopping from surface to surface, singing to each other in anticipation of the grubs, worms, and berries that they know every spring offers in abundance. For them, and us, spring is our reward for the hardships of winter, and on days like today, hope for new life and new beginnings is renewed.

Nightwatch by Acrylics

2011-02-16T17:59:00.000-08:00

R.E.M. - Uberlin [Official Lyrics]

2011-02-15T17:16:00.000-08:00

Tennis, anyone?

2011-02-13T17:41:00.000-08:00

I have a special relationship with tennis, and by "special", I mean "different" or even "strange", especially in comparison to other folks who play the game regularly. I don't even really "play" the game by strict definition. Confused yet? Let me explain...

I first picked up a tennis racket in 1973 or '74 during the great tennis craze that swept the USA. The game had entered what is commonly referred to as 'the open era', transforming the game from it's roots as a rich man's game played on grass while wearing white cotton trousers and sending it into neighborhoods across the land. The pro game was stocked full with young talented and brash players, long haired Swedes and Romanians, genuine woman's libbers, and even a transsexual thrown in for good measure (Remember Renee Richards?). Tennis in this country was the number one growth sport; I have difficult memories of waiting up to three hours for public court time. My short-tempered and impatient father would end up making friends with the manager of the court complex, even slipping him some greenbacks to move us up on the list. I continued to play, competitively and casually, taking a brief hiatus now and again, abandoning it for about seven years when mountain biking was my obsession.

Four years ago, I was inspired by a client (who has also become a friend) to revisit the game, and now I'm out there every chance I get. But, and here comes the part that needs explaining, I don't like to play competitively. That's right, I would rather hit forehands, backhands, overheads, you name it, in endless rallies that "don't count". I have been called 'the human ball machine', and fortunately I have found at least two hitting partners who are in total sync with this approach. You see, in my view, once you make something you love to do competitive, it adds too much pressure. I once was quite competitive, in fact, winning really mattered to me. I recall one particular outing with some younger guys who were not taking things seriously enough for me. One of the fellows reminded me that we were just trying to have fun, to which I snorted, "I didn't come here to have fun, I came here to play tennis!" How distorted is that?

I know some players who open a fresh can of balls with every new match and who have their racquets restrung every couple of weeks. No, my priority now is to get in a great workout without the stress of having to make sure the ball lands inside the line every time. We both leave the court with our clothing soaked through with sweat, our energy restored and without the lingering memory of any disputed calls.

Vampire Juice

2011-02-09T19:30:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about juicing. This is one of those items that will raise the collective eyebrow of that group of my friends that has no use whatsoever for the pursuit of robust health through nutrition, those who eat the odd piece of raw fruit on a Thursday or think that ordering a "California" burger is the healthy option because it comes with some iceberg lettuce and a slice or two of hothouse tomato. Pity on these sorry folks, for they know not the simple pleasure of the entire process of juicing. You take a fistful of nature's bounty: four or five crisp carrots, a stalk or two of celery, a sliced-up beet, six or so quarter slices of red delicious apple, force feed them through the gaping maw of the juicer, like some undersized tree limp chipper, watch the spout as it delivers forth the nectar of the earth into a gleaming stainless steel container, the foam rising to the top, take a deep long inhale, and drink it in.

White Stripes - Death Letter (Son House Cover live)

2011-02-09T11:19:00.000-08:00

The Zen of Snow Removal: Let it melt.

2011-02-07T17:48:00.000-08:00

There's been a lot of grumbling about the weather this winter. Much of this has been directed toward the inefficiency of (insert the name of your town here)'s ability to deal with the snow, ice, slush and any combination thereof. I don't know where you live, but if it's anywhere in suburban New Jersey, you have been spending much of your time over the last couple of weeks fording streams of dirty, slushy water, climbing over hills of accumulated precipitation with all the aplomb of a drunken mountaineer, and yielding your right of way to oncoming traffic squeezing through a gauntlet of parked vehicles and other obstacles like the balls in some oversize Pachinko machine. Why should we be suffering such injustices, you might ask, in towns that have been steadily raising taxes while cutting back on services? That is a discussion (and a very heated one) that will need to wait for another post. In the meantime, let's talk about the olden days, I'm talking way back, America in the mid to late 19th century. I'm no history expert, although I do consider myself an amateur nostalgic, so I'm allowing myself some poetic license, some room to speculate on how things might have been. Let's get one thing straight: the snow plow was not in widespread use in this country until we really got down to the business of building roads. The first plows were made out of wood (and I know this to be true because I looked it up on Wiki), and they even used horses to provide the pulling power. But when you think about it, plowing snow simply to get it 'out of the way' just places it in the way of something else, which in our case includes sidewalks, parking meters, driveways, parked cars, garbage cans. Here's my solution: next time we get a big ol' snowstorm, say, anything more than 8" of heavy, moisture laden snow, the real shit, I say we all just stay put. Stay inside, call your boss, your clients, your friends, your pastor, and just stay the fuck inside your house. This was something that wasn't even a choice way back in those days. The snow was piling up against the friggin' windows on your little shack on the prairie or in some mountain hamlet in the Ozarks and you had no choice but to shut up, light a big ol' fire and wait. But, it was going to be alright because you didn't have to clear your driveway to get your Lexus out to blaze a trail to Whole Foods to stock up on free range chicken and organic kale. Why? Because back in dem days, folks put food by (there, now you know why I posted a photo of vintage Mason jars!). They stored it under the house, sometimes under layers of dirt, stone and other earthen goodness to keep it cool and protected from heat and varmints; they had tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, peppers, onions. They had other storage areas for the root veggies: potatoes, carrots, turnips. They salted some of the stock, to preserve it and keep it from spoiling. Just a short descent down to the root cellar or a more adventurous hike to the storehouse on your grounds and you had the makings of several meals for days on end. Just torch up the hearth, put the kettle on to boil, and let it snow. Not too many people preserve food anymore, it's a lost art. We have some friends who keep the traditions going, Italian ladies who know that nothing beats the taste of a home-grown red bell pepper that was roasted way back in July, sealed up tight with oil and garlic and is now being served with some thickly sliced bread during a snowstorm in February. Which brings me to the point: back then, folks had a handle on the zen of snow removal: they just let it melt.

Maslow and the Seven-Dollar Cantaloupe

2011-01-31T06:22:00.000-08:00

These are certainly rough times we're going through: mounting job losses, lack of real leadership at any level of government, extreme weather, the rising (and nearly out of control) cost of living, the increasingly difficult challenge of raising a family, not to mention the sorry state of mass pop culture. What's happening to us is quite simple: "they" are taking away some of our most basic needs and fracturing the very foundation upon which a healthy and fruitful life is based. Take a look at Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs for a moment. It is a chilling reminder of how much we have compromised, especially at the very bottom levels of needs, the ones that Maslow identified as the most essential.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Breathing? Yes, most of us still breathe, but what about the quality of the air around us? It has doubtless improved since the 1970's Clean Air Act but there are days around here ('here' being an affluent New Jersey suburb) when a simple walk down to the corner plaza is a challenge for the lungs. Just the other day, in a stretch of pavement that is exactly four tenths of a mile in length, I encountered four diesel-fume-belching garbage trucks, a dozen or so SUV's at full idle queuing up to drop junior off at the elementary school's doorstep, countless delivery trucks, and at least two commuter trains at the crossing. So, breathing? I actually needed to hold my breath at one point with all this congestion. Food, another basic need, has become ridiculously expensive (I actually laughed out loud the other day in the fruit aisle of a certain natural-foods market when I noticed a container of pre-cut cantaloupe with a $7.35 price tag!) and the food supply itself is questionable. ... Sleep: I challenge you to name five people, including yourself, who get adequate, restful sleep on a regular basis. Homeostasis? That's a distant dream for most of us.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Unlike conventional psychology, Abraham Maslow's work focused on "healthy" and "successful" individuals to determine and support his theory of self-actualization. I will leave it to you to make your way up the pyramid to determine how many of the needs he identified exist in your life, and to what extent. An artist might argue that creativity is more important than sleep and employment; that's why benefactors have supported artists throughout the ages. A mom of three children will value security of the family over spontaneity...for her, self-actualization might have to wait until her kids are out of the house, married and scaling their own pyramids. It's simple: we cannot become fully realized without the basic needs to hold us up. Things like "confidence" and "self esteem" are hardly achievable if you are at risk of losing your house to foreclosure. I welcome your thoughts.

The Decemberists - Rise to Me

2011-01-29T15:48:00.000-08:00

The Decemberists release a folk-rock masterpiece

2011-01-29T15:38:00.000-08:00

People I meet often ask me, "What kind of music do you listen to?" to which I respond, "The good kind." So here goes:

Tiger Scat will feature occasional reviews, critiques and comments on recorded music. I would love to add 'live music', but that category might need to be postponed until the snow melts and the mercury rises. Don't get too excited: these reviews will not be the long-winded, exhaustively-researched variety that dominates the media; I have no interest in the minute biographical details of every member of the band, I cannot recite their entire canon of work from memory and I don't feel the need to analyze every note, bar, measure. I know what I like and what I don't like and I'm putting it out there for your reading pleasure; I will however have a "Wiki" tab open as I write to check pertinent facts, because as you all know, "if it's on Wiki, it's gotta be true". .... I have selected the new album from The Decemberists, "The King is Dead" as my first music review entry. I do this almost under protest, defiantly if you will, as a response to the various 'established' music blogs (which shall remain nameless) that have dismissed this very fine record, already exiling it to the middle of the pack of new releases for 2011. Rolling Stone magazine (remember them?) gives it four stars, but Rolling Stone is not hip anymore so it doesn't matter. Apparently, some Decemberists loyalists (apologies for all the 'ists') are upset at the band for releasing a record that is so utterly listenable, so pleasurable, so non-threatening and lovingly recorded... oh, and there aren't enough esoteric, obtuse lyrics or wordplay, although they did manage to sneak in the word "trillium". And others are complaining about the obvious nods to REM. I think this record is a fully-realized, honest-to-goodness folk rock masterpiece, with all the goods that a true classic record should deliver: virtuosic playing, meaningful and timely lyrics, guest vocalists and artists at the top of the game (Peter Buck, Gillian Welch)... and, to boot, it was recorded on a farm! Trust me, the only music I like is the good kind. Buy it.

Glenn: Thoughts on 'the journey'

2011-01-28T18:09:00.000-08:00

I lost my best friend, Glenn, to brain cancer on September 25, 2009. Glenn was also my brother-in-law, married to my wife's youngest sister. You might say it was an "arranged" marriage, but not in the spirit of South Asian cultures...more in the spirit of the New Jersey-bred Italian-American culture. You know the deal: girl from big family, boy from small family, boy meets girl, boy proposes to girl, girl has unattached or recently spurned sister, boy has unattached and otherwise unoccupied best friend, they compare notes and next thing they're making out in a dark corner of The Meadowbrook. ... I often find my thoughts drifting to Glenn, specifically to him and also in a more ethereal, philosophical sense. While we witnessed his last breaths, the talk around his deathbed featured speculations about his 'journey', how he was hanging on despite vital signs that should have had him six feet under two days prior. Everyone has an opinion about what happens after life on earth; it is one of the most hotly debated subjects out there. A friend surmised it very simply, and bluntly: "Once you're dead, it's nothing but dust." I'm not certain I believe it. I think that you, a part of you, a speck of you, continues. This view is in stark contrast to my Roman Catholic upbringing (although my mom is Episcopalian and simply "caved in" to my dad's suggestion that we be influenced by the Catholic church...hey, what do you expect from a former altar boy?). You were good? Heaven's gate for you, my lad, St. Peter's got the gate door swung wide. You were bad? The big sauna down below for you, buddy boy. Satan's got you on the arrivals list and he's commandeered a ferry cross the River Styx with a reserved seat with your name on it. No, I prefer to believe that we will be recreated somehow, maybe in another young soul or maybe as a seed in another man's body. But one thing is for sure: it is a heck of a trip to actually watch someone die. The shallow breath, the irregular gurgling in the throat, the opening and closing of eyes, the twitching, the smell. The hospice nurse doled out instructions for us, signs to look for, call her if this or that happens. She also left behind a cache of one-dose morphine syringes, sublingual, and "suggestions" on when to administer. I was left alone with Glenn at one point after she emptied one and I looked at him, eyes open, and asked him if he wanted another. He nodded and mumbled "yes". It was a surreal experience and one that I will never forget. ... That was over 16 months ago and it doesn't get much easier right away, I can tell you that. Visiting his widow and his three fatherless children is painful, but with loss comes renewed hope. I'm past the guilt but not the anger. This long, cold, dreadful winter has me stuck inside, thinking, ruminating about what might have been and what should have been. Maybe Glenn and I will be together again, some day, somewhere.