La Tristesse Durera Toujours

That little French line is a translation of the last words Vincent Van Gough’s brother said to him, meaning, The sadness will last forever. I wrote it for two reasons; because it makes me seem a bit more sophisticated and Bohemian, and because it’s true – in losing Bill, the sadness will last forever.

Bill was my “baby” brother, my childhood roommate, my partner and my best friend and I lost all of them at once six years ago today. Rarely a day goes by when I don’t think of him or remember something he would say in a certain situation (often not suitable for a gentle crowd). I have so many memories of him, but I was worried some of the thoughts and memories of others could be forgotten. I pestered a few of his many and eclectic friends to pass on their stories about Bill and several replied with very caring thoughts.

A common theme was that Bill was tall and big and loud. There was no denying that. His voice boomed when he was happy, when he was angry, when he was telling a joke, or, come to mind, whenever he was talking. If you didn’t know him, it could be disarming because it was difficult to know if he was yelling about something, or simply enjoying life.

As loud and big as Bill was, he was also very sensitive. He gave so much of his time to anyone who asked for advice or to have deep, long talks with his kids and Sue. It wasn’t in him to allow someone to feel pain without him trying to help figure out a resolution. We talked so much about personal challenges and happiness that it’s a wonder we ever got any work done.

But rather than having me fill up this space with my thoughts, please read what others had to say about Bill. It’s a bit long, but well worth the read. He had friends from his childhood and from all walks of life and each of them got a different view and a different time from Bill. I hope we all remember him fondly and not with sadness, as he wouldn’t want any part of anyone shedding tears for him. He’d rather tell a joke or sing a song; anything to keep us from crying. We were all better to have had him in our lives, however briefly, and it’s great to keep the flame of his joy and laughter moving on through the years.

What follows are thoughts of his friends and family members and in no particular order.

When we first moved to San Diego, we had about 30 kids living on our street who were all roughly the same age and just about all who were from somewhere else, just like us. One of those early friends, Cindy, had this to say about him: “the biggest thing about Bill was his booming laugh and his absolute joy in taking on life! He pushed boundaries at times to get the experience but was actually gentle in his insistence. I'll always think of him in his high school years with his wild, surfer hair and his huge grin.

As most of you know, Bill didn’t want to just be an actor, he wanted to be a movie star! To get as close as he could to the business, he worked in movie theaters and made a lot of lifelong friends. One was his buddy Scott who wrote, “I was 17 when I first met Bill. He was hired to be the manager of the movie theater that I worked at. He was a very welcome change from the people I had worked with previously- and we quickly became friends.

One of the jobs that Bill and I ended up sharing was to leave the answering machine message for what the showtimes of the movies were. Well, as luck would have it, the theater eventually ran the movie 'The Stuntman' which Bill did extra work on- and had a line in. So, of course, when he did the show times message he said: 'The Poway Theater is proud to present, 'The Stuntman.'!!! Starring Bill Arno and Peter O' Toole!!!'

We also used to have clip boards in the managers office where we could leave each other notes. 'Need supplies', etc. Bill used to leave me somewhat perverted drawings that used to always crack me up. One of the best ones that he left me was picture of himself mooning me saying that I needed to get hotdog buns. Our boss' kids saw it, and unfortunately that was the end of those great notes...” Scott says he can produce the drawings if pressed, but it’s not difficult to believe. I’m sure his brother Peter (and several of his friends, come to think of it) can remember many actual moonings by Bill.

One of our best workers at the office was the daughter of one of Bill’s friends. It actually is painful to know how his friend has suffered the loss of Bill, but also good to know his daughter Amanda remembers him, “Some of my fondest memories of Bill were when he would crack me up with his sound effects and dramatic entries. I will never forget the 'hissing' sound while using his wooden backscratcher as a cat claw prop.”

My daughter Em has this message to Bill, and even adds a bit of Bohemian flair by tossing in the words of W. H. Auden to express her love, “As a young child, I always thought you were mad at us, but I learned very quickly to be an Arno is to be loud and if you weren't loud, you weren't heard! And being heard is very important to us Arno's. All my time with you was special, but the most special times were the simplest. I loved coming to the office when my dad was on the phone because I knew I could go straight to your office and would get a great giggle while you did your impression of Cartman. I loved the stories you told me about Cass and Janee because I could tell in your voice how much you loved them, even when they were creeeps.

I know I carry so many Arno traits, but the one I never seemed to pick up on was collecting. I loved to watch you collect things for your many hobbies and talents. Everytime Kellen gets a new surfboard, I think of you and smile. You live in each one of us and that is a gift that can never be taken away.

Since we lost you, your family has become even more important to me. Cass and Janee feel more like a brother and a sister than cousins and your amazing wife captures everything; aunt, mother, friend and of course therapist. You must be beaming with pride...

Before I say goodbye this time, I would like to leave you with the words from another splendid buggar; "He was my North, my South, my East and West; My working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song..."

You will soon permanently be my West when I get a compass tattooed on my ankle - following in your family's footsteps. Thank you for continuing to guide me.”

Gail knew Bill for nearly 30 years, as he sort of came with the larger deal. Although I think she would say he wasn’t a gift you wanted to give back. She was there for the end, too. “I remember nearly exactly every step of the day we got the news he died. I wasn't with you and you told me over the phone, I remember driving to our Orangevale home and how awful my gut felt, I remember going to the office together and telling the team he had died. And I remember my feelings-my heart hurt and my soul ached but mostly I remember being worried for you, being grateful your parents didn't have to endure what we were experiencing and thinking they were welcoming and comforting him in Heaven. I remember his laugh, his voice(s), his honesty, I remember him crying like a baby at your Mother's funeral, I remember his smile when Cass was born, I remember him as honest, he could be brutally honest, he was truly a family man and while he pursued his interests with great focus he really did love the family he was given and the one he chose to create.

He embraced life and the living of it in such a huge way. There is so much I love and remember about Bill but nothing matches the way in which he lived his life: to the very fullest. He had a zest for living and lived his life to its very limit and I admire that in him so much. The love he shared with Sue and then created in Cass and Janee is inspirational-they have done well with Bill as their guiding light and I am certain he is beaming with pride watching over them.

Our family misses you and your booming voice, your varied and broad interests and hobbies, your huge presence on the screen and through the air waves, your sensitive soul, your collecting nature and the obvious love you brought to your life and the life of many others that we all benefitted from.

I am so honored to have known you, to have been a small part of your life and to have had the privilege to love you. Your example of living life to its fullest inspires me to follow in your footsteps and embrace this life we are given. This planet isn’t the same without you nor is life in general. I miss and love you Bill very much---and I will always carry you in my heart…

It may seem a bit odd, but Bill was the youngest kid in our family. My brother Peter and I tried to figure out ways to get rid of him when he was born as he was cramping the good thing the two of us had going. I even poisoned him once (on accident, I’m pretty sure), but I think we actually instilled in him the ability to withstand so much, we created a bit of a monster. From his brother Peter, “The day my youngest brother was born, I can remember running home with my younger brother Michael. We ran across a neighbor’s yard to take a short cut to get home and get our first look at our new brother. Quickly we were in the house and looking into a crib to see Bill for the first time. He had eczema and, as many babies on their first day, was not so attractive. Looking into the crib I can remember being very shocked at the sight of him as my mother replied “isn’t he beautiful.” Well I didn’t want to say no. I just looked at Michael and said “come on Mike let’s go outside and play.” That was my first meeting in this life with a very dynamic personality that was to grow up as a close friend.

As early as watching him play in the ashes in the fireplace, Michael and I realized this was no ordinary guy. Even though he was three years younger, I preferred not to fight with him, as he was willing to grab the nearest weapon at anytime to equalize the matter. This was an early theme when, even at age five after a small skirmish, I ran to close the back door of the house and lock him out. Unfortunately for me this provided no help as, quite shocked, I watched him put his fist through the window unlock the door to continue the fight.

There were many charming early memories of this type. I particularly appreciated ducking behind a chair as Bill threw a kitchen knife at me. As I ducked, I was able to see the knife stick in the wall over my head. Needless to say I escaped down the hall shutting two doors behind me as he kept throwing his entire body into the door time and time again until he broke it down. Bill was determined!!

After we started going to school, daily I was asked if I was Bill Arno’s brother. My usual reply was “no he is MY brother” but it did no good. He was larger than most kids his age and he always made it a point to protect those who got picked on in his class. In school, if you were Bill’s friend you were safe on the way home.

Bill was a showman who lived his entire life larger than anyone I knew. I truly enjoyed watching Bill grow up. As we grew older we became good friends and I considered him to be a best friend always. Bill’s artistic talent was clear from a very early age. As a very young boy, he was easily drawing very complex sketches with great expertise. It seemed as if he could play any instrument he wished to pick up and he had a beautiful voice singing solos often in choirs. He settled on acting to express his artistic talent for most of his life. He was always trying out for parts and using his booming base voice in “voiceovers” for most of his adult life.

Bill and I worked together for some time but I was happy to see that he got a job working with my other brother Michael. This was a better opportunity and he made the best of it eventually becoming Michael’s partner with Arno Political Consultants. His success in his work afforded him time to make the most of life which always included his family. This included my son Will too as well. Bill took many wonderful family trips around the world. At times he included my son Will and I know Will considered him a second father.

About a year before Bill died he told me that he felt that he would not live much longer and that he wanted to fit in as much as he possibly could. That he certainly did, particularly focusing on Japanese Swordsmanship. I must say that he was freakishly good. He became highly proficient in a remarkable short period of time and outside of his family, it was the central theme of interest for the last few years of his life.

One Friday our sword Sensei “Big Tony” called me to tell me that Bill had collapsed in Japan at a sword tournament. I had a bad feeling as soon as I took the call and Tony informed me “that it didn’t look good.” A few days later, I was formally informed that Bill had died. This was perhaps the saddest day of my life. I remember this day like it was yesterday. I loved Bill very much and know that because of that we are never apart. I am very grateful to have had him in my life and honored that he is my brother.

Being new to California as pale, geeky teens from Michigan, it was difficult to assimilate into the cool, California lifestyle. Bill instantly knew he had to buy the surf shorts, grow out his hair, put his lip in a permanent snarl and buy Hang Ten shirts. He also made a huge early impression when he got to school and made a number of friends. One of his first friends was David Steinberg, who wrote this touching membory of him. “Bill Arno was simply the best friend anyone could ever have. We met when I was about 13, through a mutual friend of mine who was a native Californian and an avid body surfer as Bill was.

I had moved to La Jolla about three years earlier from Bethesda, MD, where my father worked as a research scientist at the National Institute of Health. UCSD started a medical school and my father had a new career as a Professor of Medicine.

As an East Coast kid, and one of English-Scottish background with pasty white skin, I felt extremely uncomfortable with the intense surf culture in La Jolla. I was never athletic and was generally a very self-counscious and geeky adolescent. Add to that having a pretty absent father due to the demands of his new job and you have a recipe for a lot of teenage angst.

Bill was fair-skinned like me, but he was a big dude and he could pretty much kick anyone's' ass who gave him a hard time. He surfed, he participated in sports, and he was extremely popular at LJ High - particularly with the girls.

We all know that kids can be awfully mean.

Bill stood up for me in any number of situations. He was very protective of his friends. He had an evenness and calm about him that was truly unusual for an adolescent.

He was never mean to others and did not need to be critical or judgmental. He seemed happier than I or my other best friend and we enjoyed basking in Bill's confident and light-hearted presence.

And the most wonderful thing about Bill was that he had a wicked sense of humor and ability to mimic that was amazing. He could recite lines word-for-word and with the exact intonations from dozens of films of the time - like Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, Monty Python, Fast Times at Ridgemont High. He had a similar talent musically, where he could "scat sing" a Jimmy Hendrix solo that would blow you away.

Movies were always my passion and Bill and I really bonded over that.

Years later I ended up working as a cinematographer and Bill had some acting successes. He attended my wedding and saw each other every time I was in San Diego, Los Angeles or Sacramento right up until his his death. After a divorce and a 2nd wedding, Bill flew to Martha's Vineyard just to spent time with me and meet my new wife.

I will never stop missing him. He was my very best friend and as an adult, the friend with whom I had the greatest history. I love him dearly and am so grateful for having known him

Another high school friend, Neil Shepherd wrote: “Bill was warm, wise, and mature beyond his years. Being comfortable in his own skin, he allowed others to be comfortable in theirs. Undoubtedly, he enriched the world around him and we're poorer for his passing. Many thanks for the memories and warm regards.

Another friend Peter Woods added this: “Bill was one of the first people I met back when we moved out here in '69 from the Midwest. We used to mess around over at Gordon Merricks' house up above where Tom Bevan lived off of upper Nautilus, the new frontier in La Jolla back then.

I remember telling both of those guys that I played the drums and Gordon proceeded to break out his sax while Bill went and got his trumpet from home. This was before I had met Tom and was the first affirmation that it might be ok to play an instrument and bring a little of my mid-western experience through to my new California identity and not get razzed for it like I did my striped bell-bottom pants on my first day at Decatur. Incidentally, Bill never gave me a hard time about anything I ever did, wore, or played, and was a true patron of the arts dating all the way back to day one as far as I was concerned.

I always enjoyed the way the group and activity seemed to get on with Bill's pace as soon as he arrived on the scene. It was an easy, calming and gentrified rhythm that would ensue, and always made for a richer experience, no matter the event, or people involved.

The last time I saw him was at Lino's funeral, and he was his usual bigger than life self telling lobbyist tales and generally cracking everybody up, the perfect foil for the somber occasion, checking everybody out with a tilted head, making sure the groove was comfortable.

He was a good friend.
Thanks for ringing the bell.

Chris Mahoney had similar thoughts about Bill: “I met Bill at Muirlands Junior High School. I can’t remember how, probably art class in seventh grade. Bill was a gifted artist. He would draw super heroes that could rival anything Marvel Comics was printing up at the time. I was always so envious of that talent, and I was surprised, later on, to hear he'd never really capitalized on it. He was really, really good, especially given his young age.

For a couple of our junior high years, Bill, Pete Nielsen and I were the fearsome trio. It seemed to me we did everything together: eating lunch together, sitting together in class when our schedules lined up, terrorizing the neighborhoods that branched off of Nautilus Street after school. We never got into any real trouble, probably because we never really caused any. The only real damage we did was to the iceplant that grew from the edge of Nautilus down to the fairway of the La Jolla Country Club below. We would stand at the top like great warriors or athletes and leap—sometimes feet first, sometimes diving—and then slide all the way to the bottom. We'd then use that same iceplant like vines and climb back up to do it all again.). I don't know about Bill and Pete, but I always caught it when I got home because my jeans and t-shirts would be completely stained green.

Sometimes, looking back, I can't believe how far we walked on our adventures I
do remember buying 5-pound blocks of ice from Grand liquor on the corner of
Grand Ave. and Lamont St., lugging those blocks up to Kate Session Park, and
using them like sleds to slide down the grassy slopes after sunset. Hard to
believe that the media has instilled so much fear in parents that kids can no
longer roam free like that. Interesting how well all that walking and physical play
kept us out of any real trouble.

We also took Mr. Stewart's drama class together and both became semi dedicated thespians. Again, Bill had greater talent than me, but neither of us had the talent of our mutual friend Linus Weiss. While Bill and I were competitive in sports, we were never competitive in Drama, and he, Linus, and I did a lot of acting together, working up scenes, honing our craft, and laughing a lot. We were all in one or two plays together, but my interest in motocross kept me from pursuing acting to the level Bill and Linus did. The rest of the time, I had great fun cheering them on.

As I look back, both he and Linus and he and Pete Nielsen had great senses of humor together. I don't remember myself as having that, but I do remember laughing really long and hard during those friendships. I really needed that laughter, and the light gaiety those three-way friendships brought into my life.

Interestingly, death has been an important thread in our lives as well. When our mutual friend Michael Wolf was tragically killed by a drunk driver, Bill made a special point (at the cost of some business interest) to be at the hastily pulled together services I set up. In fact, that was the last time I saw Bill. My life took me in a whole different direction since (and, to an extent, because of) Michael's death. I always kept track of and in touch with Bill, but since I missed the 20th reunion, I don't think we were ever again in each other's physical presence after that tear-filled good bye.

It was Bill who called me (I was still in graduate school in Colorado at the time.) to tell me of Linus's death. Linus had been fighting the good fight against lymph cancer for years. I can’t think of anyone I would rather hear that news from than Bill. And again, amidst the deep sadness of sharing our grief over Linus's death, Bill found ways to infuse that pain-filled call with great humor that had me laughing and crying at the same time.

Our high school class was surprisingly close, and many of us have remained that way through the ensuing years. As a result, that reunion was much more like a family reunion than it was a high school get together. It may seem odd, now that I think back, but the poignancy of hearing of Bill's death there, at that moment, in just that way, added a richness to the experience, but it did. It was sort of like sitting in a very comfortable place and closing the really great book after reading its final pages. I am very sad he's gone; I will always miss him; but I am so glad we wrote those chapters so richly.

In primary school, Bill was a big, handsome, competent, confident young man, and I aspired to be like him. I will always appreciate the ease with which Bill carried his natural talents and attributes through life, his easy smile, the lightness with which he interacted with those around him, and that unbounded confidence. Throughout my time knowing Bill, both when he was alive and since his death, it is the laughter we shared, the myriad ways he inspired me, and the wonderfully easy way he carried all is strengths and plied all his vast talents that has always left me a love-filled smile on my face and a desire to stretch myself to be a better man. I'll always be grateful to him both for the times we shared.
Another of his high school friends, Louise McCartney Bluestone, sums up how so many of his friends recall him: “What I remember most about Bill was that he was a kind, thoughtful gentle soul . He was a very special guy, a friend that could be counted on. You were so lucky to have him as a brother.


All my best to the family

Another LJHS friend, Michael Boyajian, wrote: “One of the fondest memories that I had of your brother, Bill was going out to the Borrego Desert to film the "Last Dollar," in or around 1974-1975. Gary Appel was the director, and David Steinberg was the cameraman. We were all involved in the drama department at La Jolla High School. The film was a western, but Gary had a limited budget, so we had to do without horses. Bill was one of the stars of the movie. The sound was dubbed in after the movie was filmed up at UCSD. I played one of the "bad guys," and my voice wasn't deep enough, so Bill's booming voice was used. Hank Watkins, Caleb Taylor and many others were also involved. This is only one of the memories that I have about Bill (we all ran in the same circles, and Bill ended up marrying one of my sister, Amy's best friends).

Bill was really in his element when he was on stage. I remember when he came home one day and announced how his school was going to put on a performance of Fiddler On The Roof. It was such an involved musical that I remember his theater teacher having misgivings that high school kids could meet the demands on stage, even thinking about bringing in a pro to play Tevye – a role his best friend Linus was born to play. When it was performed, it was done as well as anything you could see Off Broadway and I think it may have been that single play that gave Bill the inspiration to pursue an acting career. One of his castmates, Hilary Michels Dunning remembers that time this way: “I went to his senior prom (and another formal too) with him when I was a young and green sophomore. I was so completely head over heels for that guy! I always felt bad about senior prom - here he picked me up in your parent’s way cool black car (some sort of Thunderbird or something?) and the prom was at the Hotel Del. The part I feel bad about is that all his buddies and their dates were supposed to be out all night long, and my parents made him bring me home by 2:00am. That was some sacrifice on his part! Hopefully, he dropped me off and went back to party! lol

I remember his beautiful, gorgeous singing voice, his twinkly blue eyes, his smile, his laugh, and his resonant speaking voice. And as a tall gal myself, his height was so welcome! :) And he had this great sense of humor and this inner strength - he was grounded and mature. I so looked up to him and respected him.

I fell head over heels for him during the production of Fiddler on the Roof, when he played Perchik. I just went through every rehearsal with stars in my eyes for him. :) I couldn't believe it when my crush was returned. It was a fairly innocent romance and I wanted it to go on forever. (He was never truly committed though, as I think his heart still belonged to Sue and they were on a break when he was with me.) Plus he just seemed so much "older" than me...I was in complete awe of him.”

Another classmate, Dr. John Andrews wrote: “when I think of your brother I always smile. In high school Bill was the big dude with a deep, booming voice who was thoughtful, creative, and extremely kind to everyone. He had unique intensity about him that was complemented by a self confident, mature, and fairly chilled out demeanor. He set an example for all of us to go to the beat of our own drummer. I'll be thinking about him on the 13th...

Brian Micheletti had this memory: I first met Bill in 7th grade at Muirlands JHS. He was a big athletic guy back then, around school he had a laid back presence. Like Dr John said Bill had that booming voice that always let you know he was there. The words Dr John used in describing Bill were right on, thoughtful, creative, kind, intense, confident, mature.

This bring's me to my Bill moment. I was 2 years more or less out of high school. I had turned to surfing a lot after high school, while working and going to school. I was out with some buddies excited to see a new surf flick at the Roxy Theater in PB. I'm waiting with my friends in line working a good buzz when this big arm grabs my shoulder. I turn around to have this official looking Bill (slacks and white shirt) with a serious face, tell me in that take control voice that he needs to talk to me inside. I give my friends a little worried look. He walks me straight into the office. With his back to me he turns and starts to crack that big Bill grin that lightened many a moment. To get me in free, he told me that he needed to look serious to keep his employees from catching on. It was a very cool thing to do. I also hadn't seen Bill in a while and it was good to talk. I will always remember Bill for that moment. Mike thanks for bringing back some good memories.

Bill’s fellow workers were also not immune to his charms. Our longtime CFO, Linda, remembers his pretty much like all of us did, especially the part about his joke rarely being appropriate for the general public: “Bill was such a funny man. He always made me laugh and would always come up with something funny even when times were tough. A lot of the jokes I remember are very inappropriate for the public consumption. He was a great guy and he is missed.”

Teri, one of Bill’s longstanding co-workers says this: “My best memory of Bill is when he decided that it was time for my "annual review.” He called me into his office, now keep in mind at the time I was very intimated by Bill. He offered me a seat in the chair across from him. When I sat down, I slid all the way back into the chair, not realizing it had such a sharp slope to it. I guess the look on my face was funny because Bill let one of his famous billowing laughs out at me. After that moment, Bill forever held a place in my heart. (Oh and my review went really well!)”

The years have slipped by pretty fast since 2005 and it’s difficult to believe he’s been gone this long. I hope all of his friends and family, and especially Sue, Cass and Janee, are warmed by his memory and are sitting in the glow of his love, not only on this day, but at any moment he shines down on them. There are so many of his oft-repeated lines that could close out this, whatever this is, a tribute, I suppose. From one of his favorites as he would bump your chair from behind, “feel anything,” to Bill Murray’s Razor’s Edge, “he won’t be missed,” even to his version of what Ronald Reagan should have said in a farewell speech (including another moon shot). But I remember him doing Bugs Bunny as a kid over and over again saying, “That’s all folks.” For now, I guess that says it best.

Silly Fighting

I have to mention something, even with the likelihood I will offend the easily offended. A few days back I was at a restaurant and I heard a commotion behind me. I turned to find an older man punching another patron who responded with some heavy shoving that ended up turning a dining table over and spilling a bucket full of beer over the floor.

Two burly security guards separated the two, although it took a bit of doing and seemed more like the half-hearted attempts by NHL referees to break up a hockey fight before enough blood hits the ice. As a quick aside, the security business in the country I was visiting may be the fastest growing job sector with security at most restaurants, shops, malls, clubs, parking lots, office buildings, even private security guards. Despite the number of beef at most places I go, I don’t feel much safer.

Once the fighters calmed down, the security guards turned the table back over and rearranged the chairs. The combatants each sat down at the same table and began talking to each other with very little anger, it appeared. So the fighters were actually friends – maybe even relatives – and must have figured a point needed to be made with fists rather than a tough talk. As far as fights go, it wasn’t much of a thing to watch and was more reminiscent of the break-dance fighting from the movie Zoolander than a heavyweight championship bout. Still, it was a head-scrather….

Burning Issues

I have a friend who just can’t sit still. In the past year, he’s been to Afghanistan several times and stayed for a good period of time in South Sudan, living in conditions that even he thought were a bit too austere. A few months ago he contacted me from Kabul at a time that hostilities had increased, including the blowing up of his favorite store to buy his Diet Coke. He’d missed the bombing by about an hour, but seemed more miffed by the loss of his Diet Coke supplier than he was unnerved by the violence. (I’ve always told him his Diet Coke addiction will kill him). In fact, during a chat that day, he admitted to being bored.

He arrived back in Kabul the very day the Afghan “street” was in full mob mode because a goofy pastor had burned a Quran a week or so earlier. The first message he received upon his arrival was from the American security mission in Kabul that read:

Currently ongoing incident:

Shooting - Massoud Cirle/Abdul Haq Circle 0925hrs

Shooting currently ongoing believed to be involving ISAF and Insurgents.

Shooting ongoing. I’m not sure you want to be in a city with that message, but he just laughed it off. So I wrote him asking if we should find more pastors to burn more Qurans so he could have a bit more excitement in his life. He responded with an interesting viewpoint. He suggested the pastor come to Kabul to burn a Quran and become an instant martyr. He made a good point. It’s easy to tweak a religion from a distance and not worry about the consequences for the actions.

However there are two conflicting thoughts, despite the fact that Pastor Jones really had no need to burn anything and if he wanted to do something productive, he should shave that silly mustache! But by burning the Quran, two things come to mind: 1. He claimed Islam is not a religion of peace and, coincidently, they proved the pastor right by killing 20 people in brutal ways, and 2., If a group of Muslims were to come to the most Southern Baptist town and burn a box full of bibles, it’s highly doubtful anyone would have been beheaded and probably the worst that would have occurred would have been a strong letter to the local newspaper and a lot of noise on talk radio.

We seem to be in a war of jingoism coupled with politically correct responses to the obvious: we’re engaged in a clash of cultures, and all it takes to whip up a mob in the Middle East are a few good community organizers and CNN journalists for the mob to mug for the cameras. My opinion is we need to shut down the entire operation, leave the region and leave them stumped to find reasons to join a mob instead of working on creating a country that isn’t among the world’s biggest basket cases.

Random Thinking....

Obama gets to play with his military toys: Due to the ever-changing situation in Libya, this thought may have a shelf-life of a few hours, but I find it humorous that our Nobel Peace Prize winning president decided to lob Trident missiles into Libya to save the Libyan people. It made me turn to me DVD library to watch a few clips of Team America: World Police when they destroyed Paris to save the city.

Most presidents who take us into war (what else can you call it – certainly not a “kinetic military action"?) give Americans a bit of a pep talk before the bombing begins. They’ll make a case to the American people about why we’re blowing up things, the goals and who is supposed to die for messing with us, or our “vital national security interests,” before they give it a mission name like Operation Wag The Dog. The Libyan attacks by a coalition of the unwilling seems more like letting a few Europeans show off their new combined EU defense industry products, ready for sale. Although it’s a sad day indeed when you throw a war with European countries and the Germans decide to sit it out.

Our historic president decided to be historic once again, giving his unwatched speech to America in what, in the end, seemed more like a justification than a call to arms, and did so nine days after the first missiles were launched. Perhaps future presidents will take the 20/20 hindsight approach in addresses to the nation on all sorts of matters. A president is more apt to appear he made all the right moves when you get to back into your remarks rather than try to back out later, as George W. Bush discovered in declaring Mission Accomplished about eight years too early in Iraq.

The president even took the opportunity to slap himself on the back a few times, comparing how long it took him to order the missiles compared to the time that passed for President Clinton to kill civilians to stop the killing in the Balkans – either a slap in Ms. Clinton’s face for getting him into this mess, or he somehow thought the press forgot where the Balkans are (most did, likely). In all fairness, President Clinton was hiding under his Oval Office desk while Madeline Albright got the Balkan War up to a fever pitch, and it appears President Obama was also cornered by his Secretary of State to stir up some desert dust – so much for feminist talk that only men create wars.

While he was given less of a pass by the press than normal on his tardy talk, I don’t think anyone with the courage to watch his non-fireside chat found a greater understanding of our mission in Libya. Key questions left unanswered: Are we out to kill Gaddafi, or just trying to send a message by blowing up his palace? Who are the rebels and why were they only mentioned in passing? Are we arming the rebels with Stinger missiles so they can take out Libyan air force jets and the occasional commercial 747? Why did we hand off command and control to NATO when the top two commanders of NATO are American, we are the major funder, and they still need our advanced weaponry to enforce a no-fly zone and to make big holes in the ground where once strategic targets were? And, finally, it’s quite worldly of us to jump into such a fray to spare innocents, it’s just sort of puzzling why innocents in South Sudan, Congo, Syria, Ivory Coast, Bahrain and the protestors in Iran in 2009 don’t warrant the same compassion. Look, the president is just too damn smart for us regular folk to understand such nuance – even with 20/20 hindsight. Let’s just hope he picks his battles better than he does his Final Four picks.

The facts are in: California sucks. There was an interesting article by Forbes naming the Top 15 cities where things are getting worse. The major criteria were unemployment rate, the expectation for future job growth, and percentage of homes in foreclosure. Of the top seven cities, six are in California. This little tidbit coupled with a $26 billion deficit and bond rating that just slipped below Louisiana to come in at number 50, can lead one to wonder about the effectiveness of our elected leaders.

While we’ve had our boneheaded governors in the Golden State, there have been two constants in California politics since 1995: a huge left-wing democrat majority in the legislature beholden to special interest and a small and right wing minority of republicans beholden to the voices in their heads. The theory of “never the twain shall meet” is alive and kicking among our politicians and no amount of gunplay is apt to change things.

There was a day in California when the majority of legislators were lawyers prior to entry into public service. Say what you will about lawyers, but they know how to draft laws, take their one-third, and get out of town. Now the majority of legislators’ previous employment was the staff of former legislators, thanks in no small part to term limits and the idiots who put it on the ballot (me!). As a result, the main form of legislating is towing the company line and, presto, all problems over the past 15 years have been kicked down the road so far that we’ve finally found the dead end. I say give them all a year’s paid vacation just so they’ll leave us alone for a year and maybe things won’t get any worse. We’ve tried everything else, let’s get innovative.

Why one shouldn’t fly with Russian passengers: You’ve all heard that flight attendant’s speech prior to take off; that one that mentions 30 times to shut off all electronic devices, check to make sure your seat belt is fastened, and how much the various meats on a stick will cost. There are certain sounds only dogs can hear, but I’m guessing there are other sounds that only Russians can’t hear. One of them is to shut off all electronic devices.

I was on a flight to Moscow the other day and all Americans dutifully turned off everything they were required to, including the flight attendants. I kept my phone on a bit longer than normal because AT&T’s service is so incredibly awful, I had to wait five minutes for an e-mail to clear my outbox. I was reminded three times to shut off my phone and, with a feeling of lawlessness, I even chose to hide my phone to avoid further scolding. The Russians sitting in the row across from me? One woman had two mobile phones switched on and was showing her seatmate something on her computer while we were taking off. She also wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Not a single flight attendant said anything to her – likely because they knew it would do no good.

There is an old joke about an America, a Frenchman, and a Russian. The task is to get each one to jump off a bridge into the river. To the American, he’s told he’s lost all his money and, with nothing to live for, he jumps off the bridge. To get the Frenchman to jump, he’s told he’s lost all his lovers. To convince the Russian, a sign is placed on the bridge that reads, It’s forbidden to jump off the bridge. Now I’ve been on a lot of flights inside Russia and I can’t recall a single instance of a Russian turning off anything electrical, which makes one believe there’s nothing to this canard of electronic interference in the first place. But on the remote chance there is, my suggestion is flight attendants change their pre-flight announcements to say, It is forbidden to keep your electrical devices turned on.

Where Have You Gone Woodward and Bernstein?

My friend who goes by the moniker Agent 69 thinks I’m an interesting person. If anyone thinks I’m interesting I tend to want to hang out a bit more with them because, well, I don’t get that reaction very often. Although I must say it does bring to mind the Groucho Marx line of not wanting to be part of any club that would have him as a member. Nevertheless, I had a lunch with him today and, as often is the case, we grumbled about various political banalities. To our mutual credit, very few swear words were used in this session.

The subject came up about the political class and the media that write about them. Specifically, about the strange relationship of media and how it is billed as our guardians of truth and yet have a cozy relationship with the people we need guarding from. It was in evidence this weekend when President Obama was having a going-away party for administration hatchet man David Axelrod who was leaving to run the reelection campaign for the president. First, let me state my bias and pray that Mr. Axelrod is a complete and utter failure in his revised role. At any rate, as Egypt and much of the Middle East was burning, our tirelessly-working president was goofing off with his staff and a number of invited elite journalists.

It makes one scratch the balding side of the head to get around the idea that supposedly objective journalists could maintain that objectivity and still make the A List for future parties and sleepovers at the White House. If a reporter were to write a slightly critical story about the president, would he or she be taken off the invite list? The worry of losing the status – and the access – in this manner could make any reporter give pause about what they’d write.

When I was a lowly paid sportswriter, there was a definite dividing line about consorting with the athletes we were writing about. It was almost a point of professional pride that we could care less about hanging out with the athletes, invited or not. And, the bigger the name, the less we wanted to seem star-struck. The reporters who cover the White House these days seem to feel just the opposite and can’t wait to write in their diary about how the president remembered their name. In fact, there is a big snit going on from the reporters who weren’t invited to the White House soiree.

Back when it was cool to be an aloof sportswriter, I had a story lead that went, “The Texas Rangers stink, and Mike Hargrove was the stinkee.” I was proud of that line and proud that I had called out the Rangers’ only all-star player. With my chest puffed up, I proudly went to the Rangers’ practice field the next day and was talking to manager Bobby Valentine. As we were discussing what Valentine might do when he became a former manager, a baseball whizzed by my head and I could feel the wind of the ball as it missed my nose by an inch. Valentine looked down and tried to hold off a chuckle. I looked around and couldn’t tell who had thrown the ball, although my great deductive skills had narrowed the field to Hargrove, who was about 50 yards away. A moment later another ball zipped by my head and, putting two and two together, I figured Hargove was throwing the ball at me. So I said, “Skip, I think Hargrove is trying to hit me on the head with a baseball!” Valentine said, “Naw, if he was trying to hit you, he would have.” The next day, Hargrove went 0-4 in an 8-0 loss and I wrote of the Ranger’s star player, “Hargrove looked about as sharp as white sox and a black tuxedo, but he sure can throw the ball with great accuracy.” The 6'-4" Hargrove grabbed me in the clubhouse the next day and asked me to autograph my article. So much seems to have changed in the relationship with reporters and the people they report on. It’s also true that much has changed in the expectations placed on the reporters by those they’re covering. And that’s sad.

Years ago, I was traveling with a few old political hands and they were having fun telling me about all the dirty little secrets of California’s elected legislators. Republicans and democrats both had skeletons that needed to be nailed shut in the closet. One maintained a collection of child pornography in his office and another once punched his wife in the nose because she met the pizza guy half naked. Another was found in a hammock with a 16-year-old babysitter, another was considered the cocaine dealer for the Senate and its staff. Most were alcoholics and few had anything resembling scruples. But they had one thing in common: they were protected from any of this information coming out by the Capitol dome.

While we are led to believe that republicans hate democrats and vice versa, the simple truth is that they don’t hate each other enough to engage in mutually assured destruction. So the details of the frailties of our elected mortals stays in the family; in part because they are aware of their own frailties and in part because they are protecting the image of our elected officials as servants of the public and the essence of truth and justice. The real story couldn’t be farther from the truth.

And this is where we have to give the stink-eye to the media. If I know these stories, imagine what the seasoned journalists know. I once asked undoubtedly the most important political reporter why he didn’t write about the dirty secrets in the Capitol. He told me if he did, it would be the last story he’d write and he’d be out of job. While I know politicians have stirred us into a rough employment environment, I wonder what happened to the days when an editor would give a reporter the boot for sitting on a story that was far more in the interest of the public than remaining on the A list for party invites. Woodward and Bernstein, where are you when we need you?

Taking A Leak

Five months ago, a waif named Julian Assange unloaded 250,000 secret documents that disclosed, among other things, the names of Afghan citizens outing Al Qaeda miscreants in their neighborhood, names of CIA operatives in Afghanistan and Iraq, details of the U.S. rendition program, U.S. helicopter fire on a group of civilians and reporters (interspersed with combatants, a common tactic), and revealed some of our more gruesome ways to squeeze information out of captured bad guys such as waterboarding.

With the first dump, one could sense a chuckle coming from the press and the White House as most of the leaks were thought to be embarrassing to the previous administration. On the surface of things, nothing was done to stop Assange or his WikiLeaks group from further publication of national secrets. The New York Times, which refused to reveal the name of the already revealed Valerie Plame for fear harm could come to her, had no journalistic concerns about revealing hundreds of names of individuals involved in covert activities from and for the U.S. As the point news source for WikiLeaks in the U.S., no doubt the New York Times was more busy dusting off a spot on the mantle for its next Pulitzer Prize that it always seems to receive when it publishes secret material than it was considering the ethics of the news reporting profession.

Assange vowed more would come and there was a second, smaller dump of classified information, most of which dealt with our dust-up in the dust bowls that are Afghanistan and Iraq pre-2009 – or pre- coronation of Barack Obama’s taking control as Commander-In-Chief. Again, on the surface of things, nothing appeared to be done by our intelligence services, our Defense Department, our Justice Department, Congress or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I have to believe if people were foolish enough to elect me president I would have done anything possible to disrupt future leaks. Hell, I would have hired the Vienna Boys Choir to sing him in from his not so secret hiding places if that would help.

Shortly after the second dump, Assange promised the largest dump yet of secret documents that apparently came from a 21-year-old private with a tad too much access to our national security secrets and an odd view of his oath to protect his country. This latest dump, however, struck a raw nerve. No longer was it about embarrassing George W. Bush and the neo-cons. This new dump revealed not so glamorous things about the Obama Administration and his Secretary of State’s not so diplomatic way of handling diplomacy (what can be expected from someone whose main job was to dig up dirt on her political enemies and her husband’s harem?)

Now we have action. Attorney General Eric Holder vowed to “look into” laws that Assange could be prosecuted against. (Here's a hint, he can try this one: 18 U.S.C. 793(e), which provides: "Whoever having unauthorized possession of, access to, or control over any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, (etc. etc.) relating to the national defense, ... (which) the possessor has reason to believe could be used to the injury of the United States or to the advantage of any foreign nation, willfully communicates (etc. etc) the same to any person not entitled to receive it, or willfully retains the same (etc) ...

Pressure was also placed on Amazon.com to no longer carry the servers for WikiLeaks and E-Bay’s Pay Pal was given a bit of a strong lecture that they should no longer serve as a means for WikiLeak fans to send in donations. A noose has been drawn tighter around Assange as he faces rape charges that numerous countries are upholding and his colleagues tell of stories of Assange feeling nervous to sleep in the same five star hotel on London’s East Side more than one night in a row (even cutting back on his room service!).

While it can be said it’s better late than never to the slow-motion reaction of our fearless leaders, it’s much easier – and more fun – to ask, where were they five months ago? Since that time, nearly every journalist seemed able to track him down at a “secret location” for an interview. If our crack intelligence community is unsure of his whereabouts, just follow a few reporters around and eventually they’ll be led to him. It’s not exactly like he’s hiding in a cave in Pakistan, so what’s the trouble?

When Dan Rather was able to locate Saddam Hussein and sit down with him for an interview, former pro basketball star Charles Barkley wondered on a broadcast why Rather didn’t stab Hussein with a fork and save the world a lot of trouble and a lot of lives. Sure, we would have lost Rather, but he would have ultimately been remembered more fondly than he is today. The same should be true for Assange. Isn’t there a reporter with a fork and access to Assange willing to take one for the team?

Re-Post For My Grandma

Four years ago December 3, my grandmother died at age 97. By anyone’s measure she lived a full and useful life and was greatly loved by four generations of my family. I also loved her dearly.

Following my mother’s death in 1995, my grandmother and I gravitated toward each other, I suspect because I wanted to be near the part of her that was my mother and she wanted the same from me. We talked nearly every week for the rest of her life and I discovered even more in common with her and relished our talks. She especially liked to talk about my mother and often repeated the wonderful deathbed conversation she and my mother had when they closed the books on a lifetime of misunderstanding. Since I liked to talk about my mother too, I was always there to oblige. She buried a husband, three children and countless friends and relatives before she died and each time you thought this would be too much for her, she dug deep to find more strength to carry on. She would just tell me it’s what happens when you live so long. The fact is, she loved life and never wanted to leave.

She had a project going all the time, which I think was partially responsible for her longevity (along with a sip of whiskey more often than she would admit). One year she would plan to paint the house, the next year to put in new carpet, and perhaps the next year it would be new window treatments. She always had something to look forward too.

When her husband died in December 1983 she visited my parents for Christmas. She looked so frail when she arrived, we all believed she wouldn’t last long. It was a bittersweet Christmas as it felt like we would lose both grandparents in the span of a few months. She surprised us all. My aunt bought her a puppy a short while later, believing she would get it back in a few years, but my grandmother stubbornly outlived the dog.

When we would visit, she would show off a ring or a bracelet. She would tell us it was a birthday present from her husband, the same one who had been gone for a decade. She actually went out and picked out the piece of jewelry she suspected he would buy for her, wrapped it up and gave it to herself on her birthday or Christmas, always with a wry smile and telling us "look what Bill bought me."

She also always felt and acted younger than her age. She was an avid bridge player and sharp as a tack so she always kept score (regrettably not allowing me to cheat). She knew what cards you were holding and was the first to tell you if you were leading from your hand or the dummy. When playing with her local bridge club, she complained that the people were just too old; despite the fact most were 10-20 years younger.

Once she told me the reason her husband was bald on the top of his head was because he kept hitting his head on the backboard of their bed (you youngins may have to think about that one for a bit). Never one to care what people thought of her, she also went out and bought what she called “stretchy pants” with stirrups that were meant for teens and proudly had her picture taken in them.

She had a lot of money but you would never know it. She and her best friend, the wife of the founder of K-Mart, used to go shopping every Wednesday. Too often they came back with nothing, complaining they would never spend more than $1 for a good pair of underwear. She actually was so cheap that she had a dual headstone made for her and her husband. Because she got a better deal for each letter, she had the cemetery chisel in her lifespan as 1904 -19_ _, not thinking she would make it into the 21st Century. I used to love to tease her about the fact she would live beyond her expectations and it would cost her more to knock off the 19 part. I’m happy to say she had that problem.

Because she had lived such a long life, I once asked her what she thought was the greatest invention or achievement in her lifetime. Now I would have said Saran Wrap and given a thought to the airplane, computer, or landing on the moon, but she quickly answered “penicillin” because she knew how many lives it saved. Her generation was never about collecting new toys and technological inventions, but about making the life of others more comfortable and better.

Most people who live that long have some slip in mental acuity. She never did. I once asked her why and she told me it was because she read five or six hours every day and it kept her mind sharp. Her mental alertness may have ultimately made her death more frustrating.

She fell one day in late November of 2001 and broke her hip. Five days later she died from being in the hospital, hooked up to tubes and well-aware of what was happening around her. She didn’t fear death, but as with all things in her life, I think she wanted a say in how she died. I doubt she was ready to go that day and was probably pretty ticked-off that she wasn’t home baking pies. My relatives never told me she was in the hospital and I never had a chance to tell her good-bye or say how much I loved her and what she meant to me. Alice Brosier, if you’re looking over my shoulder today, I want you to know I love you so much and miss you every day.

Can I Get A Witness?

Well, the reality is, I’m at work and should be doing work-related things – especially on those items I’ve fallen behind on. But lately I’ve been thinking how much I miss writing on my blog and sharing with you the weirdness that is my life. I’ve also missed writing in general. Besides e-mails and the occasional proposal, about all I write out is a grocery list (although I do try to make those as creative as possible).

A few days ago, I was looking at an old e-mail account that I hadn’t opened up in years. I had a pen-pal relationship with a friend named Katrin from Romania who now has her own blog (linked here, but maybe closed down). The back and forth e-mails covered daily events to deeper, more meaningful things, but I was mostly struck by what a damn good writer she was and is. (Katrin, if you happen by my blog after all these months of dormancy, please start writing again!). Reading our exchanges made me want to write again and so here I am avoiding work and, as likely, missing out on making some money.

The blog idea started as a whim while I was enjoying my time immensely with The Boy in New Zealand. It was partially inspired by a friend John who gave me his theory that blogs such as this are the new town square for sharing ideas and perspectives. I was also pushed by Anna, a young campaign worker, who wrote a hell of a blog and made me think, Well, if she can do this, then certainly I can.

My blog inspired others to create their own and it was one of the things that made me most proud. On the other hand, as I took my sabbatical from the blog, most of my fellow bloggers began to fall off as I did. The Boy created his own and, strangely enough, quietly began to begin writing again last week, so I noticed. Sladed stopped his very entertaining blog and now writes more about triathlon training. The Girl began a blog about American Idol and Alan Iverson and she stopped her writing – although I suppose that has as much to do about the decline of both her subjects. Katrin may or may not have continued since it now takes an invitation to read her blog (how rude!), and even Anna had to end her blog shortly after it began because of the vagaries of politics.

Much has transpired since I began my blog and it seems as though a lifetime has transpired since it went dormant. I reconnected with some old friends through the blog, including the lurking Molly and a few “anonymous” respondents who are perhaps less anonymous to me than they think. But mostly I connected to my past and the things I remember so fondly. It was an honor to write about Bill, not only about his last years, but the years we spent goofing off as kids on Lake Drive and as adults as business partners.

There were so many wonderful events that landed on the Lazlo dime. The Girl graduated, captured so well by the artful eye of a friendly photographer, The Boy and The Ber got hitched, elections happened, screwing with my delicate sense of a reasonable world order, friendships came and went, new people entered my life, and I got to look around for photos of Diane.

The biggest change and probably the most central reason for putting the brakes on the blogging, was with Mrs. Laz. You all know the story so no reason trying to write myself into a happier ending. I always tried to be open with the readers – some would say too open – and it never felt appropriate to continue as though nothing was different. If I blogged about something with an attempt at humor, it would appear to most observers I was being glib about too much, too soon. It was also true I was in too dark of a space to even remember how to write in a humorous tone. If I wrote more openly about what was going on with my head and my heart, it could have left deeper wounds and been, well, insensitive. That left only politics to comment on and, frankly, I didn’t want to write about our dear leader out of fear of ending up on a list that various security forces review on a regular basis.

Despite having a lack of topics to write about, I’ve decided to find a way to post again here and there. I feel a need to get the cobwebs off my creative side and the blog, like an old friend, has just been patiently waiting for me to come visit it again. Good to see you again, Laz….

Another Year Later

Throughout your life you have your heroes. Some come and go for various reasons. I remember The Boy was a huge Jose Conseco fan, but Conseco lost a number of his fans when he turned out to be a juiced-up screw-up. The Boy, always being mature beyond his years, noted he was still a fan of the player but distinguished the difference between holding him to a higher standard and liking the way he could smack a baseball.

It was tougher for me to make that distinction and most of the heroes I held so dear ended up being a surprising disappointment. Often we forget that the people we elevate to hero status are merely mortal and share all the frailties we all share. At least I forget it too often.

There was a period in my life when I elevated a number of people to hero status, blindly accepting they were worthy. I did all this while ignoring there was a person in the office next door who was far more deserving of this status than the people I had chosen. That person was my brother Bill who, as it is, passed away five years ago today.

It’s difficult to look at your brother as a hero, especially your younger brother. How can we when he was the kid we made hike the ball when we older kids played football? But there he was sitting down the hall for nearly 20 years doing the sorts of things heroes do everyday. Mind you it wasn’t done with huge fanfare or by saving little Timmy from falling down the well. I don’t think he ever saved a cat stuck in a tree. What he did that made him a hero was live his life in an honest and moral way and he did so every day of his life.

Naturally I didn’t recognize any of this until after he was gone. Like many people, I believed you had to do something remarkable to be a hero. But I know now, the real hero is the person who lives the life of a respectable husband, father, brother, friend and business partner. Bill embodied all of this and because he did it so effortlessly and without any fanfare, it was far too easy to miss. But I can say five years later, I miss it now.

Bill had a number of bad habits as my business partner. Most notably he kept in check my unbridled enthusiasm to spend money on my latest scheme and always told our clients the unvarnished truth -- something even the clients didn’t want to hear. But his tongue would have fallen out if he tried to tell a fib.

This isn’t to say he was perfect because that was reserved for only one mortal, but he tried to live his life in a quiet dignity where his words could be counted on and his inner truths were formed with high moral standards (not withstanding his youth).

To say I miss him is the mother of all understatement. To say I didn’t recognize or learn from his qualities is an equal understatement. He was decent and straight and so much of the world has forgotten the value of those traits. It’s so easy for us to remember what turns out to be the best of those who have passed and I have considered that about Bill. But the truth about him is still the truth; he was the kind of person you couldn’t help but look up to (his height observations notwithstanding).

I know Sue knows this about Bill. I hope Cass and Janee remember enough of him to realize the valuable lessons he taught them about honesty and integrity. When they miss him, and I’m assured that is quite often, I hope they will think of his overlooked character and give a knowing smile.

I’ve been a bit frightened about how I think of Bill these days. My memory has become a bit fuzzy and I’m forgetting the little things about him. I know this is part of what we do to move on and protect ourselves from such great grief. It’s still disconcerting to me as time slides a few memories of him gently under the rug. I hate losing even a fleeting feeling or observation about him. I still shed the odd tear about his loss and wonder where I would be if he were still around. I know I would have a lot more bad jokes to tell, but I also hope I would have learned from his example over these past five years. But since we must find value in a death, maybe learning this now will be his ever-lasting message to all he left behind.

Just the same, I wish you never left us, Bill……

On Success And Routine

A quick observation on life and successful people. The boy and I attended a meeting in Washington, DC and the host of the meeting, a highly successful and very wealthy man, was a few minutes late. He apologized for his three-minute late arrival and said he had been out running five miles and was a bit too sore to get dressed in his suit and tie quickly.

It hit me, as someone who has physically and, yes, mentally gone downhill of late, that this guy’s success was directly related to his organized and regimented schedule. He runs, he sits on the board of several international organizations and corporations, he writes non-fiction books, is undertaking an enormous new project that I hope we will be involved with and, to top it off, is one of the most respected investment advisors in the U.S. Oh, and it should be noted he is 64 years old and also has a Ph.D in international relations. Not just an average guy, mind you.

So I mention to The Boy about my theory on the correlation of success and a full life. He agreed whole-heartedly. There was a day, long gone by, when I also juggled a more full life and, I have to say, I was much more successful at many things during that time. It’s no secret, mind you, that one needs to be organized and focused in order to achieve things. I admitted to The Boy that I had been neither of late; in part because of a more scattered life and in part because of a lot of travel that has knocked me off any semblance of a routine.

One of the routines that may appear to be quite obvious is my lack of writing. The blog – newly designed now – is a monument to a lack of writing. Worse than this, I handed my manuscript over to a very good editor and successful novelist about six months ago. It was a major coup to get her to agree to edit for me. A few days later I was looking over my work and noticed it was a jumbled mess and I called her up and asked her not to read it quite yet. I told her I wanted to make some edits so the manuscript would make some sense. I wrote a bit and modified a bit, but basically put it away since then.

I guess the point of all of this is, if a 64-year-old guy can run five miles, make a few billion for himelf and his friends, chair a few organizations and write a few books, then certainly I can get off the dime and re-write a book that’s acceptable enough for the editor. And, in the meantime, if this gets me back to a more efficient and organized life, well, I just may reacquaint myself with some of that elusive success. Hopefully this quick note will lead me in the right direction.

A Weather Conversation

In my self-imposed exile from endangering all of you to my written ramblings, I have missed a number of good opportunities to ramble about.

The curse that has been put upon our once great nation in the form of something called an Obama has produced rich material – but has been ignored because it’s just too damn depressing to point out the obvious.

Those of you who are close to me are all too aware of the changes in my personal life. Mark Twain had a habit of writing letter to friends when he was in need of sharing very personal and often sad events. Published in his book Letters From The Earth, there were particularly heart-wrenching accounts of watching his wife Olivia slowly die in Italy and, the toughest, the accidental drowning death of his daughter a few months later when he thought, at his age, he had buried his last loved one. I too hope to be able to write about my long and twisting journey, but I’m not sure the timing is right or the mix of words and thought are developed well enough to do the moment justice. So, I’ll let some of Twain’s musings from the book give a little spice to this post:

“Man is a marvelous curiosity. When he is at his very, very best he is a sort of low grade nickel-plated angel; at his worst he is unspeakable, unimaginable; and first and last and all the time he is a sarcasm.”

All said, I want to post on something. I was encouraged to write again by an odd clash of history and modern technology. Two years ago, I wrote in passing about a snowball aimed at a particular 10-year-old girl. I had written a Christmas post that included the theory that boys will be boys and whack a young girl on the head with a rock-filed snowball out of affection. I stand by that theory, too. Anyway, the victim – as she still sees herself, lord knows why – did a Google search on her name and my re-telling of history had an interloper. She read the drivel on these pages for a while and when she eventually saw me on another new medium, Facebook, she decided to let me know she had not forgotten the incident and maybe had also not forgiven.

As punishment to you all, she has encouraged me to write more, and so I will. This time about my current adventures on the frozen tundra that is Russia. Most of the days I’ve awaken to 17 degrees below zero. A few days, the high reached a balmy -8 degrees. They use the Celsius format here because they just want to make it seem colder. Under that system, the temperature is -30. As cold as the actual temperature is, the current cold is influenced by a weather pattern from the northwest. That would be the direction of Siberia. So, if you’re facing a certain way, the windchill could be -50 and, at that point, it doesn’t matter if we’re using Fahrenheit or Celsius.

As strange as it sounds, I like taking walks in this weather. How often can one face the fury of Mother Nature? I get bundled up and look something like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story to walk five minutes to get to the grocery store. It isn’t enough. My fashionable jacket – purchased at a discount at an outlet store – holds up, but there are areas where the cold finds its way. Short of wearing a burqa, there is no way the face doesn’t take a frozen beating. And, since I didn’t pack a pair of warm, wooly long johns, there are no pants made to withstand an icy blast. Yesterday, I walked about 25 minutes and didn’t realize how cold my body was until I entered a building and began to thaw. I think my legs suffered some frostbite.

Speaking of Mother Nature, the mayor of Moscow decided to go to war with Her this year. Theorizing that snow removal was costing the city too damn much money, he had the clouds seeded this year to reduce the snowfall. Well, it’s snowed some every day I’ve been here and there are some places where the drifts are 10-feet high. He fought the Mother and the Mother won. Might be a message in there for global warming acolytes.

Regulating the appropriate temperature in my flat is quite a challenge. There isn’t a thermostat in the flat so I have to keep the multiple heaters set by a non-numbered dial next to each individual heater. They are great heaters, but it can turn into a sauna if the valves are open too far. Then, if I try to cool things by dialing the valves down, icicles will grow out of my nostrils. I’ve finally found the right setting by keeping the heaters on full blast with a window left open. Of course the warmth coming from my heaters mixed with the cold blasting through the windows has caused a weather front to form in my room and the thunder and lightening does tend to keep me awake.

I look forward to heading back to Southern California where it takes very little consideration on what to wear when venturing outside. The choice of long-sleeve or short-sleeve is all that faces me. Yeah, I know California had a bucket-full of rain last week and it even got a little cold, but it’s more the exception than the rule. And, as they always say in So Cal, we need the rain.

Well, I guess this is something of a wasted post since it mostly talked about the weather. I’m often told that I engage in too many “weather” conversations; i.e. talking about things without serious depth. It’s a fair observation. I’m at a point where I don’t know how to have an in depth conversation, especially with the people I care about the most. They’re getting impatient with me, I know, but it almost seems I am watching a movie about my life rather than living it. I’d probably give it two thumbs down, so I’ll stick to the weather for now.

Close The Wound, Hide The Scar

As a tribute to the restless minds of people who are never satisfied with their accomplishments, the great inventor Thomas Edison never stopped trying to solve impediments toward a modern world. Late in his life he became obsessed with trying to build a storage battery but was never able to get around some of the physical and conditional difficulties to really transform society the way he wanted. He did invent a battery that became known as the Alkaline battery, but not without much frustration and cost.

It became known that Edison had attempted more than 2,000 variations of building the storage battery and all failed to live up to expectations. A reporter, and naturally this would come from a reporter, asked the aging Edison how it felt to be such a great man and to have failed 2,000 times. He responded by saying something like, “I don’t believe I’ve failed. I know 2,000 ways not to make a storage battery. How many ways do you know?”

And I guess the point is that unless you try to do something and put in the energy, there is no chance of success.

I’ve just encountered something of the same nature in Russia and perhaps it equals 2,000 ways not to work here. I’ve tried, put in the work, been obsessed and all I have left is for a reporter to ask me the big failure question. So on this coming Monday, I more or less wave the white flag as I leave Russia with little to show for my extensive time here other than the collateral damage left by being absent for so long.

Someone once told me that they viewed my approach to Russia as someone chipping away at a steel door with a tack hammer. I made a dent, but was never going to break the door down. The reasons for my lack of success are myriad and probably mostly beside the point. I wish I could blame the Russians for the way they carry out business but the sad truth is, just as many Americans and other foreigners broke apart deals that appeared headed for success. Yes, I’ve learned my ways not to work here; not to be the consummate middleman, not to agree to everything everyone wants done, not to do something for nothing less you want a reputation of the go-to guy who does something for nothing. There are less charitable reasons but I’ll leave that up to therapy sessions.

In between all the million dollar deals that never became, I had my moments. I learned to live in and adapt to different cultures, met a lot of really nice people who I will miss and I’ve learned to better trust my instincts, even if I didn’t follow them. My gut even tells me that all is not lost now and there will be a pot of gold at the end of some rainbow. Of course this kind of thinking is equal rub as it is a fit of optimism. How to say No to the next promise of the next big project? The gut knows well how to manipulate the brain so who knows what will occur.

What I do know is I return feeling betrayed again by the world after asking it to find a good use for me in exchange for giving back something better. I return knowing, and this is the difficult part, that I had the answers for the correct questions, knew the solutions to the right problems and had the ideas that should have merited more consideration. In the end, however, knowing all of this does not salve the wounded spirit or the feeling that I was always outside the inside joke. These scars will last as will the scars I inflicted on others as I brought them with me on my Quixotic journey of self-indulgence.

It would be easiest to leave here with the memory of a bitter taste, but that wouldn’t be right in the long run. Better just to say I know 2,000 ways not to work in Russia and leave it at that.

The Grand Delusion

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven months since my last post. I have had plenty of things to post on, but the mood just hasn’t pushed me into writing anything. Most of my posting ideas have had to do with what I believe is a tragic direction our country has taken since last February, and I just can’t bear to write about it or even use up badly needed brain cells on something I can do nothing about save expressing my complaints into the thin air of nothingness.

As most of my very few readers know, I have been behind the Iron Curtain for much of the year. A few things happened that are worth at least a small post, so here goes:

I was in Kiev recently and saw several small groups of protestors carrying Ukrainian flags with hand-written signs. There was even one group camped out in tents surrounding by flags and banners just across the street from the presidential administration building. So, finally, I asked my translator what they were protesting. He told me, “Whatever they are paid to protest for the day.”

Well, this was a surprise. Paid protestors who, if asked, don’t know why they are protesting other than earning the equivalent of $12 per day. Even the supposed Orange Revolution that swept the current president into office was, for the most part, a huge rent-a-mob project. Sure, there were some true believers, but most were there for the money along with a free pass to litter and add to the Ukrainian population nine months later.

As disillusioning as this was, it made me wonder if any of this takes place in the U.S. Are all our protests legitimate, or are they paid for? We know that, despite accusations of the opposite, supporters of Obama’s health care reform have been paid to attend Town Hall meetings to demonstrate support. What else has been paid for? Makes you wonder.

The other disillusioning event took place in Moscow. There are these underground walkways that go under major streets in Moscow. Some are so big that there are literally mall-like shops that sell almost anything you can think of. These underground walkways are also a good place to keep out of the weather and, as a result, attract people with their hats out for a donation. Some sing (often poorly) for a payment, others sell flowers and still more, mostly the elderly, just have a can out, hoping for any charity.

There is a woman I have passed by many times who looks at least 80 years old. She always has her eyes closed with a small can partially filled with change. Since the largest denomination of change is 5 rubles (approximately 17 cents), it seems she really doesn’t do very well.

The other day I was walking by her and was thinking of my daughter. I know, as the weather is beginning to turn cold here, Em would be sick over the prospect of this poor old woman fighting the weather and hoping to raise enough money for a loaf of bread. I had just gone to the ATM and so, in the spirit of my daughter, gave her 500 rubles (about $17). She was very surprised to feel something other than the metal of coin and looked down at the paper bill placed in her can. She opened her eyes, looked at me and said a prayer (for me, I suspect).

I felt good for the entire day and decided to share my charitable moment with some locals. They laughed at my naïveté. I wondered why these Muscovites were being so unkind about my act of kindness. Then they told me that nearly all these little old ladies stationed around the city work for an organized crime ring that takes the majority of the money from we foreign knaves who think we’re helping the elderly. In fact, I was told most of the money goes to the criminals and the old ladies get virtually nothing. Sort of takes the fun out of charity to know this.

OK, so life is a fulltime classroom and we get to learn something new everyday. Just wish the lifetime class syllabus didn’t come with more cynicism, because I’m pretty filled up with cynicism.

Porkulus

In President Obama’s uninspiring Inaugural address he made it a point to stress bi-partisanship and, in reference to gloomy economic prospects said this, “We have chosen hope over fear.”

Whenever any politician speaks (and, sorry to say I include Obama as just another politician), you’d be foolish to accept the words have any meaning until they’ve been run through the reality-grinder. Because the very next week, in explaining why we need to spend another $800 billion after the first $850 billion had no positive effect, Obama was quoted as saying, "A failure to act, and act now, will turn crisis into a catastrophe." So much for hope over fear.

Bi-partisanship? Republicans, except Northeast whackjobs, weren't even invited to discuss the content of the latest spending spree.

It’s words like "catastrophe" that actually turn crisis into a catastrophe. Is there any evidence out there that indicates successful problem-solving by Congress when in the midst of crisis? We end up with quick fixes, pork-barrel spending to move reluctant legislators and a lot of proud back-slapping that the Union has been saved by their thoughtful and quick action. The problem is, it’s doubtful any of the owners of the slapped backs completely read what in the 1,000 pages they voted for. God forbid anyone have a chance to read it in its entirety – especially those prone to leap from buildings from such bad news.

There is a delicious irony that there are hearings on financial Ponzi Schemes in one part of the Capitol while Congress creates the world’s largest scam a few hearing rooms down the hall. The difference in the hearings is the victims of the Congressional scheme will be future generations saddled with debt that will bury them in red ink their entire lives.

This isn’t to say Obama is solely to blame (although I want to remember all the headlines referring to this as Obama’s stimulus bill). The new president is just another political snake oil salesman peddling the same cure Bush and his team offered just six months ago. In case you’ve forgotten about the purpose of the first $700 billion – with the added $150 billion Congressional surcharge – was to stabilize the financial services industry. Anyone out there try to get a loan for anything lately? Anyone see any difference before and after the government threw our money at the problem with little debate and little open information?

When the two “stimulus” packages are added together the cost to benefit ratio to the taxpayer is criminal. Obama’s stimulus promises tax breaks that work out to $13 per week and drop to $8 per week next year. By contrast, if they just gave each and every American a share of both programs, we’d each receive almost $7,000. That’s $28,000 for my direct family alone. And, what would we do with that money? Who knows? Maybe spend it, creating jobs, maybe save it, making banks more liquid and secure, maybe invest it, taking foreclosed properties off the books or save sagging stock values, maybe give it to charity, creating opportunity to others less fortunate. Neither stimulus bill does anything close to what the average American would do if given that money.

Of course when you get to the bottom line, spending priorities is far from the main point. Congress, which has only one trained economist among members, needs to remember that the money they spend has to come from somewhere. They either have to print it, borrow it from China or take it from taxpayers. Either way, it sure looks like we lose.

Pelosi: Not The Brightest Speaker We've Had

Imagine if a republican had said this at a press conference. Now, try to find this comment in any major newspaper.

Pity The Girl

The Girl has a new blog that I have linked to on the right. It's about two of her favorite subjects, American Idol and Allen Iverson; both nicknamed AI and hence her blog's name, "All Things AI."

Her writing is quite good, especially considering a public school education and her reading list being limited to US Magazine. It's not as good as mine, but I set the bar pretty high and I think she knows that.

Anyway, she has this thing where she wants people to read her blog and comment often. I have no idea where she gets her "neediness." It certainly doesn't run in my family. I will ask Mrs. Laz about the milk man this evening. Anyway, show some pity and read her blog. For the love of God, please read her blog!

A Generation's Final Bow

A few weeks back, the missus and I went to a funeral. I didn’t know the man we had come to honor, but I know his daughter and her family very well. When listening to people talk about his life, one thing stood out; they were talking about a man who personified a generation that is slowly dying out.

His generation went through the Great Depression, proudly fought in World War II, was a part of building the greatest sustained economic growth in our country’s history and witnessed, but perhaps did not agree, with great social upheaval in the Sixties. His generation had its faults too. It was often a hard-drinking, heavy smoking and naïve generation, but it was also self-sufficient and strongly believed in family and cared about the community and the values it stood for.

During the funeral, I began to wonder what subsequent generations will stand for; how will we be remembered when we begin to die out? It’s difficult for me to imagine future generations will equate my generation with the same grit and can-do attitude.

What motivated me to write about this tonight was seeing the incredible movie Gran Torino, Clint Eastwood latest, and likely final movie. His movie was about many things, but the underlying and inescapable theme was about the generation Eastwood’s character represented. In the same way I’m told my friend’s father approached his life, Eastwood’s character was driven by a strong sense of right and wrong and the understanding that he needed to do what should be done. While he was crass and prejudiced, he also understood who he was and lived by a code that is singular to his generation. I will be sad to see it burn out.

Long Post On Music Appreciation

While I was having a late lunch at my favorite high-calorie diner in Sacramento I was listening to the music track the owner plays. Since it was all Sixties music, many of the songs brought back memories. So while breaking New Year’s resolution #1 by eating a French dip sandwich, I started to go over in my head the various songs that moved me from when I was a kid to today. It got to be an interesting list (in my head, anyway), so I thought I would share it with you. It would be nice if some of you would list the songs that you remember being a big part of your lives too.

Other than my grandfather loudly singing Onward Christian Soldier in church (in an unrecognizable key), the first song that really hit me as something special came on my first day at school on the second time though the second grade. I remember Jon Thoits running around the playground singing, She Loves You by the Beatles. Overnight it seemed everyone knew that song, so I guess that’s where the notion of becoming an “overnight sensation” comes from.

In the ensuing years I remember listening to my Japanese transistor radio and waiting for songs like Honey and Little Green Apples (I know, I was young) and any Beatles songs. About a year later, my parents took us to the music store and allowed us to buy one 45 rpm record (parents, please explain what a 45 is to your kids) and I chose Love Is Blue by Paul Mauriat and His Orchestra. I think Bill bought Sugar, Sugar by the Archies and Peter bought a Moody Blues song. We played those songs in order all day long back then.

My first album really blew me away. My parents, in an attempt to seem sophisticated, saw the movie The Graduate and then bought me Sounds Of Silence by Simon and Garfunkle (it was the only album you could buy some of the music from the movie at that theime). I wore the grooves out of that record and still listen to that music often.

Almost every week my family ate at Buddie’s Pizza Parlor in downtown Grand Rapids. My parents gave us a nickel to buy three songs from the jukebox, one song for each son. Bill always, and I mean always, played something from the Archies, Peter bought a few different songs like California Dreamin’ and Monday, Monday and I usually chose Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations. I think the pizza was good, but getting to choose our songs was the real treat.

My family used to drive to Florida every spring and my father’s Cadillac came equipped with an 8-track player (parents, explain 8-track to your kids). Each trip my dad bought new tapes so he could drown out our complaining about how far the drive to Florida from Michigan was. One of the tapes I remember wanting to listen to over and over was Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band, again by the Beatles. It seemed every track was a leap forward in modern music. I had the same feeling when he bought Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Simon and Garfunkle a few years later. I always link those two albums (and Juicy Fruit chewing gum) with those trips. And, thinking back now, my dad was pretty hip to be buying those albums back then – although he also bought 101 Strings Play The Beatles and When You’re In Love, The Whole World Is Jewish.

Some songs have strong meaning to me because what they represent. I remember when the Beatles released Hey Jude. At that moment, music changed from something you danced to, to something you listened to. It also changed the way radio stations played music from the typical 2-3 minute song to the entire 7:09 of Hey Jude. It also meant that when the song was played at my local roller skating rink when I was 12, it was time to find Lynn Andrews and beg her to skate with me. I doubt she wanted to spend seven minutes with me, but I did with her.

A year later I went to my one and only junior high dance in Michigan at the end of the school year. Knowing that I was moving to California a month later I was feeling a bit sad at the dance. Then Lynn Andrews walked up to me! Finally my years of scheming for her had paid off, or at least it seemed that way. She asked me if I would do her a favor. Anything for Lynn, of course. She wondered if I would be willing to dance with Lynn Shackleford (not the basketball player) so she could dance with George Skiff, who was the other Lynn’s date. Damn George. Naturally I obliged and then had George killed that night and exchanged Lynns as the objects of my infatuation. Lynn and I danced to Touch Me by The Doors. Then I must have said something improper because it was our one and only dance.

When I came to California, there were certain songs that just seemed Californian. Joni Mitchell was big as was Melanie, Santana and Canned Heat. But the group that stood out in 1970 was Crosby, Stills and Nash and their great song Suite Judy Blue Eyes. It was very apparent then that CSN had replaced the Beatles and the Stones as the latest "super" group.

The first album I bought for myself was Who’s Next by, coincidentally, The Who. I’m not sure if I bought it because the group was photographed peeing on a monolith on the album cover or because it seemed kind of cool to be buying a record by The Who. Just the same, I played Behind Blue Eyes and Baba O’Riley until my dad threatened to turn the record into a Frisbee. A year later, my girlfriend at the time, Cindy, told me I had to visit her and listen to this new album that had just come out called Harvest by Neil Young after he left CSN&Y. Every song was a masterpiece, especially the very haunting A Man Needs A Maid, which is still one of my favorites. The title song of that album also carries some delightful meaning as I think it was the first song I stole lyrics from to impress a girl. And she even married me despite it!

When I was about 16, I used to go to morning swim practice at a huge pool at Miramar NAS. Each morning I mooched a ride to practice from either John Hagey or Stuart Henshall. With John I got Cat Stevens’ Tea For The Tillerman or Mona Bone Jakon, and with Stuart I got Best of Bread that Mrs. Laz forbids me to play now. No matter the mooched ride, the songs on those albums played in my head as I tried to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to get the nerve to dive into a freezing, dark pool.

For my 18th birthday I got albums from one new girlfriend, Beth and from the aforementioned Cindy (I was a playa!). Beth bought me Elton John’s Yellow Brick Road, an incredible musical breakthrough in my humble opinion, and Cindy bought me Band On The Run by Wings, which was the best album you could have when craving the Beatles.

During my college years (or the years people of that age are supposed to be in college) there were a number of songs that inspired a number of fond memories. I remember coming home with Phil after watching his brother’s band play an all-night party and, barely awake, hearing the song Miracles by Jefferson Starship on the radio. It was the first time I heard the song and, in a state of no sleep and the sun just rising, the song had a very strong impact on me. Phil and I also played Chicago 2 and the Doobie Brothers’ Captain and Me until the windows of his house shook.

About that time, I shacked up with Sladed and he turned me on to Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd (and man-love). Besides the obvious big name songs by those groups, the album-long song Thick As a Brick by Tull and Obscured By Clouds by Floyd were the most memorable. Other albums coming out at that time that shook my music world were Breezin’ by George Benson, Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs, Rumours (by Fleetwood Mac) and the very remarkable Songs In The Key Of Life by Stevie Wonder -- maybe one of the best albums of all time. All were playing on my turntable at all hours.

There was a special song from Neil Diamond that meant a lot to me personally (and one other person) and shall remain, well, personal for personal reason, and that was his song Lady-Oh. I guess Mondern English’s I Melt With You falls into the same “Bolero” category as a song I have a personal relationship with. On the heels of these songs came a few artists Mrs. Laz introduced me to; Jackson Browne and Joni Mitchell. The standouts were For A Dancer and The Late Show by Jackson and River and Little Green by Joni.

There were two songs from Texas that have a special place in my heart. While exiled to Tyler, TX, I was a two-bit reporter for the local two-bit newspaper and knew all the two-bit radio and TV people since we were the only people in town in the “entertainment” business. I mentioned to a radio DJ that I liked the song Lou Rawls had just recorded, Wind Beneath My Wings (sadly no link), still the best rendition of that song, I think. As I was driving for my final day at the paper before moving back to California, the DJ played that song and said it was for me and that I would be missed. So I was kinda important, in a small-town sort of way.

After the Boy was born, we bought a house that was near a very picturesque lake. I remember taking him down to the lake one day and I held his hand and watched the sun set across the lake. At that moment I could hear Willie Nelson’s Hands On The Wheel being played at the lake’s clubhouse. Because it is a song about simple times and fairy tales, I always associate the song with that very fond memory.

Speaking of the Boy, there were a couple of songs that we loved because he loved them and I associate them with his youth. Not particularly masterpieces, but he really liked Tequila by The Champs and I Just Called To Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder. The Girl was partial to the Shoop Shoop song from the movie Mermaids, Wolly Bully from the movie Splash, and Kiss The Girl from the Little Mermaid soundtrack (I am sensing a certain mermaid pattern here).

The kids inspired other music with me, too. I remember the Boy turned me on to Nirvana, and we used to listen to them when I drove him to school in Virginia, especially the David Bowie re-do of The Man Who Sold The World. I also remember playing Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill and TLC’s CrazySexyCool with the Girl in Virginia. My musical range while driving into Washington, DC was fairly limited to U2’s Zooropa (I’ve since learned it was far from their best music), anything by Van Morrison and the Gin Blossom’s New Miserable Experience.

Disco killed a lot of music in the Eighties and Nineties and Rap finished it off in the Nineties and into this decade, so I am sorry that most of my best musical memories are from days gone by. But I do remember hearing Eva Cassidy singing Fields Of Gold for the first time and wondering, a decade later, why I had never heard of her before. I still get goosebumps hearing that song. Norah Jones had that same affect on me with Don’t Know Why and Natalie Merchant with Wonder, an ode to River Phoenix.

Recognizing this post has becoming excruciatingly long, I will just mention a few of my other favorite musical moments, many coming from movie soundtracks. In no particular order, I was deeply moved by a few opera songs when I first heard them, like Puccini’s Musetta’s Waltz first heard from the movie Moostruck, Nessum Dorma (also Puccini) that I heard in the movie the Witches of Eastwick, and O Mio Bambino Caro (also Puccini) just from general opera listening. I will also never forget the first time I heard Vladimir Ashkenazy playing piano on Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto (Emperor); it made me want to learn the piano, something I fell well short on, but did a reasonably good job on part of the adagio. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I once watched a man play Handel’s Ombra Mai Fu on his trumpet on a solitary street in Munich. The music bounced off the wall and draped over me. Simply wonderful.

Even though I may get giggles with some of this, I was really mesmerized by Tamyra Gray singing Bachrach’s A House Is Not A Home. I had heard the song before, but never the Luther Vandross version she performed on American Idol. The other sort of silly one was from Sister Act II, of all movies, when Lauryn Hill sang His Eye Is On The Sparrow; pure beauty.

There are songs from other movies that I will list, not because they are the best songs ever written, but because of the mood they set in a particular movie. In no particular order, they are: Hotel California by the Gipsy Kings in the Big Lebowski, Mrs. Robinson from the Graduate, Rhapsody In Blue by Gershwin in the movie Manhattan, Cat Steven’s Trouble from Harold and Maude, Joe Cocker’s version of Bye Bye Blackbird from Sleepless in Seattle, Down To The River To Pray from O Brother Where Art Thou, Dry The Rain from High Fidelity, Van Morrison’s Philosophers Stone from Wonder Boys, Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head from Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, Coal Miner’s Daughter from the movie of the same name, Springsteen’s Secret Garden from Jerry McGuire, Nina Simone’s Sinnerman from The Thomas Crown Affair, Silent Sigh by Badly Drawn Boy in the movie About A Boy and, finally, two from Garden State, Coldplay’s Don’t Panic and Simon and Garfunkle’s The Only Living Boy In New York as they are staring down into the infinite abyss.

As long as this post has become, I have a feeling I left many songs out. I know there are the easy ones like Over the Rainbow and almost anything from the Sound of Music, but I was just trying to limit the songs to the times I sat in awe listening to a song for the first time. Please think of what some songs meant in your lives and list them. Let’s have some fun with this.