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If you ask almost any person what talent they’d wish for, out of any and all they currently don’t have, in most cases you’d hear: “I wish I could sing!”

That’s the one.

Which is understandable.

Because there’s just nothing quite like it, singing. That physical, visceral explosion of sound and emotion that transforms the human body into a conduit for something passionate, aural, and chill producing. An art form that’s truly as endorphin rushing as good exercise, the perfect roller coaster, great sex and full participation in The Sound of Music Sing Alongs (which has to be a high point for pretty much anyone).

Beyond just the act of singing is the performance of it. That’s a whole other layer of experience that’s not only hard to beat, but somewhere near 11 on the scale of 10 when it comes to classic wish fulfillment. Standing onstage pouring heart and soul into a microphone to the beat of a drum and the fierce, pounding intensity of a band in motion does rate high on enchantment, whether it’s singing Etta James at a B.B. King’s club, doing a stripped down version of your original set at the Good Hurt, or crooning 40 minutes of “Let’s Stay Together” for the money dance at a local wedding. I, for one, consider my abilities in the form a worthy tradeoff  for missing out on high cheek bones and a sense of direction.

I started this article about seven months ago; last summer, after a long-time friend and musical collaborator who I’d not seen in a long time got in touch to invite me to sing with his band. This was a deep and tremendous boon; it’d been years and I feared that part of my identity had abandoned me altogether. So when I got the call, excited and anticipatory, I was inspired to write about it, feeling as though a new/old chapter had opened in my life which surely merited some prose. But for some reason I put the celebration on hold back then; don’t know why. Prescient, perhaps?

But some of you have asked recently, “Hey, what happened to your band?” so I decided to finally wrap up the article in response. Besides, I like stories to have an ending. So read on, all questions will be answered.

As noted in Chick Singer, Part 1, my life as a vocalist began with a gentle foray into folk music, then bum-rushed its way to rock & roll and blues for pretty much the rest of the ride. While certainly the 80′s, part of the 90′s and a good chunk of the early 2000′s remained focused on this “calling” and the attendant ambition wrought by my laser-focus on being a successful singer/songwriter (more on that journey in later chapters), in the last five years – a tad weary and out of options – I packed up my microphones, therapied through the subsequent five stages of grief and got on with the rest of my life.

For those who’d suggest, “Couldn’t you keep doing it even as a fun hobby?” – YES. I could. And here’s what happened as I went through months of auditions simply trying to find a guitar player (damn me for not learning to play well enough to ever want me to play with me!):

1. “Love your music but I don’t want to actually play songs, I’d rather just jam.” Hello, you had my CD, those were songs.

2. “Wow, you’re great but I was hoping for something a little more developed.” Remember when I told you it was just me?

3. “So how likely do you think it is that you’ll be getting a record deal?” Not. Dealbreaker?

4. “I only work in the West LA area.” Then why are you here?

5. “How old are you?” Nope, not goin’ there.

6. “If you sang on a Jefferson Starship album, wow…you’ve been around a while!” Yep…see #5.

7. “I bet you were hot in the 80′s.” No comment.

8. “You’ve got a great bluesy thing goin’ but no one wants that anymore.” I hate you.

9. “I only work with people I can do a full chart on before we work together.” If you mean astrology as opposed to a music, pay for your Starbucks and take a hike. (It was the astrology kind.)

I could go on and on. Seriously. On and effing on. If you put it in a movie they’d say you were flogging cliches but it was like one of those bad audition montages, just without the quick-cuts and perky soundtrack. I think it was after #9 that I finally snapped and took the road less traveled. Until I got that call from my friend last June.

What followed was a buzz of identity integration, as if all my parts were once again coming together to form the full, cogent ME. Yes, I am a writer, a photographer, a mother, wife, sibling, and friend but I am also a singer and, hallelujah, get the band bag down, the microphones dusted, the stand out from behind the luggage and those vocal exercises crackin’ tout suite…we’re in a band, sister!

I felt more excited than I had in a while, particularly to be working with a dear, old friend who knew me – my chops, my style, my taste in music, my work ethic – as well as knew the stated criteria: great players, great tunes, sane people and no agendas. I figured if I’m going to bother at this wizened stage of my life, with ambition tempered and a goal to simply experience the pleasure of performance, it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be fun. No other reason to do it. He agreed and we got started.

I spent a month whipping my voice into shape and, let me tell you, it was exhilarating to discover it was still there…one never presumes. Over the next four months, I spent hours researching material, printing lyric sheets, learning songs, driving the 50 mile round-trip to rehearsal and back, gelling beautifully with my new “band of boys” and getting nothing but positive feedback. And it was FUN!! At a time when writing demanded solitude, work required pavement pounding, and family life could be challenging (see Empty Nest Pt. 3: See You In November!, Cowboy Strong and Poetry Sweet…Love In the Age of MTBI & The Mother Of My Reinvention), there was something basic and pure in this endeavor; I was singing, hanging out with musicians and eating mixed nuts…how cool is that?

But like any good story there had to be a plot twist, an inciting incident. And there was. Just as we finally got four sets worth of classic and hand-picked blues/R&B/jazz/rock material worked up, including one of my own tunes with more to come (per a request from my band leader buddy), there was a short break in the momentum. The drummer had to move, work schedules got challenged, and the keyboard player quit. “No worries,” my buddy assured, “Everyone else is still onboard and I’ll just find someone to replace him.” Before long he had a new guitarist in line to replace the keyboard player, a guy who apparently sang really well, too (“you guys’ll sound GREAT together!”), the buzz resurfaced, the keyboard player even re-emerged and, yippee, let’s get this new guy worked in and the party started!

That was October. And then came the the third act.

By December, no rehearsal had forth come. After repeated emails, texts, a few phone conversations (in which I was always assured things were still on track), and despite the unfortunate hiatus, I kept the faith…with obvious reservations. During my last phone call my buddy promised: “I’ll get a group email out to get this going again.” OK, great… nice holiday gift to look forward to, right? It never happened. Merry freakin’ Christmas.

2012 arrived and on one bright sunny day I got an email from my buddy: “I finally had a discussion with the boys in the band and the general  consensus was unhappiness with the musical direction that the project had taken on.” He went on to explain that originally they’d been more jazz/funk oriented and when I came in the direction shifted to more blues/rock. And though he still thought I was “a soulful singer and hope to work with you again in the studio or live,” no mention was made of the fact that he’d approved every song submitted, that no one indicated unhappiness with anything, no one had pushed for different material and not a mention was made of simply adding more jazz/funk into the mix (which he knew I could cover with aplomb). It appeared, for whatever reason and without preamble, I’d been summarily voted off the island.

When two of the players later contacted me it was made clear, independently and by both, that neither had been involved with any consensus or discussion; they were as surprised as I was. So it seems this was all on my buddy. Or not. Who knows? Smoke was being blown somewhere, I didn’t know where or from what direction, but I did know I had a #10 to add to the list:

10. “Yeah, you’re great and we’ve been friends for a billion years but I found a jazz singer I like better/I don’t want to do any blues/I would rather work with a guy singer/I’m too much of a chicken shit to be honest/Yes, I wasted your time/ oops, there goes the bus I’m throwing you under, thanks…bye!”

Yep. #10 takes the cake.

So that is my latest foray into rock & roll. Am I feeling a little bruised? A little sorry for myself? Yeah, a little. I didn’t deserve that. I’m a kick-ass singer, I showed up with a full plate of goods, I laughed at their jokes even when they were stupid, I was happy to carry equipment to the curb, I love swear words, I even brought mixed nuts. I know how to be a good Chick Singer.

But I tend to believe every story has a point, regardless of the tale. Even a sad and sorry debacle such as this comes with the gift of at least some learning. And in the good column?

1. My voice is still there. That was precious to discover. For whatever reason. Future reference. A sense of still having something I cherish. Whatever, it was good to know. I slay ‘em in the shower.

2. I was reminded of how much damn fun it is being in a good band with great players. No better fun…seriously.

3. I got to sing some of my favorite songs during rehearsals and that was an absolute blast. The audience was implied.

4. I can survive another creative disappointment. Good to know, particularly since that skill was hard-won. I recovered back then and I did not regress now. Look at me, Mommy, I’m all growed up!

So the moral of the story is: It’s life. And life is unpredictable. People can disappoint you. Projects can involve emotional whiplash. Not every dream comes true. There are some mountains high enough. I’m not fond of bad communicators. Rock & roll can still kick my ass. Harmony is like good frosting. The drummer makes the band. Mixed nuts are a fine snack.

And I’m doing OK…really. Thanks for asking.

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The parties are over, the holiday’s officially wrapped. Trees will be placed in the bins, decorations in the attic, re-giftables in the upstairs closet for the next birthday or anniversary. There’s a touch of melancholy in the air as we wind down but there’s also a sense of anticipation; that getting back to work, school, pavement pounding, fitness protocol, whatever it is that makes up and energizes our day-to-day lives. It’s time to get on with it and we’re grateful for the re-set, no matter what kind of year we’ve had.

Last year I did a Pros & Cons of 2010 piece to wrap things up and though I had originally planned to do a similar analysis for 2011, I find I’m less inspired to list and more interested in expressing some gratitude at this particular chapter change.

I look around my life and it’s clear that, despite certain lackings and misfortunes (those inevitable turns that come at one point or another in everyone’s life), I clearly have so much to be grateful for. It’s no cliché; it’s a reality I would be remiss to ignore. There are the obvious things – family, health, friends, career upticks, HBO – but there are also the less obvious things, personal to each one of us. The things that can often go unnoticed or seem mundane but have a way of striking a chord that we, in particular, hear. I want to talk about one of mine:

All of you out there who were paying attention…that’s what I’m grateful for.

You know who you are. You’re the ones who read and commented on my articles, took the time to join a Facebook thread, “liked” what I requested to have “liked,” and voted when asked (or at least tried!). You visited sites and links I recommended and linked my work to your own pages. You responded to my emails, messages and tweets, acknowledged my promotional mailings, even passed them on to others with your own recommendations. Some of you bought my photographs, downloaded or purchased my CD, sent letters to Rachael Maddow touting my way with an opinion. One of you got an agent to read my as-yet-unpublished novel, another Twittered my photography site all over the place; some linked my blog or Huff Po column to their own websites, put an interview on their page, or used my photographs for their new Facebook banner. These are not small things to me…

…because that kind of consideration and attention cannot to be taken for granted. I have hundreds of people listed as Facebook friends, more on my mailing list, still others on LinkedIn, Twitter, BranchOut, etc., but you, pictured here, are the consistent, dependable, always vibrant, engaged and very active group who gets and stays involved in a connection of some kind with my life. Thank you…. it’s rare and notable. Because though we have never had more ways to communicate than we do currently, the actual art and craft of good communication requires the same consideration and cultivation as any meaningful skill. And it is, even in this era of data overload and instant access, one that is oddly and persistently lacking.

Think about how hard it used to be to connect: cave hieroglyphics, smoke signals, Morse Code, the Pony Express, those across-the-Atlantic letters from John Adams that took most of the year to get to his wife. People could go months and years not hearing from someone and be grateful for the tidings sent by way of a passing stranger. They somehow managed to live and share love and life without the glut of communication tools we have now and while they certainly couldn’t have known what they were missing, what would they think about the cavalier way in which so many deal with their own correspondence, particularly when it’s now so easy to stay in touch?

It takes only seconds to text, email, comment, “like,” share, or visit, and when you can do any or all of those at any time of the day or night that’s convenient to you (even if you are the Busiest Person in the Entire World as so many bad communicators claim), why is it that so many are so bad at it?

It’s a lack of prioritizing, good manners, consideration or “Communication Empathy” (that awareness of how crappy it feels when people ignore, dismiss, forget or simply never engage in any meaningful communication with you). Fact is, you can always find enough time if you want to, if you can externalize enough to tap into Communication Empathy and realize just how important it is. Being a thoughtful communicator shows you comprehend the connective power of even the most minor communication (a Tweet can make the world go ’round if it’s the right Tweet!). “If you want to” is the key. It’s how you prioritize your time and your correspondence choices…all of you here have clearly figured that out.

While we’re all so busy promoting our shows, CDs, sites, articles, families, books and businesses, it’s the thoughtful ones who also pay attention to what others are doing, selling, and promoting. If I were to describe the bane of my life (well, at least one of them!), I would have to say it’s those who don’t return emails, who don’t follow through, who don’t show up on time…or at all. Those who make promises they don’t keep. Who start a collaboration then disappear without a trace. Those who never (or seldom) participate, purchase, enjoy, attend, talk about, or share the work of others. Those who are “too busy,” too self-focused, too ME to see…you.

But that doesn’t apply to any of you pictured here. Like I said, you’ve got it figured out. You’re that special breed who does reach out, in all the ways that connect people, the ways that create good-will and make us each feel as if we’re part of something; a village, a circle of wagons, even just a group of Facebook friends. It’s not a waste of time, it’s not just mindless online chatter; it’s meaningful, however distant and cyber, however frivolous it may seem at times. Frankly, many of you, some of whom I rarely see, others I have never even met, have personally shown me more support, interest, affection and consideration than many closer, more intimate people in my life.

So that’s what I’m grateful for today. For those of you who were paying attention. For those of you who will keep paying attention. It’s an incredible gift. Thank you.

P.S. And if I left anybody out who should be in these collages, forgive me. Send me a note and I’ll be sure to add you to the page!

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I was in line behind a woman tightly wrapped in a Christmas sweater; strained eyes, pale face, the dry lips of a slightly manic and dehydrated overachiever. Panting ever-so-slightly, she hugged a packaged I-Pad to her chest and with an edge of madness, leaned in as if we were trench mates and announced triumphantly, “I got it! The last one! Thank God, cause I swear he’d flat out kill me if I didn’t get him one for Christmas!”

And there it was.

Christmas as a Bad Boyfriend.

Think about it. It’s an apt metaphor:

1. Endless demands made and you best meet them if you know what’s good for you.
2. He likes you in a certain mode of dress (that sweater, those ornament earrings!) and it doesn’t matter how you feel about it.
3. The house better look “the way it’s supposed to!” (get those decorations up!).
4. Preferred music (“Deck the halls with….”) loops endlessly for his listening pleasure.
5. There’s a clear presumption of copious gift giving and general fawning attention (make sure those cards go out!).
6. The list of favored food and drink is long and laborious.
7. Much emphasis on “PAR-TAY!!!”
8. Regardless of attempts to keep things calorically moderated, rich food is the order of the day.
9. The big gut is pretty hard to miss.
10. You must stay cheerful regardless of mood or exhaustion.
11. No reciprocal demands are accepted.
12. And of course, you clean up the mess after he’s done.
13. Merry effin’ Christmas, baby.

Yeah…right back at’cha.

Face it, we do have a complicated relationship with this holiday. A love/hate conundrum. There’s grousing when public decorations come out seconds after the turkey carcass is in the can but there’s a skip in our step when we head to the mall for that first holiday visit. We complain about all the commercialization and consumerism, but there is no more energy or passion exuded than when shoppers get together to share Christmas deals they’ve found! The gift and task list is pages long, the depth of obligation grows larger every year and for religious folk the balance between sacred and secular is an ongoing challenge. And yet…if we had to admit it, there’s something kind of spirited about the whole exercise, isn’t there?

Oddly contradictory. Here’s my theory:

Quantum physics tells us time is an illusion. OK. Explanations of that theorem make my head explode but let’s go with that for the moment. Time is an illusion and over the eons of human existence, it became clear that without time management, people meandered; lost track not only of the aging process but the approximate moment to eschew summer whites. So wise ones who understood both science and human nature came up with the calendar, that corralling of time based on astronomy. We named time (months, days), we partitioned it off (years); part of time became the past, part was the future. The stuff in the middle, the present, was where we lived. Very organized stuff.

King Olav @ Christmas

Since part of the mission statement of calendaring was to give structure and meaning to this passage of elusive time, one of the ways this was achieved was by marked events: traditions, holidays, cyclical rituals, those anointed and completely arbitrary moments we celebrate at designated points of the calendar. There have been many and they’ve changed and evolved over the centuries; some giving way to others, new ones occasionally popping up (love it though I do, is National Peanut Butter & Jelly Day really necessary?!).  The importance of these rituals and traditions was ascribed to their function of connecting communities, honoring days, people and historical events we deemed special; ceremony and circumstance anticipated and enjoyed by the collective. They marked the passage of life, rendered it meaningful, and, frankly, gave us reason to dress up in hats. We humans seem to appreciate that.

Certainly Christmas has been the most enduring of these time markers. Year after year it comes with its long, fluid, history – often debated and certainly controversial – and it remains one of the most pivotal shared events in the world. Celebrated with mind-boggling variety, and despite the baggage it carries (including its manipulation as a weapon in the cultural, political, religious “wars” (see No, Virginia, There’s No War On Christmas), it is quite universally beloved. It is also, in more contemporary times, unfortunately resented as well.

Christmas as a Bad Boyfriend.

It seems that the growing commercialization of Christmas has succeeded in corrupting its aura in ways that make the aforementioned metaphor convincing. But, frankly, this phenomenon is wholly avoidable. If you were my friend sitting at the table sobbing about your BB, all “what should I dooooooooo? He’s so mean but I LOVE him!!” I’d say the same things I’m going to say right now. So quiet down, take off that goofy mistletoe scarf and listen up.

You cannot be taken advantage of unless you allow it. That goes for Christmas as well. There is not one person on this earth who can blame anyone but themselves if Christmas has gone all BB on them. It’s a choice. Just as we’re taught to set our boundaries, hold our ground, and stand firm against unrealistic expectations in other relationships (needy friends, ex-spouses, PTA), we are capable of taking the same stance with this holiday. We can either design one that makes sense or succumb to the party line. You can either assess your ability to participate and move forward accordingly or you can capitulate to the commercial madness. Your call. It’s doable. If I can wrangle Christmas, anyone can. Here’s my Seven Commandments of Christmas, for what it’s worth:

1. Only entertain if you enjoy it. I promise, no one will notice if you don’t. Entertain, that is.
2. Attend business parties as needed but do your networking in the first hour so you can leave before smarmy mailroom guy or the new temp start hitting on you.
3. Stick to crudité and avoid heavy drinking. Minimal weight gain and a consistent lack of vomiting go a long way toward a more enjoyable holiday.
4. Decorate only when, and as much, as you like…and only with items that actually have appeal. Blow-up plastic Santas and those hideous front lawn snowmen are unnecessary and considered blight in some circles.
5. Don’t be browbeaten into sending paper holiday cards. It’s a new world. A well-designed e-card sent with love and a sweet note is not only acceptable, it’ll keep a few thousand redwoods above ground and save you hundreds.
6. Don’t travel unless you want to and can afford it. Both must apply. Obligation to fly the hell all over the place at the busiest and more stressful time of the year becomes counterproductive to holiday cheer. You can just as easily visit family on non-holidays and give yourselves permission to stay put. Or suggest – if you’re so inclined – they come to you. And remember that Skype makes face-to-face holiday visits doable without breaking the bank or your sanity.
7. The deal breaker: GET VERY SELECTIVE ABOUT YOUR GIFT-GIVING. The mindless and burdensome expectation of “gifts all around!” is a Kool-Aid too many have partaken of year after year and there is no one single thing more responsible for the fear and loathing of Christmas. We max out our credit cards, drive ourselves crazy “finding the right thing” for people who need nothing, we overdo with children who are so bombarded they have no idea what to play with next. We gut-churn over not giving a gift as expensive as the one we got, feel guilty if we accept a gift when we did not give one, and the whole ridiculous exercise becomes as antithetical to Christmas as the Black Friday nut job who pepper-sprayed her way to a video game and or the frothing shoppers stepping over a dead man to get to the sales table. STOP THE MADNESS! This is NOT what it’s about. (And who but a Bad Boyfriend could’ve ever come up with Black Friday?)

I can already hear my sobbing friend caterwauling about how Bad Boyfriend will never stand for all that self-preserving, boundaried, sensible limitation. So a little primer about how that goes; make note for next year:

Long before the holidays roll in, make a decision about who in your family or circle of friends you’ll be buying gifts for. A short list. Then write a warm, loving email and send it to EVERYONE involved announcing your decision. Something along the lines of “In our effort to keep the Holidays as stress-free and financially manageable as possible, we’ve decided to limit our gift-giving to ___________ (i.e., Mom  & Dad, the kids in the family, etc.). We hope you understand and, of course, ask that you not send gifts to us. Cookies, however, are always welcome!”  As I said, this must be done long before the normal shopping season starts so no one gets huffy about jumping the gift-giving gun. Be prepared for some grumbling and criticism but hold firm. Over time and years of sticking to the program, the family will GET that you’re serious and eventually come to appreciate the reciprocal unburdening. But remember: even if someone violates the request and sends gifts, thank them but DO NOT change your policy. Ever. Break once and BB is right back, snapping his fingers, big gut resting on the table, wondering where the carols are and why isn’t the prime rib ready?

I love my friends, I love my family; I appreciate and respect my colleagues, associates and collaborators. And when the holidays roll around, I look forward to the rituals and traditions that make this time of year different from the rest; that marking of elusive time that comes with revelry, cheer and reciprocated appreciation. I get out the favorite decorations and make my Greek cookies. I acknowledge the holidays with artistic notes, maybe an open house, a holiday dinner with close friends, certainly those wonderful family gatherings where we simply enjoy being together, sharing a good meal and watching our select few open their gifts. It’s lovely; manageable, affordable, and there’s no weeping.

Just as a Good Holiday should be.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a really fabulous 2012 to you all!

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The year was 1980-something, don’t remember. The hair was spiked (platinum blonde, dark shaved sides with pink and/or blue braids), the clothes were black everything except for splashes of belts and bracelets and the tonnage of costume jewelry from the Mildred Bohlman collection, courtesy of her daughter and my friend, Tina Romanus. (“Yes, you can wear rhinestone earrings to breakfast!” I once insisted to a more conservative friend in plaid and small posts.) I was a singer in a rock and roll band, skinny as a stick at the time (yogurt and Diet Pepsi the only sustenance in my fridge on a predictable basis) and rarely, if ever, was I well fed, usually broke and always on a diet. Food had become the “beloved enemy,” necessary nourishment yet persistent obstacle. I had a manager, a mentor, and a band leader tell me at various times in my career that I needed to lose weight if I wanted to be a star. Hungrier for success than fatty foods, I did what I had to do. Then came Thanksgiving.

I had not been home for Thanksgiving in years and for whatever reason, perhaps starvation, I decided this was the year. I was skinny enough to take a chance on a full meal and though the time since childhood and its forgiving palate left me unable to recall if my Mom actually was a good cook, surely she was decent-enough for the auspicious occasion of the Thanksgiving meal. I had warm memories of huge, golden turkeys fresh out of the oven and the requisite high-carb sides that accompanied it proudly and without question: mashed potatoes, yams, stuffing, homemade biscuits, bubbling gravy…the whole shebang. Worth every bloody ounce…pound…I was sure to gain. I booked the ticket, alerted the family, and began to count the days.

My band had a gig the week before my departure and as I stood after the show chattering excitedly about heading home “next week,” one of my bandmates looked at me incredulously and said, “You do know Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, right?” WHAT?? No, I did NOT! I rushed to the calendar hanging in the club office and FOR GOD’S SAKE, HE WAS RIGHT!! For some reason I’d always assumed Thanksgiving was the last Thursday of November and had booked accordingly. But no, it’s the fourth (4th!) Thursday of November and this particular November, whatever year it was, had five freakin’ Thursdays! I could barely contain my panic but I was going to have that damn Thanksgiving dinner come hell, high water, or a $500 last minute ticket change!

A hysterical late-night wrangle with credit cards and flight reservation desks got me that very expensive ticket to Chicago early the next morning, which wiped out my available credit but would surely be worth the drain. My flight got me in about an hour before dinner, my brother picked me up at O’Hare and whisked me to a warm and inviting home that was jam-packed with more people than I’d shared a table with since I…well, left home! Cheers at my arrival were heartening and as my Mom and various siblings got platters out to the table and I waited in anticipation for the entrance of the bubbling brown turkey, my Mom leaned over and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, “Your Dad and I finally figured out how to make Thanksgiving less stressful. We cooked the turkey last week, sliced it, froze it, then all we had to do today was give each plate a dollop of Campbell’s gravy and a quick zap in the microwave…what could be easier??” she chortled triumphantly.

My heart would have dropped to my grumbling stomach had it been unclenched enough to accommodate it.

I was stunned, speechless, barely heard a word as she continued her perky litany of stress-busting miracles inclusive of “do you realize how much time was saved by not peeling potatoes?” (not necessary when Betty Crocker Potato Buds are handy!) and “Campbell’s gravy is just as good and doesn’t get lumpy!” or “I actually hate the taste of real cranberries!” So between potato buds, canned gravy, canned yams, canned cranberry sauce (why do they call that sauce?), bagged dinner rolls and canned bean casserole, we had a Thanksgiving meal so processed it should have had its own bar code. Suffice it to say, this pseudo Swanson TV dinner put my food fantasy to rest before the blessing even commenced but there was not a soul there besides me who seemed the least bit bothered. Perhaps it was the starvation. Or maybe my palate had already turned after a few years in California.

But at some point I looked up from my meager provisions (the canned yams with the melted marshmallows weren’t half-bad) and took in the tableau surrounding me. My parents, laughing and engaged; most of my 10 sibs, various spouses and children, a few friends here and there; the music was playing, the volume was loud, and the cheer – well, the cheer was loud, too. It was a wild group and there was lots of laughter and I felt like…I belonged. Despite the cuisine fail, there was a rush of recognition that here I was, in my family home, surrounded by people I loved who loved me back. I didn’t have to explain myself, we spoke the same language (well, most of us!) and regardless of differences, debates and family of origin debacles (of which there were many), this was a group of wonderful people with whom I’d shared my life and would always have a tremendous bond. And besides, though the bread we were breaking together was processed white rolls from Safeway, we were a group that knew how to PAR-TAY…priceless! Because that, after all, was the point of the thing. Being with people who matter. I went back skinnier than I left (unexpected bonus!) and with a renewed attachment to my history. The buzz lasted a while, though my mother was forever off the go-to roster of Thanksgiving chefs!

Which leads to my, perhaps, more meaningful thoughts about this holiday:

Life is short. Or it’s long, depending on how you look at it. And despite economic woes, global unrest, famine, war, pepper spray, clueless politicians, joblessness, the Phelps family, bigotry, hate and Kim Kardashian (OK, that was just mean!), there is still so much to be grateful for. And we all know it. We just have to pay attention. And what most of us are most grateful for are the people in our lives; the circle of wagons that curls around us like a great, protective huddle. And these people for whom we are so grateful, who carry the key to our joy, these people need to know how we feel. Today or tomorrow at the latest, but don’t wait much past that; don’t wait until you forgot what you wanted to say, don’t presume “they know anyway,” and certainly don’t put it off until the only moment left is the memorial speech at their funeral. Yeah, that’s too late.

I had occasion in the last year to hear of two different families, one in which two sisters haven’t spoken to each other in years at the insistence of one and the complete mystery of the other. Despite entreaties from the clueless one, the sister perpetuating the estrangement rejects any attempts at rapprochement and has announced this is forever irresolvable. And it probably will be. Two sisters split over something unknown and likely very minor. Tragic in the scheme of things. In the other situation, schisms over financial matters poorly handled by one have split a family, likely beyond repair and, once again, what was once a warm, loving group has been fractured due to unspoken resentments and unreconciled shame and confusion. In both cases I wanted to scream to whomever was the hold out, “THIS IS A WASTE OF LIFE! This is your sister/brother/father/daughter/etc. and time will sweep by without notice and all this petty bullshit, this righteous anger, won’t matter a bit when a death bed is involved and life is no longer an option to waste. Fix it! Figure it out! It’s important.”

A friend once told me (poignantly, just prior to discovering she had terminal cancer) how useful it was to live every day as if you knew it was your last. Macabre, perhaps, but it also made sense. Say it all, she said, say it now. Be sure there’s nothing left unresolved. Send the letter, make the apology, breach the gap, smooth the rift; solve the schism. Say all the admiring things you’d want to say at that memorial service but say them while the person is still standing in front of you. Make their lunch. Make their bed. Make their day. Buy, read and make comment on their book. CD. Fashion line. Business plan. Go to their play. Cheer at their baseball game. “Like” their page. Respond to their emails. Listen on the phone while doing nothing else. Do something unexpected to show your gratitude. Don’t make presumptions about “I have lots of time.” You don’t. Time can slip away and sometimes disappear without a warning.

I thought this was good advice. I’ve tried to live by it as best I can. Though I still do clean the house when I’m on the phone!

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because other than the iconic meal we either do or don’t have depending on our own traditions and palates, its only purpose is to acknowledge and celebrate gratitude. Whatever its history, whatever its traditions and origins, its purest, most salient element is the simple celebration of gratefulness. What a sweet mission statement! And so in my family we not only do make the traditional meal (and I’ve been told no one does it better! :), but we take a moment at some point during that meal to go around the table as each of us verbally expresses what we’re most grateful for. I always look forward to the surprises that sometimes come in those revelations.

As for me, what I’m most grateful for? My husband and son, top of any list; my beautiful stepdaughter, her Grace and the rest of her family, inclusive of wonderful in-laws who’ve become part of our family as well (how amazing is that?!). My eclectic and soulful siblings, mother and extended family of wildly talented nieces and nephews; my incredible and colorful roster of friends, good health (so important), the beauty of the world and my ability to capture it. My writing and the buzz I get from doing and sharing it with those who read it and join me in the conversation.

Those are the broad strokes, you can fill in the fine points.

Mostly I’m grateful for LIFE, the meal we all share. Good, bad and in between. There’s something deeply exhilarating about an adventure where every single day you get to wake up and have a new shot at it. How exciting is that? So thank you, all of you who are part of my adventure. I’m glad you’re here. Stick around. Me?  I gotta go start the pies, the potatoes need peeling and the turkey is on the grill for a long, time-sucking 4 hours. I promise, we’re eatin’ good tonight!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!

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At last and finally, my long-awaited (ok…by me!) photography website has been launched. A labor of love, certainly, and one I’m delighted to share: LorraineDevonWilke: eclectic fine art photography.

We each come into this world with a penchant, an inclination; a psychic nuance that gets under our skin, drives our goals and, simply put, makes us really happy. The list is long of those many things that inspire and clearly it’s a very personal thing. What incites creativity, passion and ambition in one can be a complete flatline for another. It’s as individual as a fingerprint. A snowflake. That dish my friend Lotta makes that no one’s ever been able to figure out.

For me it was the creative arts. Always. I don’t know why. I could point to the lack of TV in my youth and childhood – and the books, music and art that filled the gap – but, frankly, my younger sibs who did not do without are just as artistically inclined and they were definitely Children of the TV (similar to Children of the Corn only in that their eyes are a bit large). Perhaps our penchants are pre-programmed. A carry-over from a previous life (if you believe such things). Certainly they’re influenced by parents who, in my case, were passionate about the arts, injecting them at every turn, convinced that even rearranging the living room was an expression of the creative mind. It is, Mom; I agree. And thank you, both, for your fine contribution to my artistic journey.

So armed with my many Muses who kept me company throughout an eclectic life, I happily bandied in a bevy of mediums, even past the point when others tried to convince me to “pick one and stick with it.” Creative monogamy, so to speak. But I had arrived in LA pumped by youthful years of writing, acting and singing, poised to take it all on in this fine creative mecca, so I chafed at the notion of exclusivity. Seemed so…exclusive. Still, I was a naive and eager young lass, addicted to my ambition and ultimately easily swayed, so I threw aside my concerns and did just that; I chose acting, forsaking all others like a good, faithful spouse, convinced that by committing to only one Muse I would certainly conjure its success into being.

Yeah. That worked.

Don’t get me wrong, I had loads of fun as an actress but ultimately fell out of love, particularly after it was clear that a viable career was not to be had and, it turns out, I really didn’t care all that much. Mostly I missed the other Muses. I remember telling my manager at the time, after five years of acting fidelity, that I missed music and wanted to get back to it and he literally laughed in my face. Seriously, he laughed. His perspective of me was so narrow that rather than explore a new path and its many possibilities, he presumed I was a deluded little dilettante. Big fat tipping point, that laugh. I dumped him, quit my acting class, threw out all my vapid 8×10’s and spent the next decade or so deliriously happy as a singer in a rock n’ roll band. And a writer. And a taker of pictures. All of it. Even some damn acting. My creative harem. Welcome home.

As I see it, this business of artistic monogamy is foolishness. Fidelity is for marriage, not art. Do what you love, do everything you love, and if you do it well, all the better…share it. Yes, I know the world is now saturated with loads of purported artists in every genre who do not do it well, whatever it is in this age of immediate and ubiquitous shallow-stardom, but if they enjoy it, enjoy away. We don’t have to pay attention and perhaps over time they’ll weary of the exercise. One can hope.

Anyway, this is a long, roundabout way of introducing you to a particular Muse I’ve been deeply involved with for many years but have kept close to the vest for various reasons. While I’ve done session for family, friends and artists; have prints hanging on a few office walls and on various websites, this has been a somewhat stealth pursuit. No particular reason other than, as I viewed the many talented professionals attempting to build their photography businesses in a unfathomably competitive market, sorting out how to monetize the craft as I performed it eluded me. So I just took pictures and learned some worthy skills in the meantime. But after years of shooting, more requests for prints, a growing number of calls for sessions, I decided it was time to come out of the creative closet and throw this, too, into the mix that is my creative life.

Friends, meet my other Muse; Photography, meet the gang.

Though you’re just meeting, I’ve actually been shooting pictures for most of my life.  For whatever reason, the idea of visually chronicling the journey was as natural as blinking an eye….and this was before Smart Phones and Facebook! I had a crappy little camera I took everywhere and I have many of those pictures still. They’re amateur and silly and some are as crappy as the camera taking them, but the eye was there, the composition was good and, bottom line, they are responsible for inciting my interest. It’s only been in the last couple of decades, however, that the passion to do it well became a pull. In fact, there was some regret that I hadn’t actually taken it more seriously earlier on…damn if I didn’t find the whole darkroom ritual of lights and chemicals and magically appearing images a romantic one! In fact, if I hadn’t rushed headlong into the performing arts I’ve always said I would have either been a professional photographer or a zoologist. Seriously. Either one. Primates or pictures.

But given my lack of aptitude for the sciences, photography, albeit peripherally, was at least able to come along on the ride – as much as possible given the limits of time and money. And though that first crappy camera held me in good stead for many years, it was when my mother-in-law bought me my first good Canon 35mm about 20 years ago that my world changed. Suddenly the pictures in my mind’s eye translated to paper. I began viewing things from the perspective of frame and light, and even when I didn’t have the camera, I was like Pam in The Office wedding episode snapping invisible pictures of perfect moments. I learned that the excitement of capturing an image of true beauty or amazing candor was as exhilarating as belting a killer song or writing that brilliant paragraph. I was hooked. And when the digital revolution exploded with all its heady possibilities, I took a leap of faith, invested in a top line Canon DLSR, a couple of stellar professional lenses and have been in a solid relationship with the Muse ever since.

I have great respect for technicians but I am not one. Perfection of skill and deep, expansive knowledge of the science of photography belong to those who made it their business to prioritize learning the technology from the ground up. For me, Multi-Muse Gal, learning the craft and technique of photography has been a slow, steady process of personal experimentation, research, book and hands-on learning. My education has been mostly instinctual, with excellent tutelage and guidance from renowned, respected photographers and teachers along the way. I studied printmaking with a master printmaker, learned camera basics from a Canon specialist and, particularly in the last three years, worked with a noted photographer and designer for whom I shot countless photos, did digital processing and printing, as well as extensive restoration and repair of older, damaged files. I learned a tremendous amount by the sheer action of doing it and what has evolved through all of this is the skill I have and my particular style of visual storytelling, examples of which have found their way onto my site (and some in this article!).

I chose the pictures I did for the site galleries because, simply…I love them. I have my favorites, certainly, but I love them all. Not to sound childish but they make me happy and represent amazing experiences in which I participated. Some depict historical places that took my breath away, some are those decisive moments in real life captured in a flash of serendipity; others are simple beauty or sweetness with no other explanation, and some are stories I wanted to tell or people who grabbed my eye. A few are even technically dubious but exude something unique or special in a way that won them a spot on the site despite their flaws. It’s a collection that speaks loudly to how I see the world and I happen to like what it has to say.

I truly hope you also enjoy the statement.  There are over 600 photos posted on the site so don’t attempt to view them all in one sitting. Take the time to enjoy them in incremental visits when you can freshly view each gallery. I promise it’s a more enjoyable experience that way and I’ll be adding new things from time to time anyway!

And beyond the sharing of creativity, I chose Fine Art America, the company hosting the site, because they have streamlined the process of printmaking and that, after all, is part of the goal here: to inspire you to order prints for yourself, your friends, your office; your gift giving. Because ultimately I realized the way I could best monetize my craft was simply to shoot what I love and then put it somewhere where others could access it and, hopefully, find a piece or two they’d like for their living room. Or the kitchen at Grandma’s. Or that space in the den that always looks so bare. Should you wish a print, a photographic Christmas or holiday gift, a box of cards or a canvas of any one of these photographs, I would be honored.  Fine Art America makes it easy to get the commerce done so click the link below and go commerce a little…my Muse and I will thank you.

But whatever you do, first and foremost, enjoy!

LorraineDevonWilke: Eclectic Fine Art Photography (click here)

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We left off last May, pondering the details of the First Summer Home Since College (Empty Next Syndrome…Coming Home); questions abounded as to how it would all go and how the family would or wouldn’t settle into the familiar but clearly altered paradigm of the family system. There was much anticipation and excitement and I was too knee-deep in the experience to write about it at the time. However, by end of summer I was reminded by several inquiring readers that I hadn’t actually answered my own question: how did that first summer home go? It seems Part 3 was in order.

I re-posted the original entry in this series, My Very Cool Roommate Is Moving Out, earlier this past summer, somewhere around the time when families everywhere were slowly beginning the dreaded/anticipated rite of passage called Changing Our Family System For the Rest Of Time…or, to put it less hyperbolically, Our Child’s First Year Away At College. Given that I was now a Second Year Parent and looking at it from the other side of the chasm, the many responses I got to the re-post reminded me of just how sharp the edges of this transition are, particularly for mothers, and there is no soft-pedaling the impact it has on those who, up to the moment of driving away from campus with one less person in the car, were laser-focused on the now-missing Boy or Girl. It’s brutal for some, heartbreaking for many, and certainly a significant life-change for all. You’re handing your singlemost precious entity over to the great big world, out from under your roof, your care, your passionate supervision. You’re trusting in cafeteria food and campus clinics. You’re putting faith in everything you imparted about drugs, alcohol, being responsible and not risking life and limb for the heady freedoms of college living. You’re wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’ that this love of your life will prove resilient and smart enough to flourish and survive without your management skills and with the ones you taught them. It feels like an unbelievably high-stakes crapshoot but ultimately we know it’s a stacked deck — in our favor. You did good getting them there and they’ll do fine with the cards in their hands.

But still….I know…First Year. It’s tough.

So the boy came home in May. After nine months away, he arrived with bags and boxes, too much facial hair, a bonsai that survived the dorm, and a big, fat smile that told me how happy he was to be home. I felt my shoulders relax, my heart calm and something inside me welled up at the realization that he was still my kid, my boy, the person I most adored. Once he was unpacked and the room resembled the hurricane debris field so familiar from the high school years, I knew it was on. Summer After the First Year of College.

And lo and behold…it felt exactly like all the summers previous. Except for the summer job focus (which didn’t turn out as well as expected through no fault of his own), the days were filled with late, lazy mornings, times with the Girlfriend (high school GF amazingly sustained through the First Year Away), an admirable stint building houses with Habitat for Humanity, glorious beach days with friends, disc golf and card games with the crew, family gatherings and dinners, one or two movies with Mom, and those golden moments of just sitting together on the couch sharing Internet discoveries, working on websites, or watching favorite TV shows (those moments, from my point of view, were too few, but, oh, they were precious). For many unavoidable reasons we couldn’t manage the usual Family Trip Away, the only time and place we get him all to ourselves, but we enjoyed the time we had. He was attached, warm, remarkably lovely and, by and large, unchanged from the boy who left the summer before.

You know who changed? Me.

I didn’t mean to. It didn’t happen overnight, I didn’t even notice when it did happen. I certainly wasn’t planning on it; in fact, it seemed unfathomable. I kinda wanted to hold on to that version of Mother/Child attachment I had, the one that carried over from birth to that gut-wrenching moment we first left him on campus. But like any state of being – the anger you can’t sustain after a days-old fight, the excitement that lessens after weeks on a new job; the grief that ultimately diminishes at some point after a loss – that Mother/Child attachment and the loss felt at letting it go does shift and change…until it literally becomes another version of itself. Your role as a mother is redefined; their role as the child is as well. Hell, even your role as a person melds and molds into something different. Suddenly the grief and the searing sense of losing something too precious to lose is replaced by new paradigms that unconsciously take into account the changing circumstances and life fills in the void. You still miss him, you still find his empty room a bit of a shock, but slowly over time the days are filled less with thinking about what he’s doing and more about what you’ve got to get done. Projects shelved until “later” become front burner, the dining room table becomes less about meals and more about framing those prints you’ve wanted to get up since last year. The knee-jerk impulse to pack a lunch, ask what time he’ll be home, or arrange your day around his schedule is replaced by first-morning thoughts of finishing the garden, getting to yoga or meeting your old work-mate for lunch. It’s gradual, it’s ever-so-subtle but like good therapy, it’s a seamless, ephemeral transition only noticed in retrospect. You continue to love the phone calls, the texts, and Skype chats; you relish planning the trips home and the visits to campus, but you gradually find your life is no longer a swirling eddy of focus and attention on all-things child. The fact is, you’ve gotten on with it…just as you should.

By the time summer was over and he left for Year Two, I felt the expected twinge as he drove away (got there on his own this time!), but not much of one…certainly not like last year. I was now confident that he’d essentially be the same person when I saw him next and, frankly, I needed to get the sheets done and on with my incredibly busy day.

Sound cold? Make you feel even a little guilty, as another mother admitted? Shouldn’t. It’s evolution, plain and simple; Mother Nature doing her self-preserving thing.

When I was about three months pregnant, I remember looking into the empty room that was to be his, overwhelmed with a feeling of, “Oh, dear God, there’s going to be a person, an actual living person in there in a few months and what the hell do I know about taking care of an actual person who’s going to non-negotiably LIVE with me for the next couple of decades??!” It was science fiction, that’s how strange and unimaginable it seemed at the time. And yet, by eight months I was calm and ready to get on with it; by nine I couldn’t wait. It was then I realized how truly brilliant Mother Nature is, the way she so wisely manages our evolution to assimilate, cope, and ready for the big changes in our lives. And just as we mothers are given nine full months (in most cases) to ramp up to the enormity of the task we’re taking on, the gestation period of the college chapter 18 years later is our time to learn how to successfully let go and move beyond that first incarnation of the job. The Motherhood Bookend, if you will. Bringing Them Home then Letting Them Go. There’s a sad but sweet symmetry there.

A woman named Patricia wrote me after reading Part 1, sharing her story and stating that, indeed, family and friends had assured her things would ultimately change for the better but, on some level, she didn’t really believe they ever would. Her grief at letting go of her precious son was aching and palpable and so reminded me of my own story. I remembered feeling, like her, that no one could fully understand the agony of my experience and it was impossible to believe it would ever feel natural or right. I wondered how other families – who’d clearly survived the transition – had managed to do so when I felt like a death had occurred. The gravity of Patricia’s pain and heartache very much resonated with me so I write Part 3 to honor her journey, to acknowledge and recognize what she is going through, but to also assure her — from a very authentic, been-there/survived-that place — that, just as family and friends assured, it truly and resolutely does get better.

You will look back at some point and realize the truth of that and be ever so grateful for the evolution. It will allow you to redefine your role with your child, to come up with new formulas for how to be the Best Mother You Can Be to an Almost-Adult Child, leading to the Best Mother of a Fully Adult Child when that time inevitably arrives. They’re each different job descriptions, different paradigms; they require fresh thinking and new responses. They demand that we stay in present time with our children and see them as the people they are now, not the person they were then. It seems so simple and expected but it’s stunning how many families struggle with the awkwardness and fumbling discomfort of these changes. It’s understandable, that struggle, but since the changes are inevitable, it’s advisable to get a jump on it! Take the gift of these college years, so generously offered by Mother Nature, to slowly but surely learn the parameters of your new role. By the time you actually get to their Fully Adult part, when they’ve moved into their own home, are paying their own way and struggling with their own transitions into their new roles as independent men or women, you’ll have a tremendous head start, ready and able to help them through it all. And they’ll need it!

So until then, I’m swimming in writing projects, finally getting my photography website slowly but surely built (more on that later!), rehearsing with a new band, enjoying my stepdaughter and her family, making time for those power walks and trying to squeeze in a movie or two with my husband. As for my Second Year Son? He’s doing great in school, loves his new off-campus apartment, is reveling in the Ultimate Frisbee team he joined and continues to enjoy the GF and various crews he’s accrued. He’s happy so I’m happy. It’s been a good second year so far for all of us…see you in November, sweetheart!

P.S. This will likely be the last of the series. There will be other transitions to wrangle, new ups and downs as life is wont to throw us, but I do believe the “Empty Nest” chapter of my life has concluded. Because regardless of what else happens, it doesn’t feel like an empty nest around here anymore…it just feels like the home of a family that is slowly but surely growing up together. I wish you all the same.

To review the first two chapters, go to:

Empty Nest Pt. 1 – My Very Cool Roommate Is Moving Out

Empty Nest Pt. 2 – Empty Next Syndrome…Coming Home

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It’s strange to grieve a man you didn’t know but grieve I am. I’m not going to try to explain or justify it; when a brilliant mind and a true innovator leaves this earth, it’s just….sad. Particularly when Charles Manson is still here.

Some people just tap into a global zeitgeist and their passing impacts as globally as their living. It doesn’t have to make sense to everyone (remember how some disparaged the tsunami reaction to Princess Diana’s death?), it simply IS. Some people get to us. Some people make such an imprint it feels like you’ve lost someone you know. And in the case of the ubiquitous Steve Jobs, well…we did kinda know him.

From his inevitable online presentations of new products to his bespectacled picture everywhere to his elegant machinery in the hands, pockets, ears and laps of gazillions all over the world, he was as much a part of our day-to-day lives as anything or anyone could be. The only thing lacking was actual chit-chat at the kitchen counter and given all the chatting we do on/with his products, even that connection felt tangible.

I have a Good Steve Jobs Story.

While I’ve had some productive correspondences with various underlings in businesses I’ve patronized, there are only two major players in the big ass corporate world who ever personally responded to me…to a letter, an inquiry, a request; a complaint. Not Ak-Mak Crackers; when I repeatedly found bugs in my flatbreads, I wrote the head of the company to report the invasion – no response. When Verizon once again wreaked havoc on something (anything!) to do with my phones, TV, Internet, whatever, I wrote and – you got it – nothing. Most newspapers and magazines I’ve contacted with great ideas, pitches or even letters to the editor…oh, please. And forget trying to get to the top if an appliance goes out…apparently that cannot be done. But two big corporate folks did respond: one was Arianna Huffington (who did and still does reply to me), the other was Steve Jobs.

My son bought his first Ipod waaaaay back when they first came out and there were some initial problems with ITunes in those nascent days of paying and downloading. There was no customer service number to call, only an email address where they promised to get back to the querying customer within 24 hours. After sending several emails and getting no response for weeks, I finally got all huffed up, tracked down Steve Job’s personal office address in Cupertino, and wrote him a cordial but frank letter wishing him a swift recovery from his recent illness (get a little knot reflecting on that now), while explaining the unresolved and off-putting situation with those several 99 cent tunes my kid was waiting for. I had no expectation of an actual response; this was just one of those pro-active things I’d do when I was too frustrated to let it go and there’s no blog with which to flog (as there wasn’t at that point!).

I went off on a summer trip about a week later, up to a remote island off the coast of Washington State, and while happily islanding without a thought to the technical world left behind, got a phone call. Yep, from Cupertino. I don’t remember the name of the woman, but it was Steve Job’s assistant. She was very sweet, apologized for the problem, reporting that Mr. Jobs had personally instructed her to follow-up and make sure the issue was resolved and my kid got all his tunes. And she did just that. When I got back to Los Angeles, all the songs were where they were supposed to be and she followed up with another call to make sure we were completely satisfied with the resolution. We were and I thanked her, telling her to let Mr. Jobs know how much I appreciated his action on my letter.

What a mensch.

To a girl who learned computers on an MacIntosh back in 1990, who strayed only briefly to PCs during the middle years when the husband’s law practice demanded it, but who ultimately returned to the sleek, inimitable, near-flawless and always impeccably supported MAC platform, Steve Jobs was the Fairy Godfather of classy, corporate cool. A guy who put his imprimatur on what he put out and personally supported it as only a Fairy Godfather would. Obviously we all realize he was in profoundly good company and didn’t do it alone, with Wozniak and many, many others knee-deep in the birthing and parenting process along the way, but Steve Jobs was the Man we saw, the man we related to.

That’s my Good Steve Jobs Story. It is good, isn’t it? It vaunted him to a significant position of respect in my eyes and it made my attachment to his products feel all the more deserved since then.

Below is a repost of a piece I put up awhile back, a look-back at an old corporate industrial that was used to accompany the original Macintosh rollout in January, 1984. At first-post it was a kitschy look that illustrated where Apple came from, a good laugh; now it’s a sort of reverential acknowledgment of how long Mr. Jobs and his fine products have been with us. I tip my hat and sing one more time for the man behind the computer screen…RIP, Steve Jobs. Today we are all Apple.

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This entry was originally posted on Thursday, March 3rd, 2011

WE ARE APPLE…EVERYBODY SING!

Just when you think certain creative exercises of your youth have slipped by unnoticed, they keep pulling you back in! In this world of YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and StumbleUpon, it remains pointless to deny your public past, futile to try to out-run those artistic moments you’ve evolved so far from since then. They’re there. Always there. Forever to haunt:

We Are Apple (Leading the Way) (click here for the additional pleasure of YouTube comments!)

As of this past weekend, I was forced to embrace my big hair-’80s-era-session-singing persona by way of this apparently ubiquitous YouTube video. It seems it’s been posted for years but only recently grabbed the attention of the tech magazines that have enjoyed having it as fodder for some good old fun-poking at Apple’s expense! Though it depicts an in-house industrial rather than a 1983 version of an Apple commercial, it remains a hilariously dated snapshot of another, seemingly very distant, era in computer history.

And, yeah, that’s my slightly hysterical, very enthusiastic vocal on the “What a Feeling” rip-off that soundtracked the piece. Can it really be that those behemoth computers you see pictured in the oh-so-vintage quick-cut video were considered cutting edge?? Hard to believe that any of us alive were around for those clunky, unwieldy versions of the slick, efficient, elegant Apples of today!

But it’s a fun, historical snapshot that brings a smile so I felt it was RPM-worthy. Originally produced by Geoff Levin and Chris Many of Levin/Many Productions who worked out of the fabulous Juniper Studios in Burbank, CA at the time (the company has since disbanded), it was engineered by nimble-fingered Steve Sharp, currently the “Evil Overlord” (his words) of MediaPDX in Portland, Oregon, and sung by yours truly.

(The picture below is not of the Apple sessions but rather my first solo artist sessions at the original Juniper Studios. That is, however, Steve Sharp on the left doin’ that thing he did, and that’s my child-self leaning against bass player John Selk; uber-producer Brian Cadd is at the console.)

I promise you my vocals since then have been much calmer. Really. I swear. Go check.

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I grew up in an era when Joni Mitchell’s declaration that “we don’t need no piece of paper from the city hall” seemed just about right and the very idea of eschewing the shackles of conventional marriage was thrilling to us wild children of the times. Who needed contracts and rules and vows and all that other restrictive, limiting nonsense when we were so freeeeeee? And after all, if you managed to stay together without the bounds of marriage, wasn’t that even more of a testament to how truly committed you were? Love…that’s all we needed to keep away those lonesome blues.

But we did, didn’t we? We ultimately got married. Some of us older than younger, but we got married despite lyrics to the contrary. Which compels the question, why? It’s a fair question. In the last many decades since that heady time of sexual freedom, we’ve become a society of multiple divorces and cyclical re-marriages. We keep getting married despite our apparent cluelessness on the topic but, frankly, it doesn’t seem that marriage actually has much to do with whether or not people stay together (maybe Joni was on to something!).

Marriage is oft-times just the fantasy idea, the romance dream of white gowns and handsome princes, frothy hoopla, large tiered cakes and even larger bills for the various parental units involved. Weddings can run the gamut from authentic celebrations of love and commitment right up to the overpriced free-for-alls that set Pops back a second mortgage and conclude with the bride vomiting on the honeymoon duvet while the groom counts the big bucks earned during the obligatory (and hour long) “money dance” set to the overused and slightly hackneyed Al Green chestnut “Let’s Stay Together.” Cynical, perhaps, but let’s face it, while I’ve seen and participated in some amazing ones (and you know who you are!), weddings have become an industry and sometimes the whole “why we get married” part of the equation gets lost in all the hullabaloo.

Me…I eloped. My old man and I went out and got ourselves a piece of paper from the city hall,  21 years of keeping’ away the blues. Well…there have been some blues, some kick-ass blues, actually, but still…we’re here. Amazingly, still here. Happy Anniversary to us.

And what have I learned in these last 21 years? What great kernels of wit and wisdom can I pass along as one of the wise old-marrieds?

Truth is, whatever wisdom I might have to offer, there are plenty of others who’ve had completely different experiences and will likely be far wiser than me. My marriage has been less a long and winding road than a roller coaster ride so odds are I might have a remedy for motion sickness that won’t apply to those who’ve managed to avoid the bump and teeth-grind along the way. Or maybe it will; maybe every long marriage has its own wild rhythms that require deep breaths and even deeper soul searching regardless of the particulars. So to the question, what do I know? Only my own experience. And on this day of my 21st anniversary, allow me to put my very uncultured pearls into list form as a nod to this day and the man I chose in the grand institution of marriage:

1. Make sure you fall in love with someone who can ultimately be your friend. By your 21st year that friend will likely mean more to you than any lover ever could. And if you’re lucky enough to still have a buzz with each other at that point, you’ll be fully aware that six-pack abs, a full head of hair and the chiseled jaw of youth are all quite fabulous and chemistry-inducing as a starting point but ultimately can’t shake a stick at that friend who knows all your physical and emotional sweet spots and loves you despite the outward lessening of your previously-held vixen status.

2. Make sure you marry someone who can be a good mate. Very different criteria than a good boyfriend/girlfriend/lover. It requires things like stellar work ethic (good job and the wherewithal to keep it), admirable responsibility (solid sense of the point and purpose of saving money), age-appropriate skills (can pack own bag and knows how to run the dishwasher), initiative powers (able to plan a trip or wrangle a loan officer). The list goes on. You get the idea.

3. Don’t marry a boy-man or girl-woman. While you may want to raise a child at some point, you don’t ever want to raise a mate.

4. And if there is a plan for children, discuss ad nauseum prior to sending out “save the dates.” Make sure you’re not only on the same page, but the same paragraph, sentence and word. Ascertain potential partner’s aptitude for managing all aspects of small, irascible human beings. Decide early on exactly how many (open for later discussion, but still decide), and be very receptive to stupid, trendy names brought to the table to argue over and hide from the family.

5. Be an metaphoric animal tamer and get every freakin’ elephant out in the middle of the living room to have at ‘em. Discuss and clarify politics, sex, religion, race, family of origin, morality, mortality, gender politics, parenting philosophies; who expects what from whom on any given matter. Get the old boyfriend/girlfriend confessions out of the way (ALL of them), make sure you agree on how much to share on Facebook, and if there is a YouTube video floating around that bears some explaining, do it now (didn’t apply to us but, oh, I’ve heard some stories…!).

6. Be very clear that the most important and essential emotions on the table are and will always be love, empathy, joy and compassion. Although fear of heights and strange aversions to disposable razors do bear some consideration.

7. Honor and integrity are non-negotiable, self-health habits a must, addictive behaviors are deal-breakers (unless the habit is Pinkberry or those amazing coconut shrimp at Pho Tien Long).

8. Have an unassailable sense of humor about pretty much everything. If you had a silly character who won your mate’s heart during the early days of hot sex and easy laughter, make sure that character sticks around for the less whimsical years when a good laugh can save the day. These characters, like you, only get better with age.

9. Speaking of age, LOVE the aging process your mate is/will be going through presuming you get to 21 years. It can be a brutal and self-negating process and there is nothing quite like looking at your mate on a day when he or she is feeling particularly heinous and saying “you still look amazing to me.” Because if you followed Items 1-8, I guarantee, they will still look amazing to you.

[Note: If you do have the misfortune of falling in love with someone to whom Items 1-9 don't apply, have loads of fun but DON'T marry them.]

Beyond the list, I think we marry and stay married to the person we do mostly because we cannot imagine life without them. Because no matter what accidents happen, what brain injuries occur, careers sputter, asses widen, money eludes or disappointments pile up, that person is the one you want to endure with. Fight the good fight with. Wake up to in the morning even after a night of sorrow and confusion. They give you a sense of place, of foundation, of home. The “institution” that marriage speaks of is real and tangible to you because being married to this person feels like something concrete and physical, a place you want to live in. Because however love may change after 21 years, the way it reinvents itself in each new moment feels as urgent and powerful as the first heady incarnation. That’s why.

And since I started with Joni, let me end with her….”He’s the warmest chord I ever heard.”

That’s why I’m still married to my particular old man. Items 1 – 9 and he is, and has always been, the warmest chord I ever heard.

Wishing you all one as warm.

Happy Anniversary, Pete.

 Lyrics from Joni Mitchell’s My Old Man.

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Churlish is a word one rarely gets to use in normal conversation. “Stop being such a…churlish fellow!” does not readily roll off the tongue in modern repartee. But lately I find myself thinking it, often in response to one thing or another I’m reading; usually comments, Facebook contributions; even a hatchet job written on a recent Huffington Post piece I published. We’ve become a churlish, snarling society, ready to snap at the drop of a hat, quick with the snarky rejoinder, poised for the jugular as a default position. We seem incapable of intellectual debate, conversational exchange or even simple discussion without the attempt to draw blood.

Why so cranky? Why can’t we share our ideas – different, opposing or even mildly alternative – without turning on each other like a pack of cur dogs? Foot-stomping, whining toddlers? Finger pointing, snotty grade-schoolers? We’ve gone from the repressive culture of the Victorian era, through the enforced civility of the 40′s and 50′s, past the wild rebellion of the 60′s and 70′s, right up to the Pit Bull Throat-Ripping Mentality of the 2000′s. It ain’t pretty and I, for one, don’t like it much.

It all started with the damn Internet (oooh, you….damn Internet!). Suddenly we were no longer limited to shaking our fist at the TV, arguing with our booth mate at a diner, or sending those oft-ignored Letters to the Editor when we had something to say. Now there’s no obligation to attend a rally, get our ass to a meeting, lick a stamp or even sign our name. No, in this new era of instant, anonymous communication, we can freely spew all manner of hate-speak, below-the-belt criticism, vitriol, bile, venom, or any other kind of yellow-hued toxicity without ever identifying ourselves or leaving the comfort of our ergonomic at the computer table.

Internet as the White Hood of cultural communication.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Internet. Seriously, if I could marry it I would. It has given me the tools to create, write, disseminate, telecommute and do my art in ways that were unimaginable just a few short years ago. It is brilliance in the tangible and I am its biggest fan. But as with any innovation, with the good comes the bad. And what this heady freedom has wrought is the ready availability of anonymity…which has allowed the worst of us to regress to a certain and deeply unfortunate state of grunting Neanderthalism.

On any given day, if for some inexplicable reason you want to induce nausea or just masochistically muse on the dubious state of mankind, scroll through a comment thread under pretty much any article on the Internet. It is a study in the basest of human nature. It doesn’t matter what topic. An article on Obama will, of course, bring out the literal White Hoods, along with the so-called “economists” or “small government” contingent who somehow find any piece on Obama to be a sponge for bile so deep you could swim through it. But even an interview with an artist of some kind – male/female, attractive/not so, popular/waning – will induce a bevy of bottom-feeder comments about big boobs and fat asses and how “he’s a douche” or “she’s a pig anyway.” Political essay? Picture a piranha tank…now throw in some fresh meat. I swear, you could write an article about “the cutest little kitty that ever lived on the fluffy face of the earth” and the comments below would be “cats suck, dogs rule!” or “let’s throw that ugly little shit in a blender..hahah!” or even “I hope that faggot cat dies!” They’re a cesspool, Internet comment threads.

It’s as if by removing the responsibility of identity we have removed all manner of decorum, sensibility, respect or just common decency. A person goes from being nice guy, good neighbor Bob Jones to Snarling Tea Party Member Who Wants to Lynch that Muslim Obama and Take Back the Country For Real Americans. Mary Smith morphs from sweet PTA President and loving mother to Christian Who Thinks Homos Should Never Be Allowed Near Children and They’re All Going to Hell Anyway. Put a computer in your tree-hugging, pot-smoking, hemp-wearing cousin Horizon Flower’s hands and she signs in as Militant Uber-Environmental Queen Who Thinks Anyone Questioning Industrial Wind Turbines Is a NIMBY Asshole (never mind that the growers supplying her weed are busy destroying the natural forest as she types!). It’s all about positioning, ego, arrogance, narcissism, shoving shoulders and bullying tactics. It’s about the sucker punch, the shot in the back, the darkest recesses being given the light. It’s cowardice and weakness and a lack of integrity. It sucks.

But it goes beyond that. The toxicity of anonymity has become so pervasive, so widely dispersed and subliminally accepted that it has infected even those who are willing to put a name to their snark. I always find it amazing that one can post something inspirational or meaningful on Facebook and there will always be SOMEONE in the network of “friends” who feels it’s their job to run in with the kidney punch, as if we cannot, for one moment, reflect on the meaning of what’s posted without having the contrary agenda jammed into the dialogue. Wearisome. The smarter, more gracious, person knows when it’s best to keep one’s negativity and cynicism to oneself.

I’m pondering the idea of writing a book called the The Audaciously Holistic Human and in it I plan to analyze this phenomenon and offer, in greater depth than I can do here, my prescription for remedy. It starts with this list:

1. Always use your real name when you sign in to leave a comment. If you aren’t comfortable enough with your perspective or proud enough of your comment to take responsibility for it, don’t write it. If your grandmother couldn’t read it and say (whether she agrees with the thesis or not), “that’s my boy/girl,” you’re on the wrong track. If you get a little queasy when you imagine your friends knowing it was you who wrote it, step away from the comment box. Rule of thumb: Don’t write it if you can’t put your name to it. (see addendum below.)

2. Control the snark. The “I know you are but what am I??!” kind of baiting and bullying online has become so de rigueur that the impulse to respond in kind is tempting. Don’t. Don’t take the bait. Snark begets snark and like that alien weed that’s taking over indigenous habitats, nip it at the root or it will overcome the very nature of elegant human discourse.

3. Write any comment as if the recipient was sitting across the table from you planning to pick up the check. If you wouldn’t say it that way in person, don’t say it that way online.

4. Understand that despite your conviction, there are others who simply do not and will not ever agree with you. Stop trying to convince them. Especially when you’re insulting them while you’re trying to convince them. Counterproductive and pointless. Most of us are preaching to the choir. We’re not expecting to change any minds. We’re just putting forth our ideas to the village in which we live. If you don’t agree, either keep it to yourself or, if you have some compelling reason to express it other than the aforementioned Facebook Kidney Punch, write with respect and the full understanding that you’re the odd man out. Wit and decorum win more debates than snark, guaranteed.

5. And since it’s been mentioned, understand that snark is not wit. It is snark, similar to wit only as Arby’s resembles roast beef.

5. Learn how to converse…and debate. I swear, if I were running schools my curriculum would include such mandatory subjects as “How to Become a Good Conversationalist” (hint: listen and be sincerely interested in others), “How to Intelligently and Respectfully Debate,” “The Value of Communicating with Dignity and Integrity,” and “Learn How and When To Shut Your Pie-Hole.” I’m working on the rest of the list.

6. Seriously and authentically open your mind. And by that I don’t mean pretend you have an open mind while you denigrate and stereotype the people you’re accusing of denigrating and stereotyping you or those on your side of the aisle, I mean REALLY open your mind. So that you can look at a member of an opposing political party, philosophical group, religion, or football team and realize that, despite opposing views, the humans involved also have some good and admirable traits. Other than Fred Phelps and family, certain religious zealots who hate in the name of God, and anyone who sends me spam about Miracle Whip, that’s likely true for most. Even John Boehner.

The list goes on but you’ll have to wait for the book (wow…should I really write it??). The moral of the story is this: Have the courage not only of your convictions, but the courage to plainly, respectfully and intelligently express them, openly and with your byline. If you’re going to comment on an article, join a Facebook thread, tweet, email, or make a point on a blog, do so with that mandate in mind.

I don’t mind disagreement, but disagreeable is a losing proposition.

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

P.S. And while you’re at it, you might want to reread this post: What the World Needs Now Is Empathy. I daresay, the lack of empathy has a whole helluva lot to do with the proliferation of snark.

Addendum:  A commenter just brought a very specific situation to the table which required some rethinking of  #1 above.  Let me offer these exceptions to the “sign your own name” rule: Given our unfortunately pugilistic society when it comes to public discourse (aka., rancorous, spittle-flying debate) and the sometimes very irrational reactions to those debates, there ARE some valid times and reasons to use a pseudonym. Whistle-blowing is certainly one. Self-protection in the kind of heated scenarios that come with real life threats or personal attacks is another. There is often good reason to use a sign-in disguise when one is leaving a pertinent and thoughtful response to a particularly explosive piece in a community where everyone knows each other and big ideas are sometimes followed by small minds who foment neighborhood in-fighting, loss of friends, and a form of community shunning. The necessary shield of anonymity is not only allowed in those very unique and specific circumstances, but probably wise. I maintain that the courage of one’s convictions still suggests standing behind what you have to say, but when life, limb, profession, home, peace and quietude are at tangible risk, “Mad But Smart” can take the floor!

Everyone else? All you other commenters? You potty-mouthed kitty killers? Put your name to it or shut the pie hole. Actually, name or no name, just shut the pie hole!

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[NOTE: It seems the moment is here again, the one we push as far ahead of us as we can all summer, the one that drives home the reality that children are growing, families are changing and the inevitable march of time is marching our kids right out the door and into campus housing. This was an article I wrote last year at this time, my take on a Rite of Passage that remains as one of the difficult ones: letting go of my child for the very first time. I'm reposting in honor of all who are newly taking these steps in the coming weeks. Breathe deeply, focus on the good stuff; Men, be patient with your grieving wives - they will recover - and, Ladies, trust me when I tell you they return home a little older, maybe better at the laundry, but still their same, sweet selves. I know...I've had this whole summer to prove it! Best to you all. LDW]

Mortarboards have been thrown, transcripts sent, dorm walls measured, orientation trips planned. All set. All good to go. Congrats on the success, good luck on the next chapter and, wo-hoo, we just couldn’t be prouder. It’s time to let go and launch the child and all I know is…my very cool roommate is moving out and I’m going to miss him.

There are various Rites of Passage we go through in life: Teething, Puberty, Anxious 30′s, Mid-Life (Crisis or Otherwise), Menopause (male & female), Damn 50′s, Really Old and, finally, Facing Death. They all have capital letters. And each comes with an unwritten guide that gets us through the shoals with instruction and reassurance that whatever we’re thinking/feeling/experiencing is simply part of the phase, hang on, we’re all going through it, nothing to be afraid of.

For example, no matter what’s going on with a child during the pre-mastication era, no matter what symptoms or behaviors, no worries, it’s “Just Teething.” Fevering madly? Teething. Screaming for dear life? Teething. Eating dirt with enthusiasm? Teething. And Puberty? Every whine-fest, meltdown, door-slam, anxiety-attack, hair-flinging stomp out of the kitchen is ascribed to the unavoidable transition from childhood to hormones. God forbid a real crisis is in bloom, we’re convinced it’s “Just Puberty.” A few decades later we follow with another version of the same…except with the added burden of being closer to Facing Death. That would be Menopause with all its sweaty, mood-swinging confusion.  Of course, there are also the phases of Marriage and Parenthood. Not everyone will go through these but most will and most who experience Parenthood will ultimately face the classic Rite of Passage known as Empty Nest Syndrome, ENS. Let’s pull that one out of the pack.

It’s a worthy topic this time of year when yet another fresh batch of graduating 18 year olds and their beleaguered parents are faced with this unavoidable and monumental transition. It might be instructional to break it down. Because here’s the truth: like all other phases of life, all other Rites of Passage – whether teething, teening, or reluctantly senioring - None Of It Is the Same for All Of Us. No advice, no analysis, no remedy applies unanimously. We’re All Going Through Our Own Version. Of Everything. You may be gleefully booking your cruise for September or planning that first post-child remodel on the house, but I’m not. I’m dealing with the fact that I had a very cool roommate for 18 years and now he’s moving out. And I’m going to miss him.

This may seem like a weird analogy, perhaps an overly morbid one, but there’s something here akin to How We Deal With Death. It’s no secret that everyone grieves differently and pretty much everyone struggles with how to talk to grieving folk. When my father died I was struck by how off-putting I too often found the well-meaning person who’d ask how old he was (72) only to respond, “Well, at least he lived a nice long life.” My thought: not really.  72 seems a tad young to me. And whatever, I don’t care if he was 97, he was still my father and he’s still dead and I’m still sad. Or when they’d hear he died in his sleep and would say, “Well, at least he died peacefully,” and I’d want to holler, “So what?? He died and I’m really sad and that comment doesn’t make me feel any better!” I learned by subjective experience that the only safe thing to say to a person suffering a loss is: “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.” If you know the deceased, say something personal and authentic like: “Your Dad was a really great guy…I liked him a lot.” That sort of thing is always appreciated…too many people are afraid to actually talk about the person who died and the grieving party likes nothing better. But the point is, don’t say anything that smacks of generic, patronizing Guidebook Speak; it doesn’t help.

What, you may be thinking, does any of this have to do with Empty Nest Syndrome? A lot, actually. Because ENS is, quite simply, about loss. And like Death and all these other Rites of Passage, it’s completely and utterly unique for each person and requires a certain wisdom in response. May I suggest a few very subjective pointers?

1.  Don’t tell me “It’s his time to fly…you just have to let him go.” I already know that. Don’t insult my intelligence or imply inordinate neediness on my part by making the point. No one wants him to fly more than I do. Nor is anyone more aware that it’s time to let go. Just say, “Oh, honey, I understand…you’re going to miss him…it’ll get better.” That’s all that’s needed.

2.  Refrain from: “You’ll need to find some new things to focus on, to keep yourself busy and distracted after he leaves.” No, I don’t. I have plenty to do. I was busy and distracted while he was here and I’ve still got all my projects, work, husband, friends, hobbies, household tasks, creative endeavors, etc. He was hardly ever around anyway so it’s not about filling time. It’s just that I’m going to miss him. Ask me how he’s doing in college and come with me to a movie.

3. Try to avoid: “You’ll be surprised how nice it’ll be when you don’t have to do his laundry or look at his messy room anymore.” That’ll be surprising? I’ve been looking forward to that for years! But frankly, regardless of dirty clothes or the bomb site that is his room, I’ve always loved knowing he was down the hall, ready to wake up and make me laugh, help me with my website or talk to me about his girlfriend. If you know me, you’ll understand why I might be found napping on the well-made bed in his empty room every once in a while. Don’t call the shrink…it’s my own form of therapy.

4.  Don’t bother with: “But he’ll come home for breaks and summers, right?” We all know that once the family system embraces the Initial Departure, it’s never quite the same as Before They Left. We can’t pretend. We’ve all got to adjust, you can just say it.

5. And PLEASE, do not send articles from Psychology Today that analyze ENS and suggest therapy or herbs or calming pharmaceuticals. I’m not having a breakdown; my kid is just leaving home.

Parenthood is one of the few relationships that comes with planned obsolescence. We go into it fully knowing we’ve got to leap now and let go later. There’s no other such deal in life: we get married and the plan is till death do us part. It doesn’t always work out but that’s the idea…we aren’t typically required to give it up at a preordained time. Same with friends; we make a great friend and there is absolutely no reason to believe we can’t keep them through the dotage years. A loving pet is under our feet and in our beds until the very end.

But a child? We get them only for a while. We know that this one relationship, this special, amazing, unique and glorious relationship, is going to change and develop and transform every minute of every day and in about 18 years time, will naturally evolve away from us in a way that is inevitable and irreversible. It’s the Circle of Life, the Coming of Age, the Passing of the Mantle. It’s perfect and painful at the same time.

But know this: Most of us suffering from ENS need no advice. No drugs, no therapy, no words of wisdom. We know what is happening and we know it must happen. We’re proud of our children, proud of ourselves for our part in their success. We’re excited for the new adventures they’ll embrace and vicariously thrilled by their flight. We’re ready to welcome them back for the moments they’ll briefly return but have no delusion about keeping them forever in their cozy childhood rooms. We’re the ones gently, lovingly, pushing them out the door to their inevitable independence. We’re good parents and we know what we’re supposed to do.

But still…I had a very cool roommate for 18 years and now he’s moving out. I’m really going to miss him.

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