ADVISORY: MANAGEMENT STRONGLY RECOMMENDS YOU READ PART I FIRST. IT WON’T TAKE LONG AND YOU HAVE ALREADY COME THIS FAR. THANK YOU.
My love of music is buried deep in my DNA. I fell into it hard in 1954, when Rock Around The Clock by Bill Haley and the Comets could be heard on transistor radios everywhere. My grip is still strong as ever. I could easily go totally off on a separate tangent about my love of music, but this isn’t the right time. However, a brief musical detour is now mandated.
Prince died. I am not sure why it has shaken me so much or why it has forced me to go deeper inside myself. In the midst of sharing my very brief history as a musician, this has happened and it is crazy to ignore it solely for the purpose of the “continuity” of this piece. Bullshit, I say. I saw him perform years ago in Albuquerque, NM and he was the embodiment of music, the creative genius, oblivious to all boundaries. Here I am, recounting some of my story and it brings up my own challenges with self-expression.
R.I.P. Prince
I took piano lessons as a little kid and I totally sucked. My older brother was pretty decent at it and sibling competition was probably a good enough reason to leave it alone, not to mention a complete absence of talent. Every week, I had trouble finding middle C, for the few months I struggled on the ivories. I think back then, taking piano lessons was an ordeal kids were put through, whether they wanted it or not. For newly middle-classed Jews, it was a sign your child was intelligent and there was nothing more important in Queens, NY in the Fifties. In fairness, the Second World War didn’t leave my people brimming with self-confidence.
Meanwhile, back in Glen Cove, I was sinking deeper into my Martian malaise, I found a brief musical antidote, somehow ignoring my piano nightmare as a little kid. I bought a cheap guitar for one last try. I traveled by subway to my Greenwich Village based teacher during lunch breaks. The best part of this chapter in my life was getting on the Long Island Railroad in the morning and commuting with the straight-faced, Wall Street Journal readers. Once a week, my guitar would be slung over my shoulder and I loved the idea of being a musician. Unfortunately, I would have to settle for the idea because I couldn’t coordinate any part of this skill. My fingers could not remember where to put themselves and simply keeping the beat was overwhelming. The idea of doing something is always easier than giving it life outside your imagination. I left my rock star dreams behind and by default, writing would end up being a late in life passion. However, I always listen to music when I write.
Prior to my emotional drowning on the bed in Park Slope, writing never seemed too difficult for me and this absence of effort made it feel normal. I am not sure I ever thought about it being a talent, it was just something I did. I kind of liked that part of the many jobs I had in NYC. From my first grown up job at the NBC Television Network, it was always necessary to write office memos and subsequently make presentations to clients when I was in the broadcast advertising business. I wish I could remember whom to blame for making me buy that typewriter, but I know it was me. The eventual purchase was preceded by months of introspection about what my voice should be like. What the hell do I write about? Let me tell you, there is a chasm-like difference between writing business proposals and first person, “no rules” writing.
I left my NYC life a few years after the bed-wetting, body shaking, episode in Brooklyn, with a set- in-cement attitude of never having a conventional, professional life again. Living in this new way required a much more creative approach for survival. The scene of this unscripted, first person reality show took place in northern New Mexico, around Santa Fe. This is not the time for my NM resume, which is more like a Jackson Pollock canvas or an out of focus Rorschach. My writing highlight would have to be getting paid to write commercial copy. It was toward the end of my sixteen-year tenure in this exquisite, high desert country. It’s a short story.
Espanola sits north of Santa Fe. There is a very large Sikh community there. Amongst other things, they are involved in a considerable number of commercial ventures and one of them is Yogi Tea, still on the shelves today. They wanted to repackage their boxes and I came up with the idea of writing short, first person tea stories, capturing the essence of each flavor. I wrote stories like meditating at the Taj Mahal with several robed yogis or visiting the Great Pyramids in Giza and the spice shops nearby, etc. Each one had adventure and nostalgia, pimping the different brands, peppering them with imagination. It reminded me of the story of a younger guy, riding the LIRR, guitar slung over his shoulder, wanting to be an artist, any kind of artist. I waited a long time. I was happy.