From thirty-thousand feet, I often look out the window toward the earth …then toward the heavens. You can’t really see anything from that distance, but I do it anyway. It’s a good pondering distance. The human race is nonexistent from that hight. If you were from another planet, just passing by earth, you would never know humans were there. You’d have to come all the way to the dirt to find them. Then, you’d have to get down among them to truly understand them or care about them in any way. We are indeed small creatures.[read full blog»]

Mary Beth was the only girl in my first-grade class who could spell hippopotamus. I found that exhilarating. She had jet black hair and ice blue eyes, with a winning smile and kind demeanor. I always liked Mary Beth and believed her to be cootie-free. However, on the day she lifted her skirt to show me her brand new red leotards, the world changed for me in an instant. My face got flushed and my body started to tingle in a weird way. I had no idea why I was having such a strange reaction, but it would set me on a course of sheer destruction from that moment to this. A simple, childhood frivolity would echo throughout the life of a doomed man. I still love the name Mary Beth. I still smile whenever I see a hippo, and the power of red undergarments …well, let’s just all agree that it can’t be underestimated.
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I was 12-years-old, my little brother 10-years-old, and we were tapped by the local gospel music hero to be his rhythm section for a Sunday gig out of town. At the time, I’m sure he thought he was giving us our big break but the truth was we were already road dogs by that age, and simply saw this as an opportunity to pick up extra money during some rare down time in our own touring schedule. We showed up at his bus at 6 am and loaded our gear …then loaded his gear. The bus wound and curved through country roads until we came upon the familiar sight of dozens of cars parked at a small church building. We parked and were immediately given the order to unload …everything. We dutifully did so, changed into our “stage clothes” on the bus, then proceeded to follow this absolute hack (by ear) through two hours of bellowing mediocrity. As was always the case back then, we stole the show. We were pre-pubescent kids who could play instruments like adults and wore matching jump suits …what’s not to love?[read full blog»]

Let’s get a few things straight …I don’t like watching left-handed quarterbacks. It’s just awkward for me. Nothing against the left handed, but it feels like I’m watching the game backwards. Also, I don’t like running quarterbacks. Whenever I hear pundits talk about a “mobile” quarterback (which is code for a guy who can’t read defenses pre-snap and who doesn’t understand the playbook) and how he’s going to “change the game,” I always think to myself, “yeah, change it back to 1923.” I want to watch a dude stand in the pocket, shift a little here, slip a rusher there, look off a safety and split double coverage with a 30-yard laser shot, or nail a back-shoulder fade in the end-zone. Watching quarterbacks run around in confusion is like watching junior high ball to me. I tune in on Sunday to watch the best …not the “developing.” Still, having said all that, I’m fascinated (like everyone else) by Tim Tebow and I’ve found myself rooting for him as of late.
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In the songwriting trade, they say until it makes you want to laugh, cry, dance, or pray, it isn’t a real song yet. It’s just a collection of chords, melodies and words. What’s the special muse that turns all that …[read full blog»]

It was my seventh Christmas Eve and I was at a crossroads. The weeks of holiday shopping, food and television specials had been festive and heart warming, but now I was face to face with a moment of truth. My newly developed mind had been putting together mathematical inconsistencies for several months now. I made inquiries that seemed to annoy adults. I had hunches. I was bothered by certain “looks” from my mother to my father. There were many theories floating around my second grade class, but they often raised more questions than they answered. Before retiring, that fateful eve, I had watched the Rankin/Bass production of “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” and despite all the characters possessing only three fingers per hand, and the penguin clearly being a cheap literary device, the logic seemed impenetrable. The nagging questions all answered. It was tidy …maybe a bit too tidy. The last thing I remember, before making that lonesome walk to the bedchamber, was the local weather man reporting “sightings” above the city. A fact hard to argue. Even then, I knew if it’s on the news …it has to be true. Still, this was going to be the loneliest of Christmas Eves. A night of mysteries solved and questions answered. My five year old brother would be of no help whatsoever. He seemed perfectly blissful in his youthful ignorance – poor, innocent soul. My three year old cousin would be absolutely worthless in this quest. She too, adrift in the matrix. No, on this night, I would hold my own personal vigil. I would face the consequences of fact alone. No one would take this dark, lonely journey with me. Tonight – this, my seventh Christmas Eve, I would stay up all night and actually catch Santa Claus in the act of leaving presents under the tree. This would be proof positive of his existence …or lack thereof. I had to know. Tonight was the night.
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As the season of unbridled capitalism got underway this past week, I found myself standing in line at the Apple store …a couple of times. It was much more pleasant than standing in line at the DMV, and when I left I had a world changing device in my hand …not just permission to drive another year. It got me thinking …

I’ve been watching this “occupy wherever” thing with mild interest. As I’ve said many times before, I’m not as fan of marches and sit-ins and whatnot. Be it anti-whatever or pro-whatever, I’m just not a marcher. I’m more of an individualist I suppose. I understand if people have a beef with something, and I fully support their right to carry oversimplified slogans on signs and generally state their case. Historically, marches and great movements have affected change in the world no doubt. But whether you’re in the Tea Party or the Pot Party (my term for the occupy crowd), at some point you have to go back home and get back to being you and not just being a part of some collective. Furthermore, once you “protest” somewhere for more than a month I’m not exactly sure it’s called a protest anymore. I think they call it living there …but I digress.[read full blog»]

As we were exiting the bus and preparing for our flight, one of the people in our diverse, American tourist group asked the young tour guide a poignant question. This young man had been our guide for four days and nights, led us throughout the city of Beijing and shown us all its attractions. He had shown us the Great Wall, Tieneman Square and The Forbidden City, as well as many other places of lessor iconic status. He was a proud Chinaman and certainly a proud communist. So, the question asked by this soon-to-be new parent of an adopted Chinese girl, brought a quick and terse response from the young communist. The question posed by the woman in our group was this; “with two thousand Chinese girls a month being adopted by Americans, do you think one of those little girls could one day be a catalyst for improved U.S/Chinese relations?” The young man laughed without even thinking twice. “Of course not,” he replied instantly. “To make a difference in the world requires large groups of people. There aren’t enough girls being adopted to affect that kind of change.” Then he said something that made us Americans all smile at each other knowingly and defiantly. He said …”one person cannot make a difference.”  [read full blog»]