You and You Alone

I am part of you now
Like an arm or a leg.
I know for your love
I’ll never have to beg.

We are greater than friends,
Closer than lovers
No one will ever peek
Under our covers.

Our bonds are too deep,
Our love is too strong.
The sounds of a happy life
Carry us along.

You bring me such happiness
And shower me with grace.
Your purple-and-golden glow
Follows you everyplace.

I’d move heaven and Earth
If it meant I could see you smile.
For your velveteen kiss
I’d run a million miles

The world can never know
And others never understand
How you and I could have
A passion so grand.

I love you
You and you alone.
That love is stronger than
Anything I’ve ever known.

December 28, 2009

It was such a beautiful day today.

Nice and cool,
Just like early fall in Pennsylvania
Or Winnipeg when it sizzles.

Skies as blue as tropical waters
Dotted by only a couple quiet little clouds.

Breeze to make one’s hair
Stand on end.

Gorgeous enough,
You could spread wings
And fly.

So precious
It could make even the hardest heart
Cry.

It was such a beautiful day today.

I wish I could have seen it
Through the seafoam green walls
Of my office.

Morning Angels


Do you ever have those mornings
When you wake up
And all you feel
Is love?

I have.

I don’t see the bare back of my wife
Or the smiling, cherubic face
Of my child.

I see nothing
But the ceiling.

But the love…
Oh, God.
The love reaches to the heavens.

I feel my angels watching over me.
Their faces are the ones I have loved
My whole life.

Parents
Grandparents
Dear confidantes
And friends.

All are there for me
When I open my eyes
To tell me
They love me.

Their love gets me out of bed
And makes me smile.

I am buoyed by angelic love
If only for a while.

Song of the Angel

When the water seems too high

And thrashes all about

Call to me.

I’ll swim with you

And pluck you out.

When the bullets start to fly

And you’re forced to cower

Ask for me.

I’ll be your shield.

I’ll give you power.

If the noises are too loud

And the anger too great

Bring me close.

I’ll give you peace;

It’s never too late.

I am your angel.

Your cries for help

Are music to my ears.

Your smile and your joy

Are my reward.

Why wouldn’t I love you?

Why shouldn’t I care?

You’ve loved me enough;

You’ve always been there.

I am your angel.

I love you so.

Call to me always;

I’m here to make you glow.

Wherever I go,

My Angel walks

with me.

Wherever we go,

There is Heaven.

Wherever Heaven is,

there is where me

and my Angel

shall be.

Merimbe*

The only man in a Spanish nightclub

Who is younger than forty

Or so it would seem.

The boy all of a sudden feels

Like a minnow

Among great blue whales.

But Adela is here.

Aglow and angelic

And delighted I’m here with her friends.

They dance dances that I don’t know.

I wonder if I should go.

There’s no one else here that I know.

Then Adela asks me to dance.

I’ve known her much of my life.

Someone’s mother

Another person’s wife.

But she’s loved me like a son

Through thick and through thin

And with a silly grin

I take her hand.

Among the jostling bodies

Loud horns and steel drums

We move slow and gently

On the dance floor.

I catch sight of Adela’s face

Transported and swept away.

Every step, every beat

Takes her closer to heaven.

Dancing must be her prayer

Her great escape

I’m honored to share the moves with her

And hold this angel tight.

I’d follow Adela anywhere.

Especially if it means sharing

In her joy.

· to Bubbie, my Second Mother, with Love

Odds and Ends

--You know what you never hear? A construction worker on NPR. For that matter, a construction worker who sounds like he belongs on NPR.

--Do you know what the difference is between an old soul and an old fart? An old fart doesn't have time to grow old. A fart is gone in about thirty seconds. An old soul, however, is forever. Surround youself with old souls if you possibly can.

--The other night, I was dialing though cable channels and stumbled upon what used to be called Headline News. Now it's just called HLN, probably because CNN doesn't trust you to remember something called Headline News. Anyway, on Jane Velez-Mitchell's show, there were five guests, in five separate studios, possibly in five seperate cities. At first, I couldn't figure out why. Then I realized: There would be a riot if all these cats were in the same studio. CNN most assuredly takes a dim view of their hosts gouging their guests' eyes out.

--People have told me that I must not be a real American because I don't like pro football. These are probably the same people who think that Las Vegas is the capital of Nevada, two plus two is five, and Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

--I see that Dr. Mehmet Oz, one of Oprah's cronies, now has his own show that I'll never watch. But it is quite refreshing to see that Dr. Oz is probably going to wear something other than hospital scrubs. Hey, Doc: Change out of your damn scrubs if you know you're going on the air; otherwise, Aunt Mema is would like her new kidney fairly soon, as in today.

--The more Dr. Phil McGraw tells me I should "Get Real!", the more phony he sounds.

--Fedoras appear to be coming back in style. Pity I don't have a head that is conducive to wearing a baseball cap, never mind a fedora. Shame, too, because I used to love to model my grandfather's fedoras.

Birds and Their Songs

I find myself paying more mind
To the birds
And their songs
Than I ever have before.

When I wake up in the morning
And I hear them sing
Now more than ever
Their songs find succor in my heart.

No two songs are the same
But they are ever so sweet
And the birds greet
Me as I awake.

O to be as happy
And as free
As a singing, chirping
Bird!

I feel their sadness as
The sirens and engines
And the noise we make
Interrupts their joyful song.

But as they swoop and whirl
And sing their song
Their happiness enters my heart
And stays the whole day long

Things I Wonder about the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon

--Given the fact that Jerry Lewis is still very popular in France, how many Euros and francs get factored into the tally? Shouldn’t Jerry start counting those?

--I saw Jerry this past May at the Cannes Film Festival, stumbling up the stairs of the Palais de Festival. Are you entirely sure you should be trusting so frail a man with your money?

--With Ed McMahon now in that Big Teevee Studio in the Sky, do you think Jerry will this year stage a twenty-one gun salute in Ed’s memory? Don’t put it past him.

--Keep in mind that Jerry hasn’t made a movie worth a damn since The King of Comedy with Scorsese and De Niro twenty-six years ago. Do any of the cast members from that film make regular contributions to the MDA? (Maybe not Sandra Bernhard so much—methinks she’s still getting over getting punched by Jerry.)

--Most importantly, when the hell is there ever going to be a cure for Muscular Dystrophy? I should think that with all of the medical and scientific advancements over the decades, there should long since have been a vaccine for Muscular Dystrophy. If the aim of these Labor Day telethons is to make sure there is never the need for another, then the question hangs there like the London Fog: Where have all the billions of dollars gone? More money has been raised for victims of Hurricane Katrina and the September 11th Atrocities in less time and used more efficiently than it’s taken “scientists” to find the mythical cure for MD.

I’m just asking, you know.

COLLEGE FOOTBALL (It’s all the same to me)

The helmets, the balls

The plays and the calls

It’s all the same to me.

The fields, the marching bands,

The students in the stands.

Indistinguishable across the land.

The big men in their pads and helmets

And the little men in zebra stripes

Running up and down and all around.

Raging middle-aged men with headsets

Screaming themselves hoarse.

Nothing better to do on a Saturday, of course.

Commentators in the booths and on the fields

With little imagination to wield.

Shouldn’t these kids be in class

Studying and trying to pass?

I assume that’s why they’re there.

And here’s one extra point—

For some of these grizzled young men,

It’s either the gridiron

Or the joint.

College football is such

A screwball game.

Better to throw fastballs

And make that Hall of Fame.

Shouldn’t they be passing knowledge and wisdom

And not pigskins

In College?

An Embrace

A young boy comes home from school.
He’s been afraid to.
He doesn’t want Mom and Dad to see
What he’s been through.

He has a black eye.
His knee is bruised
And bleeds.
He feels abused.

Others would want him to be
Strong and fight back.
He couldn’t. Not today.
That’s why his eye and spirit
Are so black.

He comes through the front door
And sees his beautiful mom.
His tears start to flow.
His anguish starts to glow.

Mom comes to him and embraces him.
Tight and firm.
Her hands circling his back.
He needn’t squirm.

The boy’s tears dry.
He feels loved like he hasn’t
For a long time.
There are angels watching him
And God in the skies.

Mom would never hurt her son.
Neither would Dad.
This makes the boy feel so glad.

The greatest strength, thinks the boy,
Is in being loved.
Oh, to be loved
By everyone,
Like a parent loves a child.

Pining

Sitting here with my laptop

Writing this little piece

Waiting for that special soul

To bring my heart its peace.

Wondering when my time will come

(And would time pick up steam?)

For my soulmate to float down

From my sweet nighttime dream

Curious how a woman feels

From her north down to her south

Interested in everything she is

And what she’s all about.

Is this the foolish musing

Of a solipsistic poet

Or has my heart’s desire arrived

And I don’t even know it?

I can’t believe that all the angels

Are taken.

It’s a nightmare from which I need to

Awaken.

I hear my soul’s desperate cry

Its weeping I must heed.

May Cupid hear it loud and clear

And rush forth on his white steed.

My lover and soulmate waits.

Does she know how I pine?

For her affection and consort

To feed my soul divine?

RANT

There’s a film I’ve never seen that I have wanted to get my hands on for many, many years called Resurrection. It’s out of print and has never been released on DVD; Ellen Burstyn was nominated for Best Actress in 1980 for her work. Her character is visiting with her mother; at the end of the visit, Mom supposedly tells daughter: “If we loved each other like we say we love God, I suspect there wouldn’t be so much bother in the world.”

For a long time now, the bother has been bothering me. I see it every day in the course of my work as a process service clerk. As the papers pile up and I enter them into our “sophisticated” computer system, I can only imagine what goes on. Children being born out of wedlock to irresponsible and negligent parents. Divorcing couples who apparently can’t see past their rage toward each other, if they ever could in the first place. Corporations jousting against one another, apparently competing to see whose lawsuit is bigger and ironically required more trees to be sacrificed. And car accidents! Too damn many car accidents, and too many insurance companies baring their bloody fangs.

All this can be avoided, you know. No one seems anymore like they think before they act. No one considers the consequences of sipping the umpteenth Southern Comfort. Lookie here, that guy is gonna have it away with the little blonde tart, never mind that he has a wife and children that look up to him. And that seat belt sign flashing at the driver while he does sixty in a forty zone? Well, who cares? Who? Does no one care about the consequences of their actions? Can the siren song of wolf-like news reporters and bored cameramen be that loud and seductive? Has no one any shame anymore?

I dunno. I look around this world anymore, and I am aghast at what I see. It galls me that I live in a country where more people vote for a pop music idol than they do their president, and are encouraged to do it more often. I do not find Paris Hilton, Britney Spears or any of the other trollops and harlots attractive, and I am bewildered that millions of others admire them. Men do things every day that make me ashamed to be one; rapes, robberies, murders, and beatings. Up until January 20 of this year, I found it just upsetting that three hundred million people should hate one man so much and so deeply. I turn on the radio in the morning, and I hear the same two guys with the same first name talking about the same two things in the same zombiefied tone of voice. On my drive home, Dr. Michael Savage says I am a schmuck, a schmendrick, a putz, or a combination of all three. People get conned out of money in Ponzi schemes. Homeless people make the choice—the choice—to beg for money as I walk past. I could go on and on with this. But I can nothing that Paddy Chayefsky didn’t say far more persuasively in Network.

And have we listened to ourselves lately? Jesus! At my office, when I’m not hearing gossip, I only hear variations on about fifty key words and phrases. And I myself am falling into the trap; on the phone I hear myself saying the same thing so often I am turning into a walking, talking tape loop. It is so hard anymore, at least for me, to hear sentences that are structured properly, with nouns, adjectives, verbs, modifiers, etc., and to hear words consisting of fewer than three syllables. Far greater intelligences than I have referred to the “dumbing-down” of America. They fret, rightfully so, that Americans are becoming dumber, less cultured, and even more desensitized than they already are. These intelligences, I hope, will be happy to know that I don’t like to follow along in gangs.
Sorry to sound so negative, folks. Thanks for letting me rant. I do wish the world were full of roses and tulips, that families were stable and corporations didn’t run amok, drunk on power. I do wish we loved one another like we say we love God. No God I know would let this world stand at the precipice of its own ruin.

FAR AWAY

FAR away.
ALONE.

I’M OUT HERE.
YOU’RE OUT THERE.
I CAN’T BRING US TOGETHER.

In the shallow end of the pool.
Envious of you in the deep end.
Afraid to swim further out…
I can’t swim.

Desperate to dive
Deeper and deeper.
Wanting to mine and plumb
The depths of you.
Shyness forbids me.

Feeling my bones and blood
Tense inside of me.
Wanting to relax and set free
Just like you.

On my side of the glass.
Wishing I could be on yours.
Unable to break through.

Far away.
Alone.

Movies, Celebrity, Stuff Like That

--There are people in this world—they know who they are—who watch the Tony Awards on CBS every year, despite the fact they have never been to a Broadway show in their lives.

--I should have known Robert De Niro was a sellout the day I saw him playing Fearless Leader and, of course, asking the immortal question, “You talkin’ to me?” The day is fast approaching when I won’t want to listen.

--One day, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will relax its rules on nominating actors for Oscars. The next day, cell phone video of Meryl Streep eating a ham sandwich on white bread in her kitchen will surface on Youtube. Meryl will immediately be nominated for another Oscar. (This was written some while ago, but this is particularly valid in view of the fact that meryl's got a new film coming out where she plays, ironically enough, Julia Child.)

--In America, nearly all the truly great actors and filmmakers are dead or getting there. Somehow I cannot imagine being sixty years old and hearing Lindsay Lohan mentioned among the greatest actors of her generation.

--In 2001: A Space Odyssey, how is the HAL 9000 repaired? Surely before taking off on his trip in the EVA pod, Dave Bowman had to reconnect HAL 9000; otherwise, he would not have been able to leave Discovery One. Maybe such vagaries are why they refer to it as science fiction.

--Do you know that there are people in this world—considerably famous people, at that—who alphabetize their canned goods?

--I will be just out of my mind with delight and glee the minute I find out that a new Woody Allen film has debuted to a $100-million box office opening. We are quickly running out of time to see it happen, I'm sorry to say.

--At some nebulous point in the recent past, Angelina Jolie and Mia Farrow must have had lunch together. I would love to have been within earshot if such a meeting ever took place.

--Boy, bagging on celebrities isn't as fun as it used to be. Bagging on the people who make fun of celebrities is a little more exciting.

MELANGE

--There is, it seems to me, a direct correlation between one’s ability to create and his physical heath. Much of the reason for the lag between posts can be traced back to a cold I’ve just gotten over. By the same token, I agree with Larry Gelbart: “Any writer, to a man, to a woman, will find any excuse not to write.”

--I’ve mentioned the outgoing Governor of Alaska, the unfairly maligned Sarah Palin, elsewhere. Anyone who governs a large state like that and still finds time to paint her toenails purple is okay in my book. Besides, Mrs. Palin’s done quite a good job; when has anything or anyone besides Sarah Palin made national news over the past few years? I thought so.

--Do you know why the Harry Potter books grew progressively bigger with the passage of time? Scholastic was making so much money with off Mr. Potter’s magic wand—and Mrs. Rowling’s golden fingertips—they were afraid to edit the books. It’s the same thing with Stephen King, John Grisham, or any other author that grew too big for his or her britches. No one censors a word that comes out of a golden mind, if you receive my meaning. The lesson for all budding authors (myself included) is this: Be humble enough to take criticism and be edited. Your audience will thank you, and so will you, when you’re driving a Beemer.

--Phillies fans, which did you appreciate more: Tug McGraw’s leap in 1980 or Brad Lidge’s kneeling in 2008?

“The mind of a thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value.”—Oscar Wilde
--These days, my favorite writer is Roger Ebert. Ever since the throat surgery, writing has become Roger’s main means of communication. Which means that his writing has taken on greater urgency and lucidity. Politically, Roger’s a liberal, but his opinions and ideas are reasoned and thoughtful. I find myself checking his main site and blog daily; now more than ever, Roger’s words deserve to be chiseled into stone.
“It’s true that it takes some time to listen to a silent face, because you can’t say in half a second what can only be said over time” –Isabelle Huppert (NOTE: It seems crazy, but I understand that.)
“Luck is preparation meeting opportunity”. –Diane Keaton
--The only thing that could top a Rays-Phillies series in 2008 is a Yankees-Phillies World Series here in 2009. That week of last October, running through my 30th birthday, could not have been more delicious if it had been topped with hot fudge, whipped cream and a Merechino cherry. So the only encore that would do it justice would be to see my two favorite teams do battle in the autumn chill.
--When someone tells me, to my face or otherwise, that they practice Tantra, Transcendental Meditation, or both, my heart floods with envy. It’s impossible, walking around a city or a shopping mall, to tell if people do those things, or what else they do. I would love to have the gift of reading other people’s minds. Not that I want to feel superior to my peers or anything.
-- “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?” -–Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love

Sunday Morning

Out on the patio on a Sunday Morning
The blessings are heaven sent.
No humidity because the
Saturday storms came and went.

A breeze at my back
Blowing gently on my hair.
Room temperature in the open air.
Busy birds flying everywhere.

Not a cloud in the nascent sky
The green leaves and grass glow.
Warmth at my bare left foot
Brings me into the flow.

Wonder what Emerson and Frost would say
On so glorious a Sunday.

They’d glory in it.
Just like I am.

Adagio for Stars and Stripes

For every amber wave of grain,
There’s a mile of cinnamon dental floss.

For all the purple mountains’ majesties
There’s a hundred more Starbucks and McDonalds.

As fruited as the plains are,
There’s all those chemicals and pollutants.

By dawn’s early light,
Could we have seen reality teevee coming?

With the rocket’s red glare,
How could we have predicted Cold and Hot Wars?

What have we become?
Would George Washington be happy from above?
Can Abraham Lincoln still recognize us?

Who are we really?
Are We the People that far removed
From our ideals and beliefs?

Does the pursuit of a rock star mean more
Than the pursuit of happiness?

Are you proud of the pollution?
The corruption?
The greed? The graft?

Banks failing, terror rising.
Is this what we have to look forward to?

America should make you happy,
Should you make you feel glad.
But why, when I look around,
Do I feel so darn sad?

Lament & Prayer


Why is a punch in the face
More real
Than the love you’re supposed
To feel?

Why is where you arrive
More important
Than the fact that
You’re alive?

What I am I supposed
To think
When gamblers gamble
And drinkers
Drink?

What can be done
With a bomb and a gun
That love cannot undo,
Honest and true?

What is this rancor?
Why is there war?
God Almighty,
What’s worth fighting
And dying for?

When people spread hate
And leaders lead through fear
What in the world’s
Going on here?

Are there not enough angels?
Too few fairies?
Can they save the world?
Maybe…

If we save ourselves first.
If we love each other more.
If hate were much less.
If…

Dry our tears, Lord.
Make us all strong.
Let us all get along.

Wayfarer


I’ve been alive for longer
Than you can remember.

I was there
When the pyramids were built
And the pharaohs reigned.

I sat in on coversations
Between Plato and Socrates
And reveled in their wisdom.

When Roman criminals were
Fed to the lions,
I sat in the Colosseum and wept.

I fought along with Lancelot and Galahad
And whether you know it or not,
I drank from the Holy Grail.

I held the telescope and saw
The New World.
Columbus would never have known
I am an old soul.

I was the angel on Paul Revere’s shoulder
And the musket man at Brandywine.

I’ve stopped counting queens and kings
That have lived and died on my watch.

What matters now is that I’ve come here
And I am here now for you.

You deserve someone ageless in your life.
Everyone needs a wayfarer.

I have lived forever.
You will, too.

A Bafflement

I realize this is a matter of personal taste only, but I have a question.

Why is it that when Luciano Pavarotti died nearly two years ago, there was almost negligible media coverage? Why was his obituary consigned to the top right hand corner of the local paper? Did CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FNC, LGBT, etc., etc. break into their regualr programming to announce that probably the greatest singer in the history of music had died? For that matter, were there hour-long tributes to him on any of those channels, or on the radio? Sure, there were old Met Opera and Three Tenors performances broadcast in Pavarotti's honor, on PBS. Besides that, Pavarotti's death was just a sad footnote to the day, and much of the planet seemed to shrug and put Britney Spears songs on their IPods.

In stark contrast, the world media fell all over itself to cover Michael Jackson's death the day before yesterday. People didn't seem to know whether to moonwalk in Michael's honor (whatever that was) or sob uncontrollably. You saw what it was in the first hours--breathless and frenzied reportage, followed by hasty and heavy-handed tribute. The world had been blindsided. All the networks seemed to forget for the moment about the disputed Iranian election, the truly frightening posturing of Kim-Jong Il, the hobbling economy, and the hours-old grief of Farrah Fawcett's loved ones. From on high, I would like to think that Luciano Pavarotti looked down and sobbed into his fabled white handkerchief, not merely because Michael Jackson had died, but probably because he was not mourned so publicly and such fervor.

Don't even try to figure out life, folks. There's no plausible explanation as to why two equally talented people are mourned in such radically different ways. But I would mention that to my knowledge, there was no moment of silence at any ballpark in either man's memory. Life goes on for those who have it, until suddenly, it doesn't.

This, too, must be said...

Whoever these Jon & Kate characters are, nothing, and I mean nothing, makes them special. Their eight children, twins and sextuplets, are special. Jon & Kate do not appear to be.

So reality teevee claims another ten victims, as clearly the overexposure of this family has forced Jon & Kate to go on teevee tonight and announce their intention to divorce.

Not that Sidney Lumet was a spectator, but if he were, he would no doubt be pursing his lips and sighing a deafening disgust. As for myself, I wonder aloud again why the teevee people don't refer to the late local news as reality teevee and be done with it.

DIALSCAN: MIAMI, JUNE 20, 2009

About now, what I would think is going to be a severe traffic jam is starting to build at the entrances to what is now called LandShark Stadium (after Jimmy Buffett’s brand of beer) at Northwest 199th Street in Miami Gardens. I think it’s fun to wonder what the various Marlin and Yankee fans coming to this evening’s game are listening to as they wait.

Betcha even money that a Mercedes is parking close to the stadium on what has to be a searing asphalt lot. Odds are better that the Mercedes is blaring WKCP-FM 89.7, which comes billed as Classical South Florida. Pure, unadulterated classical music 24-7-365, alas with the aftertaste of the occasional pledge drive—thank God we haven’t been tripped up by one. And so one can listen to the heroic strains of Wagner’s overture to Herzog Wildfang in relative peace. I wonder why they don’t play classical music between innings or at-bats; surely it would lend a certain stateliness to the proceedings. They’ve now moved into The Devil’s Trill by Giuseppe Tardini, a piece that comes billed as—the Announcer’s words now—“devilishly hard to play.” I’ll come back here after I’ve finished the piece.

I don’t know when the gates open at LandShark Stadium (f/k/a Joe Robbie Stadium, Pro Player Stadium, Dolphins Stadium and Dolphin Stadium, soon to be known quite possibly as Minnow on Wheels Stadium). I will bet, though, that there are people who will bring their own radios in and while away the time listening to WLRN-FM 89.3. In six minutes—it’s 4:54PM right now, they’ll be listening to All Things Considered. Some earlycomers are listening to Tavis Smiley interviewing some vaguely familiar –sounding fellow. I just realized—it’s Mike Farrell, still trying to sound relevant twenty-six years after M*A*S*H. He’s extolling his book Of Mule and Man; but which is which? Tavis himself is a pretty cool fellow—he’d probably be cooler than anybody in South Beach. Sadly, to my knowledge, there are no portable HD Radios. If there were, someone could cut in to WLRN’s HD channel. Supposedly it carries classical music, but at the moment, Marketplace Money has come to interrupt the music lover’s reverie.

So let’s walk a little further back in the parking lot. And maybe we come upon a Chevy Suburban, where WINZ-AM 940, a sports radio station, perhaps blares away where a group of guys is tailgating. We draw within earshot just as Dan Moriarty and Lincoln Kennedy of Fox Sports Radio are broadcasting “live and direct” and proud of it from California. They tell me what’s happening at the U.S. Open golf tournament on Long Island. If you’ve been following it, all that has been going on is rain and wind and Tiger Woods pouting through it all. Messrs. Moriarty and Kennedy must be bored, because their guest is a private eye who has started a reality show about cheating spouses, which has virtually nothing to do with sports. Maybe the one of the guys doing the barbecuing has ears like an eagle and goes to change the station. We move along.

You would be very, very surprised, and maybe even a bit perplexed, to find that three of the AM stations have the same call letters: WFTL. They’re all owned by the same company. So let’s say there’s a Saturn L200 in the logjam about a mile away from the stadium spinning the dial. Revealing a wisdom beyond his or her years, the driver bypasses 1400 AM, the ESPN Radio affiliate. He or she goes nearly all the way back to the left to 640 AM –it used to be called WMEN, giving a big tip as to its shtick. Not much going on there, either. In the middle of the dial, at 850 AM, the driver finds former WABC talker Steve Malzberg, who (s)he loved to listen to on the way home from Yankee Stadium. And the driver begins to feel ever so slightly nostalgic, even a little more secure in the knowledge that when (s)he eats that overpriced hot dog, (s)he’ll be a little bit better informed than the guy in the next seat. Little by little, the driver’s anger at not being able to hear Sterling and Waldman describe the game on 640 dissipates.

By the way, his or her seatmate may be in the beat-up Ford LTD listening to WQAM-AM 560, waiting for the next perceived inanity to come out of the host’s mouth so he can press the already worn-out “talk” button on his prepaid cell phone and find another useful way to spend his precious cell minutes. We don’t want to be in his field of gravity one second longer than absolutely necessary.

Just now starting his car in the downtown area possibly, an older man and his wife have WIOD-AM 610 permanently locked in, to a point where there’s quite possibly a padlock on the dial. And as they open the Cadillac Seville humpback up to about thirty-seven miles an hour tops, they are entertained by the 5:30 traffic update, and wonder why the reporter has nothing to say about the route they are taking. Granny groans at the weatherman’s announcement that record heat is gripping South Florida and bemoans the fact that they couldn’t get tickets under the overhang. Both of them roll their eyes in disgust hearing about the man who shook his baby because he was aggravated at the baby’s crying. The old man pushes his green Titelist cap down just a little bit further has they turn into the late afternoon sun and Mike McConnell resumes after the newsbreak. Just as I turn my attention elsewhere, the old man’s wife wonders why Tiger Woods pouts so darn much.

Quite possibly the coolest cats in this traffic jam are the ones in the Lincoln Navigator with the tinted windows, listening to WDNA-FM 88.9. They don’t care who wins or loses; all they care about is that there’s a baseball game to go to, and they’re going to squeeze every ounce of happiness and enjoyment that they can out of it. You may have seen someone like that on the highways in your town. A peace symbol on the rear window and the bumper sticker that tells you to “Coexist.” These are the coolest, happiest, most spiritual, most happening dudes you’ll meet. They’re as cool as Miami is hot. They know that besides baseball and classical music, nothing soothes the soul and lifts the spirit quite like…jazz.

Cool.

Fifteen years ago tonight, right about now actually, where were you?

I was at home, ever so slightly peeved that NBC had cut away from a fairly significant basketball game in order to bring me the confoundingly bizarre spectre of a white Ford Bronco a stately forty miles an hour (if that) along the freeways of Los Angeles. Its driver was Al Cowlings; his passenger, football legend O.J. Simpson, in a state of suicidal indecision. Both me and my mother were both baffled and hooked.

We all know what happened. Simpson surrendered to the police, setting the stage for the trial Larry Gelbart would later moan that "it seemed we had all been sentenced to watch for life." We were glued to CNN for fourteen hypnotic and bewildering months. It seemed we knew the lawyers in the case better than we knew members of our own families. The Bronco and The Juice Within was merely a touchstone--three cable news networks, the advent of the World Wide Web and the now too-familiar trappings of the Information Age would build upon it. A sustained attack of media frenzy has evolved into incessant bombardment, until we are numbed to the screams of pain.

And now, you ask? Simpson rots away in perpetuity, but in Nevada for a completely different crime. The families of what we still refer to as Simpson's "alleged" victims have only a fraction--if that-- of the eternal peace and heavenly solace that Nicole and Ron have found in Heaven. One of Simpson's attorneys has died, another founded a self-help legal website. Two of his prosecutors wrote books; how we rooted for them so long ago. Me, I have distanced myself from the teevee news glut, for better or worse. I am hopefully the wiser.

Now let me ask you this. If O.J. Simpson had gone and killed himself and not surrendered himself to the police, would the world still be talking about him fifteen years later? Would the last fifteen years of media development and over-growth have happened anyway? Perhaps. The Simpson Saga would be found in a few true-crime paperbacks gathering dust on a far shelf in a corner bookstore, and not have attracted the eye of Dominick Dunne, Gerry Spence, and all the other prestigious commentators whose two pennies, to say the least, were invested in the trial. Had O.J. Simpson killed himself, there would be no trial and no verdict of innocence to split this nation along racial lines. And in 2007, Simpson would not have had a gang of men to recruit so he could rob a poor bastard in Vegas of sports memorobilia he thought had been stolen.

My mother always told me when I was younger that what goes around comes around. No man is exempt, not even Orenthal James Simpson.

Odds & Ends

--Whoever Miley Cyrus is, who does she think she is that you can't go to one of her concerts with a paper ticket? Just asking.

--Here's some fun: At the end of a major sports championship, do yourself a favor. Get on the Internet and try to find live video of a newscast in the winning city. It's a lot more interesting to see how a city celebrates a success than it is to mourn a failure. For three days afterward, no one in the city wants to talk about anything else; this is particularly true in a city (like Tampa) that predicates much of its well-being on the success or failure of its sports teams.

--If it were up to Governor Sarah Palin (R-Alaska) and her family, I'm sure David Letterman would be out of work, out of a fortune and out on the streets of Nome with a placard saying "Will Tell Inoffensive Jokes for Food". I'd like to see David make jokes under really stressful conditions; serves the son of a bitch right.

--Seven hundred thousand people have called an FCC hotline for assistance with the digital television transfer that just took place. At least one person in America doesn't give a shit; the one who called in to WBZ-AM in Boston the other night to tell Dan Rea that. She's smarter than the average American would appear to be.

--It is impossible to Twitter--whatever the hell that means--when you are in the shower, when you are sleeping, when you are having sex, or a combination of all three.

--Wendy's has come out with "buffalo wings". They're not wings in the academic sense. They're Chicken Nuggets that get dipped in sauce that render them useless for picking up. All of these are terrible things to do to a chicken's balls.

--Somewhere in Heaven, Walter Matthau and Robert Shaw are reading the reviews of the remake of their film The Taking of Pelham One Two Three and snickering with glee among themselves. Their legacy is safe.

--Whatever the benefits of Blu-ray video discs are, I can tell that this is what happens when you scrape the emulsion off the film. It must be akin to the pain one feels after plastic surgery.

--Most days on the way home from work, only--only--because there is nothing else on the radio at that time, I listen to Michael Savage. He is what Howard Beale might have been if he had a radio mike and not a teevee camera to talk into. He also, as you may or may not know, is the talk show host who has (probably inadvertently) been banned from Britain. I worry, when Dr. Savage is not variously calling me a schmuck, a schmendrick or a putz, that he will obtain the transcript of his trial after he wins and go on the air and do nothing but read from it every day. The good news is that I really only listen to Dr. Savage for forty-five minutes or less at a time. A little bit of a lunatic goes a longer way than you'd think.

--The circus is a little easier to take if it's happening over there. Ask anyone who lives in a city that has hosted a Super Bowl.

--Here's a packing tip if you're visiting Florida: Pack a oilworker's proximity suit if you want to beat the heat. Also, pack a wetsuit not just to jump into the ocean, but also to brave the summer monsoons.

--During this piece, I've been listening to the Subway Series game at Yankee Stadium. Nowadays, when John Sterling tells me that one of the Yankees is safe on the bases, he must launch right into a plug for New York Life. One of these days, he and Suzyn Waldman are going to tear up all of those ad cards on the air in a revolt; I'm just rooting for something like that to happen. The play's the thing, after all.

--Similarly, on one of these all-news radio stations, I'd be very happy to hear one of these newscasters tell me the temperature, as they must do every four or so minutes, and then add, "If you don't know how hot it is by now, you have no damn reason to be outside in the first place."

--

Fair-Haired Baby Boy

The little fair-haired baby boy
Pits and patters and
Crawls along the floor.

He wears a blue blanket sleeper
With Winnie-The-Pooh
On the breast.

He bops along the kitchen floor
Excited to see where he goes
And what he’ll do
When he gets there.

Look at his sweet, merry face.
How the delight registers in
His rosy-red cheeks.

His smile and delight
Open his mouth
And my heart
And brings tears to my eyes.

His hair
Is blond
And fair.

His hazel eyes
Could light
Every lamp and soul
In every city.

He reminds me
Of me
When I was
That age.

Maybe he is me.

This Must Be Said...

I know I'm several days late to the dance on this but the more I think about this, the more aggravated I get.

I cannot help but think of Susan Boyle, whom I'm sure you've seen sing or read about in the papers and online. Englishwoman, late forties, having stumbled upon full adulthood without owning a computer or even having been so much as been kissed. Zaftig, merry, and reportedly--because I've never heard it--one hell of a singing voice. Anyway, Susan gets on Britain's Got Talent--NBC airs an American version as a summer replacement--and sets the world on fire with her renditions. Everybody's in love with her, except for the people in Britain who think that a dance troupe called Diversity is just a little more Talented.

Now instead of performing in the Royal Variety Show for an audience that would have included no less a personage than Queen Elizabeth the Second, Susan Boyle was only yesterday released from a hospital, as a result of a nervous breakdown.

Let me tell you this--if I were Susan and I were invited by the producers of America's Got Talent to perform for the Yank audience, I shouldn't even have to flinch when I say no. Why even have a spoonful of such poison when I've already had a gallon jug.

In his commentary track on the DVD of Network, Sidney Lumet, who directed live teevee before he ever directed films, tells us that inevitably, somebody is going to get killed on live television, just like the main character of his film. He may be more right than he knows. As much as anything else, the Colosseum mentality that drives reality television similary drove Susan Boyle to a nervous collapse. Is this what television has become? I just about wash my hands of teevee--reality and otherwise--if this is so,

As for Susan herself, I envy and empathize with her in equal measure. I don't even know how she resisted the pressure as long as she did, but it would have driven me just as nuts.

Life goes on, for sharks and minnows alike.

DIALSCAN: CLEVELAND, MAY 30, 2009

As far as good radio goes, in Cleveland, Ohio, there ain’t much; it figures that Cleveland is the home of the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame. But that’s no reason not to talk about what little there is.

Both big sports radio stations in Cleveland are owned by the same conglomerate, the ironically named Good Karma Broadcasting, Inc. I start at the high end of the dial, WWGK-AM 1540, commonly known as KNR2. I encounter a NASCAR race and am immediately baffled; how it is five guys with light Southern accents can make the tedious act of driving around an ovular track exciting for radio listeners is beyond me. Just to give you an idea as to NASCAR’s target audience, the race being run in Dover is called the Heluva Good 200, after the ranch dip. I could go on and on about NASCAR, but let it just be said that I hope my mind goes faster than these cars do.

At WKNR-AM 850, the ESPN Radio affiliate, two chipper-sounding young guys are talking about the Cleveland Cavaliers basketball team when they’re not antagonizing audience members. Apparently the Cavaliers are on the brink of elimination from their playoff series with the Orlando Magic, and these two fellows (Cameron & Wood, I guess they’re called) are doing the alpha-male equivalent of reading tea leaves and bird entrails, predicting the outcome of the game. I almost can’t listen; why should people worry about the outcome of a sporting event? It’s wasted energy. There are more important things in sports and in the rest of life. But I guess it all depends on when and where you listen. (By the way—doesn’t it seem to you that half the radio commercials sell you ways to get out of debt? How much more debt do the schmendricks want you to get into so that you, dear Reader and Listener, can get out? Just a thought.)

With unseemly alacrity, I switch to the FM dial, where the pickings are just as slim. At WCPN-FM 90.3, the NPR station, it’s On the Media, where an attorney is being interviewed about journalist’s rights. I run screaming from the lawyer; in the course of my line of work (process service), I hear enough about lawyers and subpoenas and summonses every single day. I do stick around long enough to hear pseudo-intellectual babble about rating agencies, conflicts of interest, etc.

The last grape on the tree, I am pleased to report, belongs to the classical music station, WCLV-FM 104.9, the radio home of the Cleveland Orchestra. And it brings to mind a memory. Many was the Tuesday night where I could sit on my bed in my bedroom in Malvern, PA.—my boyhood home—and hear the Cleveland Orchestra under Christoph von Dohnanyi wafting out of my old clock radio, being beamed through WFLN-FM 95.7 in Philadelphia. Whatever Maestro von Dohnanyi and his men were playing at Severance Hall, I always felt like I was at the seventeenth row of the orchestra, dead center. I was always just a wee bit sad to see the broadcast end, because then it meant I had to turn off the radio and go to sleep. In many ways, I am still that would-be patron of the arts, sitting in the concert hall, hoping to be swept off my feet.

But it won’t happen now; they’re airing the 2007 Cleveland International Piano Competition on WCLV. It’s a classical music station—not ESPN Classic. Oh, well.

DIALSCAN DOES DALLAS: MAY 25, 2009 (MEMORIAL DAY)

You knew and I knew I couldn’t stay away from radio criticism forever. I’ve been observing the Cannes Film Festival; I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen enough tuxedoes, evening gowns, red carpet arrivals, press conferences and paparazzi over the past eleven days to last me probably forever. Seeing one premiere is one thing; after observing all or part of sixteen over a week-and-a half, I wonder how they do it and still keep their heads above water. But that’s all in the rearview mirror; the Yankees have been torrid, from what I understand, and now find themselves in the Metroplex on Memorial Day.

We start at a jazz station this trip; KNTU-FM 88.1 to be specific. I’m greeted by the sound of an organ and I wonder if this isn’t Miles from his electric period. Very possible. I can’t help but wonder if on a hot Memorial Day in North Texas, folks don’t just stay in their bedrooms and put this music on. Who needs barbeques when you’ve got this. I just found out; it’s called Everyday People. The Announcer says it’s by three guys, but he rattles their names off like they’re in a law firm. Furthermore, it sounds like the dude is outside. The traffic commentator comes on—she doesn’t have any urgency in her voice, and she thinks that by nearly whispering into the mike, she can get more people subscribing for membership; KNTU is a public station, after all. She does take care to tell me there will be a lot of traffic around Rangers Ballpark; I’m sure the Rangers fans fleeing in horror from the whipping the Yankees are giving them. Better give them a mulligan and get back with them—I can’t blame them too much for not wanting to work on a national holiday.

Past the litany of Christian rock stations and country music stations we go, up and up the FM dial until we land at WRR-FM 101.1, the classical music station. Just now, we’re hearing Anton Rubinstein’s Violin Concerto in G, Opus 60. I may have heard of Anton Rubinstein or not; having been marinated in classical music for the past two decades or more, I couldn’t tell you where or when. But it does sound lovely. Give me a moment while I lie in the lavender…

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

A piece by Leroy Anderson is next on the playlist, according to the avuncular-sounding Announcer. But not before a few commercials—the commercial classical music station is a dying breed, hanging in as slowly and surely as this guy seems to be talking. I’m told that this Anderson piece is actually fairly popular, but this is the first time I think I’ve heard it. If I had five dollars for every time I am going to have to hear Sleigh Ride come Christmas, I would buy Dancer, Prancer and Blitzen. But I don’t want to even contemplate Christmas just now.

A couple more healthy spins on the knob lands me at KESN-FM 103.3, which is an ESPN-owned station. I can hardly wait until I get to 105.5. Evidently someone or other has taken the day off out there, as well. A commercial just came on for a previous sporting event—I don’t care if it’s Memorial Day or not. Radio is, it bears repeating, the medium of the “hear and now”. What if Derek Jeter gets traded to Kansas City in the next five minutes? I have no patience for radio laziness.

Let’s get over to the AM radio dial, starting with KVCE-AM 1160. I’m promptly greeted with a cheerful Announcer heralding “an encore presentation of the Biz Radio Network.” Nobody at Cannes demanded an encore, so why should I want one from a radio station in Dallas? While I’ve been typing that, nothing but commercials have been airing. The hell with ‘em.

At KFSR-AM 1190, I’m greeted with the only thing worse than an encore presentation, and that is silence. Dead air where the audio feed of CNN Headline News should be. Not even Simon and Garfunkel’s The Sounds of Silence, just good old-fashioned silence. That’s probably a blessing in disguise; from what I understand, this station has gone through more format changes than Eva Peron probably had shoes.

So one full turn of the dial later, we find ourselves at KTCK-AM 1310, where instead of the sports talk that the station promises, some whiny twit wants to know why he has to work today, or anyone else for that matter. He wants America to shut down on Memorial Day, the way it does at Christmas. One of his partners wonders why there are not mandatory flower-laying ceremonies for every American. It could be argued that they do not want to talk about the crib job the Texas Rangers just put forth (an 11-1 loss to the Bombers). But I would hate to be stealing their thunder. They seem like upright, well-meaning, ramrod-straight Americans to me. But when you get down to brass tacks, all they’re doing is killing time. A chap who works at a country club calls to tell the hosts that there were 180 players on his golf course this morning; he is summarily dismissed from the air by these ramrod, straight arrow Americans apparently for not being reverent enough. I neither know nor care. All that matters is that their broadcast is two minutes behind.

Let’s move on to Rational Radio, KMNY-AM 1360. Rational Radio is subtitled Progressive Talk Radio, which really means Screw George Bush Without a Condom Radio. Some chap called Richard Hunter (I hope that’s who this is; I’m deathly afraid that he’s taking the day off, too) is talking to his engineer or producer –I forget which—about his cell phone ringtone. Must be a slow news day. I look at his show’s website; he does not seem like a man I want to screw around with, what with his long, scarlet-streaked hair, his black fingernails, and his assassin’s stare. But the good news for now, anyway, is that he’s working today and not complaining. In this way, Richard seems like my antithesis. All that being said, would someone please tell the producers and owners of Progressive Talk Radio that George W. Bush can’t hurt them anymore? Wait a minute—someone just broke in with a traffic update to say that there are no problems on the highways. When I started this, there were; there’s no traffic anymore? You watch. At another station, I’ll find a hell of a hassle on one of the highways. What’s more, you can actually watch this Richard chap host his show, and it’s actually live, not the minute or so behind that the station’s audio has apparently been. So I purse my jaw and change stations.

All the way down at the other end of the dial from Rational Radio (depending who you ask), we find KLIF-AM 570. Aha! There’s at least two traffic accidents in the Metroplex, according to the traffic reporter. Someone has been yanking my chain! So I guess Rational Radio is also Lying Bastard Radio! HA! My buzz deflates when I find out that Jon-David Wells, who is normally on by now, is off today. His replacement, some dolt named Chris, is coming on like one of those third-rate preachers you see on teevee every Sunday morning. That’s probably appropriate, given the fact that he’s defending the First Baptist Church of Dallas from some hitherto unpardonable sin. Alas, he’s a mere replacement, given a microphone and three hours to make his case for fleeting glory.

Last stop on the tour: WBAP-AM 820, the supposed News and Talk of Texas. Sean Hannity may or may not be doing his show live. Don’t put it past him not to be. His guest thinks Barack Obama has a great smile. We’ll see how great it is on January 20, 2013, and that’s all I have to say…

D'un admirateur Americain

Folks, I hope you'll indulge me for a few minutes. I should have done this last week, but I seem to recall promising to tell you why a certain French actor has me under such a spell. Her body of work comes under the "guilty pleasure" file, like chocolate for some and pasta for others. Here, then, is the text of an open letter I wrote last week.

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

D'un admirateur Américain: An Open Letter

May 22, 2009

Mme. Isabelle Huppert
Exact Address Unknown
Paris
FRANCE

Dear Mme. Huppert:

The odds are that you may never read this letter—the Good Lord knows you have more important things to do, even at this moment. I have ruminated long and hard over what to tell you that other, far smarter and far deeper people have told you untold numbers of times before, in nearly every language.

The plain fact is that I am a thirty-year old man living in a house trailer in semi-rural Florida, which means I am not the target audience, I’m sure, for your prodigious body of work. I could go on and on about La Pianiste, Nue Propertie, and any number of films and the effect each of them had on me; I won’t here. However, let it just be said that beginning with only the most cursory viewing of La Pianiste some years ago and really going into overdrive in the past year, my admiration for you and your work has only expanded, and shall continue, I have no doubt.

Although I am an admirer of world cinema in general, I do not regularly follow the Cannes Film Festival. 2009 marks the first year that I have followed Cannes the way I normally do baseball. If the President of the Jury were virtually anyone else, I would turn the page of the newspaper, click the back button on the browser, or turn back to the classical music station. Mme. Huppert, you are not just anyone else. And this is the larger point. It seems to me that you occupy a higher state of being, and it makes you and your work stronger and richer than any actor now working in the world. The Dalai Lama speaks of three types of faith; my faith in you, Mme. Huppert, is the second type, aspiring faith. I wish I could attain the state of being that you and those like you occupy; that of apparent creative and spiritual invincibility.

Someone here in Florida asked me very recently who my favorite actor was. I could not bring myself to answer the question, not because I knew it was you, but because if I did tell that person, I’d be greeted at best with a blank stare. My wish for you, Madame Huppert, is that you and your films receive greater notice in these States. I wish people could talk about you, Depardieu, Deneuve, Ardant and the rest of the brilliant roster of French actors and filmmakers with the same reverence and love that greets most American and certain English actors here in this country.

Knowing that your work and you exist, Madame Huppert, has enriched my life and its experience in the same way that having and loving my family and my friends enrich them. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being.

Very truly yours,

Matthew McIlvain
Tampa, Florida.

Practical Destiny

May 24, 2009

I’m a big believer in the law of consequences. That is, I believe that if one thing did not happen in the past, then another thing would not have happened later. Let me give you a few examples.

I’m sure some of you have heard of Carlton Fisk, a catcher for the Boston Red Sox and later of the Chicago White Sox. Because of his home run in the twelfth inning of the sixth game of the 1975 World Series, it went seven games. Now think of this: six days earlier, Fisk’s batterymate that night, Luis Tiant, pitched a complete game in Game 4 against the Reds. Had the Red Sox not won that game, there would not be a sixth game in the first place. Extrapolate that just a bit further. If three days of rain had not interrupted the World Series, that sixth game would not have been played at night. The odds are more distant that the iconic image of Fisk waving the ball fair would even exist and become one the most enduring moments in sports television history. And had the ball not bounced fair off the left field foul pole in Fenway Park, it would not have just recently been rededicated in Carlton Fisk’s honor. Think about all that. Amazing, isn’t it?

Here’s a more recent example; there is an Austrian filmmaker called Michael Haneke. You’ll be reading about him soon enough. In 2000, he made a film called The Piano Teacher. Had Haneke never read the Elfriede Jelinek novel on which the film was based, he would never have made it, and my current idol, French actor Isabelle Huppert, would only have one Best Actress prize at Cannes and not two. Go a little further with this. If Haneke had never made The Piano Teacher, much less had the worldwide success with it that he did, he probably would not have had the ability or wherewithal to make a film called The White Ribbon. Two hours ago, Isabelle Huppert, the President of the Jury at the 62nd Cannes Film Festival, gave Michael Haneke the Palme D’Or for The White Ribbon. That exchange would never have happened if The Piano Teacher did not exist.

I just found another, better example. Take Helio Castroneves, a Brazilian who drives open-wheel race cars. Had he not won the Indianapolis 500 in back-to-back years (2001 and 2002), I might never have heard of him; he’d be one of thirty-three drivers in thirty-three cars running round and round the oval at Indianapolis. And if I didn’t know his name, I would never have known he won a celebrity ballroom dancing competition in 2007. Now consider this. In 2008, Castroneves was charged with tax evasion and tried. Had he been convicted, Castroneves would not have competed in, or even won, his third Indianapolis 500… one hour ago. He’d be in a cell, contemplating his fate.

My point, since I can practically feel the words on your tongue, is that if you study people you admire closely enough, you can see how the greatest moments of their lives were shaped. Nothing separates the great from the small quite like destiny; it’s the great intangible, greater than luck or chance. Our lives are planned for us long before we are born, but watching the course get charted is so much fun. Destiny is such a powerful force that I catch myself slack-jawed, and even at a loss for words. Which is what I am right now. I guess the amount I don’t understand about destiny could fill the Grand Canyon…

Odds and Ends

-- At the Cannes Film Festival, I'll tell you who I wonder about: the manager of the Haagen-Dazs shop across the street from the Palais du Festival, where all the competition films are shown. The managers of the Festival, in their infinite wisdom, have built bleaches across the street for onlookers, leavng the ice cream store obstructed. I wonder how business is at that store these days. Also, I wonder if employees of the shop are able to even see the arrivals. Maybe, if they had stepladders or giraffe's necks. But alas, probably not.

-- Last night, at the competition screening of Jane Campion's new film Bright Star, Juliette Binoche (whose name I'm sure Lauren Bacall still curses in her sleep) attended, leading an entourage conservatively of ten. Ostensibly, Binoche was there representing the Cinema du Monde foundation. An entourage of ten sounds about right for someone of Binoche's stature. Later that rainy night, the President of the Jury, Isabelle Huppert, attended a screening of a vampire film from South Korea (I think) called Thirst. Isabelle's entourage? Her assistant, carrying an umbrella. True greatness, I guess, travels very light. By the way, faithful readers will note that this is at least the third time I've referenced Isabelle in a blog entry. As soon as I can shape it into something that you are prepared to read, I will let you know why that this is so.

-- Today marks the annual running of the Preakness Stakes, the only horse race that's worth watching. The Kentucky Derby winner, as I''m sure you know, has to win this race in order to pursue horse racing's Triple Crown, which has never been done in my life. (Affirmed was the last to do this, when my mother was, I think, starting her second trimester with me.) My life will feel ever so slightly cocmplete if this ever comes to pass. I felt the same way about the Daytime Emmys, until Susan Lucci finally won hers in 1999. But that's another song, for later singing.

-- Here's today's grammar lesson: Tampa is to Orlando as Philadelphia to New York.

--Back to Cannes for a moment: I realize virtually everyone there is a charter member of the Mutual Admiration Society, but the first actor to ask his or her filmmaker if he wants to buy rhem a drink and take them somewhere private should get Honorable Mention.

--NYU held commencement excerises the other day at the new Yankee Stadium. Secretary of State Clinton received an Honorary Doctorate of Laws. For all of that, they still couldn't fill the joint--not even those thousand-dollar seats near the field.

--Going back to Juliette Binoche for a moment (this is stream-of-consciousness writing, don't you know): At Cannes, she declared herself to be a "citizen of the world." That's actually a very therapeutic way of living. One of the best things you can do for yourself is to free yourself of rigid borders and preconceptions, whether emotionally or physically. It doesn't matter if you travel to Tuscany or listen to its radio stations. Seeing how other people enjoy the world helps you become a citizen of the world,

--Get off the sandbox, Matthew. But be careful. Both Mme. Huppert and Mme. Binoche would notice if you broke your foot.

HAPPIEST DAY

The happiest day of my life
Was the day I realized
How special I am.

The happiest day in the World
Was when I was sure
There was no one like me.

No one thinks quite like me
Talks quite like me.
Acts the way I do.
Thinks the way I do.

On this happy day
The skies were the most beautiful blue.
The grass was the most gorgeous green.
The sun shone brighter.
The wind blew the briskest.

And God was smiling.

He had given me the greatest gift in the world.
He wanted me to know how much
He loved me.

And on this day,
I truly loved him back.

The happiest day of my life…was today.

The Dream

I dreamt the most
Beautiful Dream I’d ever
Dreamt last night.

I dreamt that I was doing
The most wonderful thing
A human being can do.

I saw myself
Making love
To a gorgeous, wondrous
Woman.

Only I know what
She looked like.
What she felt like.

But that smile
Could have lasted
An eternity.

I shall never forget that.

My dream went by
In a moment.

My memory will
Keep my dream
For always
And forever.

DIALSCAN BALTIMORE, SATURDAY, MAY 9, 2009

I’m not too sure I gave Baltimore a glowing review last time I visited, about a month ago. I guess I expected for Radio Free Charm City to be a bit more, I don’t know, charming. Maybe on a Saturday this is a possibility.

So we start at WBIS 1190, the business station that should, at least on Saturdays, when there’s not too much actual business to be done, billing itself as My Leisure and Information Station. We join it midway World of Boating. My father would appreciate it; he is actually a very good boatsman. I can remember at least twice Dad taking our family bareboating in the British Virgin Islands. Living on board a boat, whether for a day or for a week, is an amazing and altering experience. I should do it again one day, now that I’m older. It’s quite cute that World of Boating is produced by Overboard Productions, Inc., maybe overtly so. Here at 2:00PM EDT, CNN Radio comes on the air with its News on the Hour. Tornadoes, wildfires, and swine flu dominate the two-minute newsbreak from “The Most Trusted Name in News.” Moments later, in a referendum on how boring the management of WBIS thinks boating is, they switch to pre-recorded—yes, that harmful word, pre-recorded—material from Radio China International. Incongruously enough, the anchor on this pre-recorded program, purportedly originating from China is telling me what Pope Benedict XVI is doing. All right, enough of this.

Now, we did not visit WHFC-FM 91.1 when we last sampled Charm City’s radio palate. So you can imagine my delight when I turn over to it to find organ music being played. Baltimore’s most demanding radio listeners, it appears, do not have to go too terribly far for their classical music fix. WHFC is just two clicks down the FM dial from WBJC-FM 91.5, which I’ve heard and loved over the years. WHFC originates from Harford Community College in nearby Bel Air, and looking at its website, appears to have some really neat and funky stuff besides classical music; shows feature jazz music, blues music, Celtic, New Age, just about everything. It’s an honest-to-God variety station. A big, big smile just crossed my face; the Announcer just put on John Williams’ Excerpts from Close Encounters of the Third Kind; Zubin Mehta conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Would you excuse me for about ten minutes while I glory in this?

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Ellen Hopkins just signed off, introducing me to Mendelssohn’s Fifth Symphony, a/k/a his Reformation Symphony; a travel show will supersede the World’s Greatest Music in twenty-eight minutes. If every corporate peon who ever ran a “variety” station largely predicated on playing the same fifty “Soft and Contemporary” in hot rotation every day stopped here to listen to this, at least one of them would be making some drastic changes.

Over at WBJC, which was our next port of call anyway, it’s their Saturday Operafest. There must be an intermission afoot—there’s a roundtable similar to that which you might hear on the Metropolitan Opera’s Saturday Aftermoon broadcasts in the winter. It was evidently pre-recorded; the broadcaster for the less well-known Lyric Opera of Chicago broadcasts is taking us into Pagliacci. I guess opera fans need their fix, too. But I prefer the Met’s majestic broadcasts by a wide margin. Every Saturday for twenty-two weeks, it’s must listening for a happier and more serene life. Since Margaret Juntwait took the broadcasts over in 2004 from stodgy, dry Peter Allen, the Met is Appointment Radio times fifty. There are only two reasons I’d want satellite radio—all the baseball games I’d want; and Met Opera Radio when there’s no baseball to be played. But I’d be missing out on all the great jazz and talk, wouldn’t I? Besides which, satellite radio costs too damn much.

Let’s to the sports stations—and we start at WJZ-AM 1300, which I can tell you contains a little bit of local programming, thank goodness. Most of the rest of the time, it’s ESPN Radio. And just now, it’s SportsCenter Saturday. The Yankees just happen to be in Baltimore this weekend, and that’s exactly who’s under discussion at present. (Funny how the Yankees always seem to be in the city whose radio I’m sampling; can’t imagine why.) Andrew Marchand of the New York Post is trying to explain why the Yanks can’t win in the new ballpark that exhausts all superlatives…their own. At ESPN headquarters, Amy Lawrence holds court, her voice a miniature Tennessee Williams play—Summer and Smoke. Lots of it. In commercial, some dumkampf with no personality inveighs against starting pitchers who can’t throw more than 100 pitches.

We keep moving, realizing that there’s another station I did not visit: WVIE-AM 1370. Not so very long ago, they broadcast women’s programming—Dr. Laura, Laura Ingraham, Laura who was the sixth city councilwoman from the left at the Mayor’s press conference yesterday. Then, at some heretofore unknown point in the last two years or so, it changed formats and broadcasts Fox Sports Radio. Right at the moment, some imbecile thinks that college lacrosse is worthy of broadcast. I promise, only about eight people are listening. Make that seven.

Matthew pursed his lips, took a swig of Aquafina, and pointed his web browser to wnst.com. He clicked on the “listen live” button, and was at least slightly cheered to hear a conversation about the Baltimore Orioles. Matthew found it a bit of a shame to hear it coming from two testosterone cases that had irritating radio voices. And could that possibly have been a smattering of techno music Matthew heard in the background? He knew that not everyone who sat down at the radio mike could be Edward R. Murrow or Vin Scully, but a personality was not too much to ask from a sports-talk host. He should have stayed at WJZ a while longer. Summer and Smoke were just a little easier to take in comparison. With that, Matthew turned off the Windows Media Player for the moment and took another hit of by-now lukewarm Aquafina.

I skip WCBM-AM 680 entirely; a lawyer is on.

By the time I hit WBAL-AM 1090, and realize that Sporting News Radio is on and will be for six big hours, I realize that I have managed to squeeze all the charm out of Charm City’s Saturday. At least for four hours, by which time the Yanks and Orioles will be playing.

By the way, I’d have done a Dialscan during the week; I’ve just been too exhausted to do; please accept my apologies. But know this: the next one will be something entirely different.

Watch What You’re Doing

Al Pacino tells the story of the night he quit drinking, in 1977. He was at a tipping point in his career, just having won his Tony Award for The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel. Demands for his services and opinions were flying at Al from all corners and he had turned to drink to deal with the strain. One night, Al was out drinking with his friend Charlie Laughton, who was worrying for the great actor. Just as Al was uncapping the bottle, Charlie told him words to this effect: “Al, think about what you’re doing. You’re pouring the bottle. You’re putting the glass to your lips. It’s an action. I can’t prevent you from doing that, but just think about what you’re doing. Please, Al.” Pacino thought for a moment, recapped the bottle, and so far as I know, hasn’t had a drink since. Because of that thought, Al Pacino’s creative brilliance has gone nearly untrammeled for more than thirty years.

I bring this up only to raise the idea that often, a lot of us do things by rote, without actually thinking about what we do, considering the consequences. And just as often, we think very little about what other people are actually doing at any given moment. Let’s see if I can.

It is 5:03PM EDT, Saturday, May 2, 2009. I am sitting in a corner of the Panera Bread at the Clearwater Mall in Clearwater, Florida. I just raised a plastic cup containing Pepsi to my lips, took a sip and wiped my lips with a brown napkin made apparently from recycled elements. I am bobbing my left leg up and down, as it sometimes does when I am inspired. The lady just down from me, an Asian lady wearing a blue sundress, puts her feet up and re-immerses herself in her studies; a large schooltext lies open in front of her, as does a large three-ring binder. I scratch below my nose with my right thumb. The Asian Lady is packing her schooltext and other belongings and moving, as an acquaintance has beckoned her company. Outside, it is a glorious Florida late afternoon. I close one eye to better appreciate it through the blinds—there is nary a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze blows. I scratch again below my nose, this time with a napkin. I pause to reapply hand-sanitizing spray to my hands, cogent of the spread of germs, particularly in view of a recent flu outbreak. A father and daughter have passed me, the restrooms being directly behind me. And now they come back, as another man passes by.

Sure, the above paragraph sounds like play-by-play of mundane doings, but I am trying to bring out the idea of awareness. I am aware that just as quickly as one of the employees brought a high chair to the stack in front of me, two of them were just as quickly taken away by a family with small children. I am aware that a piano scherzo was, until just now, wafting through the speakers, and now is replaced by a string trio. I think that if this is not what the metaphysicians and New Age teachers call being in the present moment, then I have maybe just scratched the surface.

Now let me expand on this, if I can, and take this idea outside the confines of Panera Bread.

It is now 5:19PM, EDT. In Boston, at the Seaport World Trade Center, the actor Diane Keaton is more than likely at the tail end of a lecture on leadership; about 1,500 business leaders, nearly all of them women, are in attendance. Let’s say I’m at this lecture. Am I taking notes? If so, can I even make out what I’m writing in the semi-dark? Do I have a tape recorder to record what Diane is saying? Have I had to reload the machine? Are the muscles in my mouth exhausted from smiling so much because I’m in the presence of so legendary a figure as Diane Keaton? I’m asking myself, will she take questions? If so, does she employ ex-Secret Service agents named Bruce and Joe to gently remove me from the room lest I bring up Woody, Warren, or Al? If that’s what’s on my mind, then I haven’t been paying attention. The point is, when Diane Keaton—or anyone like her—talks, you better listen and remember what she says.

Eleven minutes have elapsed. In fifty-four minutes, for the 135th time, the Kentucky Derby is going to be run. Let’s say, for purposes of this activity, by what can only be deemed as Divine Providence, I’m on line at the betting window. In front of me is a sheik with a moustache and a gray nubby silk suit; behind me is a tanned, patrician Southern gentleman wearing his money like a second tanned skin. Like them, I have a very large amount of money in my pocket that I would bet on a horse. I look up and the morning-line favorite has been scratched. I have two choices. I can plunk down the six-figure sum I’ve been entrusted with on horse X. Horse X can be eased in mid-stretch, I would not be able to make my mortgage payment, my wife would divorce me and bar me from ever seeing my children, I’d lose my job and I’d end up wandering the streets of Tampa growing a messianic beard, wearing tattered clothing and telling you, dear Reader, the exact time and date of the Armageddon.
Or, I can walk away, rejoin my wife and children, and watch the nineteen horses splash down the homestretch with a clear conscience. What would you do if you were me?

Even more importantly, what would you—yes, you—do?

If I’ve done my job with any efficiency, are you asking yourself: Do I know where I am? Do I know where I’m going from here? Did that son of a bitch McIlvain make any damn sense?

I just ask this: if you respond to this, be aware of your fingers dancing across the keyboard.

DIALSCAN: DETROIT, APRIL 27, 2009

Were it not for the fact that the Yankees and Tigers played tonight’s game like their buses were double-parked, I would not have the time to while away sampling Motor City radio. I won’t use this space to enumerate or even regurgitate the problems Detroit has had in recent times. I will tell you that Detroit, more than most cities, has found a salve for its depression in sport. At various times over the past three years, Detroit has hosted the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Stanley Cup finals, and most recently, record-breaking crowds at college basketball’s Final Four. Hopefully, there’s a similar salve on the airwaves…

Rather than end at an oasis, why don’t we start at one this time? We’ll begin at WRCJ-FM 90.9, which does classical music by day and jazz by night. The jazz begins wafting lazily through my surround-sound headset, as welcome as the soft night air. In a moment, I’m told by the Announcer, a gent by the name of Tony Mowod, that this is “My Nightly Soundtrack.” The gentle piano is replaced by optimistic, upbeat trumpets and horns. The fact that the Yankees lost tonight is quickly pushed to the back of my mind, replaced by the carefree sounds of what they in the business call “West Coast Jazz.” I smile from ear to ear, the day’s cares all but nonsense now. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, imagining this glory emanating from the stereos of Cadillacs and Lincolns and Chrysler 300’s up and down 9 Mile. My mind rides shotgun with sophisticated ladies in elegant black cocktail dresses and grinning gents in sharp suits. They don’t give jazz playlists on the website, it doesn’t appear, but the element of surprise works very much in WRJC’s favor. I’ll get back to this, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.

Aha! More jazz, this time over at WDET-FM 101.9, Detroit’s NPR station originating from Wayne State University. This has gotta be my lucky night. I come in just as Miles Davis’s So What is winding down. If this is what Detroit listens to at night, boy, have they got it made. I can only imagine what goes on while this music plays. Fittingly enough, I see that their Announcer tonight is a man called Ed Love, who has been kind enough to put on Miles’ marvelous All Blues, from Kind of Blue, the same album that contains So What. I have Kind of Blue in my remarkable CD collection. I sometimes put in the CD player and wake up to it, or try to at least. J God, I picked a good time to do the Dialscan. You should see the grin I’ve got on my face. Who needs that Twitter crap when I’ve got the power of stream-of-consciousness writing? Incidentally, I note that whenever I turn on WBGO in Newark or WUSF after 10:00PM in Tampa, Miles’ music never reaches my ears. Why is this? Is it just a matter of bad timing or is there something more to it? Whatever the case may be, anytime a radio station plays Miles Davis, you’re not catching lightning in a jar, you’re catching lightning bugs. Sooner or later, you gotta set them free.

Jesus, I’m having such fun with all this jazz music, I almost don’t want to leave either of these stations. I might just put it to coin-flip as to which of these stations I want to come back to. Everything from here on may seem like so much ennui, but out of fairness as much as anything else, I turn the dial anyway. But not before Ed Love turns up, his voice silky and arresting all at once. He asks me what I was doing when Kind of Blue first came out. My parents were in first grade, and I was between lives—I just know I was.

What’s in the news? WWJ-AM 950 will tell me. The UAW is voting to assume majority ownership of Chrysler Corporation; GM is discontinuing its Pontiac brand, which is a major shame; one of Detroit’s mayoral candidates is considering moving some of the slum-dwellers to less dangerous suburban areas and sealing off the slums entirely; according to WWJ’S website, there is an apparent case of Swine Flu, this year’s disease du jour, in Livingston County. By the way, just heard a fellow named Dave Bowers at Accu-Weather give the forecast for Detroit. I can’t help but notice that he does the same thing for 1010 WINS listeners back in New York. Apparently, so do Messrs. Eric Wilhelm, Carl Babinski, Kerry Scwindenhammer and Dr. Joe Sobel. I shan’t be the least bit surprised to hear the same guys reporting on weather in Los Angeles, Chicago, etc. Talent pool? Try wading pool.

Now my teeth are gnashing; the sports reporter just got cut off in mid-sentence. Doesn’t matter whether he was telling me to expect his reports at fifteen and forty-five after every hour or not, that shit doesn’t ride with me. So we press up the AM dial…

…to WDFN-AM 1130, a sports-talk station. More football talk. I guess it doesn’t matter what I say. People used to want their MTV, now they just want their NFL. And want, and want, and want some more, until they have wet dreams involving the league’s commissioner, and ever further beyond that. Meanwhile, baseball fans like me are left in the wilderness.

Some dummy on Air America Radio (WDTW-AM 1310) just called Rush Limbaugh a chickenhawk. Maybe so, but Rush Limbaugh has been on the air for twenty years, and this dummy, who apparently wants everyone in his listening audience to go meatless on Mondays, just lost me after less than two minutes. He will remain nameless, but he has the personality of a 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera (in burnt umber, natch.)

As quickly as I come to WNZK 680 (or 690 in the daytime), that’s as fast as I leave, when a foreign troubadour turns up singing the same foreign troubadour song that’s been sung since there were such people as foreign troubadours.

I’ve hit rock bottom—attorney Mark Levin is on WJR-AM 760. I’m sure he’s pontificating about something and planning to sue the next person who so much as looks at him funny, so I don’t even bother listening. I’m going back to the jazz music. I was happier, you were happier, the antennae were happier.