As much of a cliche’ as the following phrase is, it couldn’t be truer in my particular case; some of my best friends are gay. I’ve made my living in the arts all of my adult life. I’m comfortable around people of all stripes. I had gay groomsmen in my wedding …plural …more than one. I’ve had gay roommates and co-writers and business partners. I’ve been to gay bars and gay birthday parties (yes, there is such a thing) and gay afterparties for award shows (yes, there is such a thing). I am not now, nor have I ever been, the least bit interested in “gayness” but for some reason I’ve befriended a lot of people (both male and female) who are homosexual. Some of them are my closest friends on earth. My wife and I are completely non-discriminating and totally accepting when it comes to our friendships and we tend to get invited to “gay only” events by our gay friends (hence the bars and birthday parties and afterparties). We are always honored to be included in these events, as we understand the risks involved in inviting straight people into such a close and sometimes secretive circle. But I must admit, as cool as we think we are …we’re not always comfortable there.

I don’t like the word “homophobic.” “Phobic” means to be afraid of. I don’t know anyone these days who is afraid of a gay person. I know some people who don’t want to be around them …but that’s different than being afraid of them. I think the truth is that most straight people just don’t know what to say or do around gay people. There is no more of a stark culture clash than of those who do not share a basic, human urge. Even the most tolerant and progressive straight person will eventually reach the end of conversation with a gay person, when it comes to the basic building blocks of normal life. My conversations these days revolve around my kids and their development or my wife and her ever heightening neuroses. This is what straight men talk about at cocktail parties. Those conversations veer into a kind of weirdness when talking to gay people. We do not share the same experience and there’s no way around it.

As much as I dearly love all of my gay friends (and truly admire most of them), I find that when I’m around them the conversation always (and I’m using the word always) turns to gay issues. Inevitably, the subject of “coming out” to someone or being outed by someone or a run-in with a “gay-basher” or some drama with another gay person struggling with something related to being gay, will eventually win and dominate the dialogue. I have come to the conclusion, through the years, that gay people ruminate and contemplate the idea and practice of being gay much more than I ever have about being straight. The first time I kissed a girl the deal was sealed for me forever, and I’ve spent my life as a slave to the female gender. My struggles have been those of all straight men; young man trying to score with the hottie, middle aged man trying to watch the game and keep the hottie wife happy. It’s been fairly straight-forward (pardon the pun). But I sense in many of my gay friends an unrest and continued seeking of themselves. Possibly because of their historically awkward place in society. Who knows? But my heart goes out to them and I must admit that the more I learn about them, the less I really know.

Gay marriage has been in the headlines as of late and the debate rages on. I get asked all the time what I think about homosexuality and gay marriage. Even though I can quote, chapter and verse, all the standard answers (on both sides of the argument), I always end up using a phrase I really hate …”I don’t know.” I know enough about gay people to know they aren’t really going to change. I don’t for one minute believe anyone has ever prayed hard enough to really turn themselves straight. I know many who have claimed to …but I firmly believe they are lying to themselves and everyone else. I know I have always been straight – VERY straight – and couldn’t change it if I wanted to. I once sat in a room full of gay guys who all made more money than me, took amazing vacations, had fabulous homes, cars, clothes and lives, and I wished, for a split second, I could have been born gay. In many ways my life would’ve been far easier, given my chosen profession. Trust me, it’s much more glamorous these days to be a gay songwriter than one with a wife, kids, live in mother-in-law, mortgage and minivan, but alas …I’m just not gay. They, on the other hand …are just not straight. We, as a society, are constantly trying to reconcile this as best we can.

Two of my gay friends were about to kiss in front of my three-year-old son once. I instinctively jumped in front of him so he wouldn’t see it. The truth is, it was weird and uncomfortable for me to see it. I politely asked them later to refrain in front of the kids. To be honest, I didn’t want to have that conversation with my son yet …and that leads me to why much of society has such a hard time with gay marriage. Aside from the biblical slant (and it is debatable, according to many), the conversation with our kids lies at the heart of it all …even for those who don’t believe in the bible. I have some militantly gay friends who would tell me, “It’s simple you hate-monger! Just tell your son that some boys kiss boys and some boys kiss girls!” That’s simple minded if you don’t know about children, because the next question is the one that takes us to the deep end of the ocean …”WHY?” If I simply answer, “because they were born that way,” the next question is the deepest of all …”WHY?” That is the question that lies at the heart of everything surrounding this issue, and is the one our own President (who’s supposed to be the smartest man who ever lived) has been coming to terms with for over 50 years. Apparently, JUST THIS WEEK he came to a conclusion on it. Yet, every person in the country is being asked, by the gay community, to have that very conversation with their own 3-year-olds. If I may speak for the hopelessly straight community for a moment …give us a minute. I can’t explain heterosexuality to my son, much less homosexuality. We’re not all homophobes. We’re tired, confused, mentally drained parents just trying to get kids to baseball practice on time. Adding this dialogue to things we have to discuss with or kids is a tall order. We are constantly being asked to settle this debate in our households, with kids who still believe in Santa Claus, while the adults in the world can’t decide on what the meaning of the word “is” is. Let us do it our own way on our own time table and if we happen to disagree with the gay community on the approach or even the conclusions, please don’t call us “rednecks” and “neanderthals.” It doesn’t help your case.

Look, I don’t know if homosexuals are born that way or bent that way. I don’t know if they are destined for hell or heaven. I know that some of the best people I’ve ever met are gay and I can’t imagine them anywhere else but in the presence of God after they die. I know I want them to be happy. I know that what they do behind closed doors makes no difference to me whatsoever. I know that some of my artistic heroes are gay – Chopin, Cole Porter …Elton John. But I also know that as many times as I’ve been around open homosexual affection, it has always felt eerily unnatural to me. Even though I’m well aware that homosexuality, as a practice, has been around as long as there have been humans, there is far more biblical and historical precedent for society-sanctioned polygamy than there is for society-sanctioned homosexual marriage. So again I say …give us a minute. But I also know that the sanctity of contemporary marriage crumbled when we broke the 50% divorce rate. The stalwarts of straight marriage have nothing to crow about. Honestly, I don’t know why people who aren’t expected by society to get married would even want to do so, but it’s a safe bet that once they’re given the full range of marital status, they won’t be any better at it than us straight people. Of all the gay people I’ve ever met, sadly …they were all human beings.

So, what’s the legal, constitutional, spiritual, biblical, moral answer to the homosexual question? I know all the stock answers, but if yours is simple and cut-and-dried, on either side of the issue …you just don’t know enough people.

R

Forty-five years ago, I was diagnosed with a terminal condition. I was pronounced …born. On this day, in 1967, I entered the world. The moment I drew my first breath and screamed in disgust of leaving the warm womb, I was destined for one thing …death. Every doctor I’ve ever seen has confirmed the stark truth bestowed upon me that day. They all agree on the fact that I will die. Some doctors have given me instructions on how to prolong my life, or imparted wisdom on how to make it better and healthier. Many have guided me down the path of moderation in some things and abstinence in others. They have prescribed medications that would make my carnal pain more bearable and my earthy stay more comfortable. But not one of them – not one – has ever given me instructions on how to not eventually die. I am dying …and there isn’t one thing I can do about it.

To be honest, I don’t really know how I’m going to die. I haven’t been diagnosed with any fatal diseases or been placed in any high-risk groups, but the end is nearer today than it was yesterday. Time keeps ticking and the world keeps turning and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The cells of my body are reproducing at such a rate that seven years from today I will be a completely different human being. Should I live that long, I won’t physically resemble the man I am today, just as I don’t resemble today, the man I was seven years ago. I am a traveler through space and time with a finite amount of days. Will tomorrow be my last? Will June 23rd, 2018 be my last? How about next Thursday? No one can say for sure. But rest assured, I am dying.

I’ve seen more death in the past twelve months than I ever have in my life. A few weeks ago, my pastor went for a seven-mile run, after church. He went home, took a shower and went to bed. He never woke up …he was fifty-eight. An avid cyclist and runner and by all accounts, a picture of health, it wasn’t enough to stave off the grim inevitability awaiting us all. A few weeks before his death, a little girl in California, who was adopted moments before I adopted my first born daughter, died of Leukemia. She was nine. Two weeks before that, a long time friend of mine died of breast cancer. A few months before that, our sweet Elizabeth Hathaway drowned in a lake, on Labor day, 2011.

My friends, we all received the same death sentence on the day we were born. I rarely quote Jim Morrison, but he was right about this one …”no one gets out of here alive.” The fact that we’re all stocked with a shelf-life begs the question, what do we do with our time here? I was in the studio with a friend, this past week, who cared for his wife through three years of cancer, only to ultimately bury her last year. He and I were discussing how our lives had changed through difficult circumstances. He suddenly grew a wonderful smile and said, “I am now fearless. I’ve seen the worst. What’s left to worry about?” That smile immediately broke out on my own face as well. He had articulated the secret …no fear.

As I enter the back half of my life, I realize it’s not just about seizing the day (which was my mantra for decades, after becoming a disciple of “Dead Poets Society”). It’s not just about taking that chance you always wanted to take (although you should). It’s not just about spending more time with your kids (although that’s really important). It’s not about skydiving or rocky mountain climbing or going 2.7 seconds on a bull named …whatever. It’s probably not about reaching your full potential or achieving your goals (which you can and should absolutely do). It’s possible that it’s not about learning to love yourself or understanding why you’re here (which you should try to do if you can). It also may not be about being who you were born to be or doing what you were born to do (although you probably will whether you try to or not). There’s a strong case to be made for it not being about enjoyment and getting all you can out of life (although it’s all out there for the taking). Who knows? Life may not even be a box of chocolates (although I think it might be).

The bible says love casts out all fear. It says that God has not given us a spirit of fear. It also says that God is love. Maybe …just maybe …everything really IS about love. Maybe it’s about no fear. Dare I say …it might just be about love without fear. That sounds really cool to me right about now. Love without fear might just take care of all those other aforementioned philosophies and pursuits.

On this, my forty-fifth birthday, I have stood at the tops of mountains. I have been blessed enough to speak to multitudes through my music. I have been in the company of the brilliant and the beautiful and none of it matters to me in the least anymore. I have a hard time talking about or “posting” about my career and daily work because truthfully, my soul is often in a different place than my hands. My fervent quest is to be genuinely interested in everyone’s story. My thirst is for perfect love and to be able to be a conductor of that love toward others. I’m trying to live without the hesitation that has bound me to the albatross of my own weakness. As corny as it sounds, I want to grow and learn and really live without fear. After all …I am dying.

R

In that fourth grade class, at Charlotte Park Elementary School, in Nashville Tennessee, there were only four kids like Marcus. Black, I mean. The rest of us were white, blonde and brunette (one redhead), pasty and weak …all picked in the middle at recess. We knew, through some osmosis, that under no circumstances should we ever pick a fight with the black kids. We knew we wouldn’t win. That’s why it was so terrifying to me when Marcus decided to beat me up in the bathroom, after lunch one spring day in 1976. I walked in to relieve myself when I saw Marcus standing there with eyes blazing. He said he’d been waiting for me – that he heard what I said about him. I didn’t then, and still to this day don’t know what he meant by it but before I could reason with him (as all good white boys are supposed to do) he was pummeling me with his fists. The quickness and power I marveled at on the playground was fierce when focussed on inflicting pain. He was a natural fighter and I could tell he’d done it before. Unfortunately, I had too. Most of my life. Marcus was not my first fight with a black kid. In fact, he wasn’t even my third or fourth. So he seemed a bit bewildered when I slugged him as hard as I could and ran out of the bathroom gunning my high-top converse tennis shoes toward the classroom to find help.

I remember my teacher running to my aid, screaming in a very disconcerting tone “oh my God Regie, what happened?!” Evidently, there was blood dripping from somewhere on my face, my clothes were ripped and I guess I looked shaken. I told her that nothing had happened. You never, ever rat – that’s the rule. When Marcus came in behind me smiling but a bit disheveled, she somehow put two and two together and dragged him off to the principal’s office. I never admitted that he had assaulted me (for which he later thanked me) but somehow the powers that be knew what had happened and they were right. They’d seen it before. To this day, I don’t know what I said to provoke Marcus. I don’t know how everyone seemed to know he was the perpetrator of the fight. I don’t know how I made it out of the bathroom relatively unscathed. What I do know is that it had happened to me so many times in my young life that it wasn’t a surprise, it didn’t feel out of the norm, and I never really stopped to try and make sense of it. It was life in grade school in the seventies, with white kids and black kids trying to get along. By fourth grade I was used to it.

If you’re black and reading this you’re saying to yourself, “you were a little racist and were probably telling N… jokes. Kids don’t just fight for no reason. You must have said something to Marcus to make him that mad and it sounds like you did it a lot!” I understand that line of reasoning, and would probably fall in that camp as well if I didn’t know beyond a doubt that that simply wasn’t the case. I admired Marcus. I tried to emulate his running style to increase my speed on the baseball diamond. I often said things like “man, we’d be winning right now if Marcus was here.” I sort of thought Marcus and I were friends. I sort of thought all the black kids in grade school that had beaten me up were at one time friends of mine.

At nine years old, I had no knowledge that my father had seen and used “white/colored” restrooms and water fountains. I didn’t know who Martin Luther King Jr was. I didn’t know what the KKK was. I didn’t know what the Civil Rights Act was. I didn’t understand what happened to black kids when they got home from school. I figured their lives were about the same as mine. I loved black people – I still do. I thought their music was superior. I emulated their style of dress and speech. They were just cooler than the white people I knew. But my fear of them grew from firsthand, bloody experience. I had no way of knowing that their fear of me most likely came from the same place.

A few years ago, I was standing in line for a movie in Pasadena California one night, when the guy managing the line asked me a question. He was an older black gentleman and very nice. When I answered his question, he detected my slight southern accent and asked where I was from. When I replied “Nashville,” his eyes lit up and he said that he was from somewhere near Nashville. I shook his hand and we small talked for a minute or so until a young, urban looking hispanic boy came up to me very aggressively, put his hands in my chest and pushed me out of the line. He said with a thick, mexican accent, “you from Tennessee, boy? Won’t you go back to Tennessee …boy?” I collected myself and looked around kind of dazed. I had no idea what was happening. The movie line crowd was watching in disbelief and anticipation. I simply straightened my shirt, smiled and said, “as soon as I can, my man …just as soon as I can.” I won’t lie …I was terrified. I didn’t know if he had a gun or a knife. I didn’t know if he had friends around the corner waiting to jump into it. I didn’t know if he was some little junior gang-banger looking to put a notch on his belt. He laughed at me and walked off. I’m sure he thought I was backing down from him. That’s fine with me, since I have no idea what I was supposed to be standing up to. Guys who get aggressive for seemingly no reason have always bewildered me. The truth is they’re most likely trying to head off some perceived aggression they feel coming their way. This young, hispanic kid probably thought I was some racist white guy from the south who was there to oppress him or keep him down or something. Who knows? What I do know is that I’ve been a victim of beatings and misunderstandings and altercations, solely because of my race and place of residence for my entire life.

I suppose we’re all frightened of each other on some level. Marcus probably beat me up that day because of something he perceived was about to hurt him on some level. A lot of white kids like me learned to be afraid of black kids not because of media stereotypes, but because we had real experience on the bus or playground …or in the school bathroom. The black kids learned to be afraid of us for all the same reasons. It’s a vicious cycle and apparently it has never been resolved …not even here in 2012. The horribly tragic shooting of Trayvon Martin has dragged out all the stereotypes once again, and created another racial tinderbox in this country. We’re all yelling at each other and no one’s listening. We all have our own point of view on what happened that night and what should have happened next. To be honest, I’m not sure what to believe. I know the police took Zimmerman in for questioning in handcuffs. If the police on duty that night were all racists, they sure missed a great opportunity to lock up a hispanic for murder …but they didn’t. Why they didn’t, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s a “white” hispanic (I’ve been married to Mexican woman for 20 years and I’ve never heard that term by the way). Why did George Zimmerman shoot a young man in a hoodie? I don’t know that either. But my guess is it’s probably not the answer either side wants to hear. My guess is both men were probably terrified of each other based on experience and prejudice, and good-old-fashioned adrenaline made it worse. I believe the shooting might have been as much accident as execution. I believe we’ll never really get the full truth, now that this has become more circus than sanity. I also fear that George Zimmerman will not live long enough to ever see a trial. I fear that saying, “if you don’t stop assuming we’re violent …we’ll hurt you” is a perpetuation of something we’ll just never get above.

It’s easy to preach tolerance until you find yourself lost in West Memphis at midnight. It’s easy to talk about how evolved you are …in an upscale, gated community. Unless I’m just out of the loop, I don’t hear reports of many movie stars moving to Compton these days. Black parents are actually having conversations with their children to teach them techniques that will keep them from being shot on sight in dimly lit areas. When I go running in LA, I can’t wear my red bandana in certain neighborhoods. Folks, the harsh truth is, we’re all afraid of each other. The sad truth is …we all have a reason to be.

R

Anyone who has children of different genders knows that boys and girls are simply not the same. No matter how many people (with lots of letters behind their name) try to make a case for them being more similar than different, you really can’t change nature. That’s why they call them different things and give them separate bathrooms. I, for one, love the differences between boys and girls and celebrate them. Having said that, I was always a little worried about being a father to a son. I always wanted girls. I believe girls are born already hard-wired to make the world better. Girls seem to inherently know how to do the right thing. They carry children and give them life. The female gender is the nurturing center of humanity. Girls blossom into women, and they can do it almost independently. Boys, on the other hand, must be forged into men, and it takes work and guidance and an occasional strong hand. Boys respond to different stimuli than girls. My wife occasionally threatens my son with a smack on the rear end from time to time, but sometimes has a hard time pulling the trigger. It runs counter to her nature. I, while holding the practice as an absolute last resort, can unleash the finite, violent spurt with great authority and without hesitation. Violence (not abuse) is sometimes required in the sculpting of a young man. Men are pre-desposed to the physical. This is why male role models, fathers, and organized sports activities are so important for boys. But the most important thing a boy must be taught is right from wrong.

Men destroy. We are the intruders. If you know anything about history you know that a man out of control, without the correct moral compass, can do immeasurable damage. If a group of women get together and mobilize behind a cause, the worst that will happen is prohibition or Lillith Fair. While those horrors are nothing to sneeze at, if a group of men get together and mobilize behind something it had better be just and right. Otherwise, you get World War Two or the Iron Curtain. It has been said that the only thing that can stop a violent man without honor is a violent man WITH honor. Men know in their souls that this is truth. We know that violent men can not be reasoned with or coerced or spoken to harshly with any result. A strongly worded letter doesn’t stop a violent man. Emails and awareness campaigns might shine light on a man and bring about moral outrage, but the stopping of a violent man (or group of violent men) will only happen through violence or the threat of it.

I watched the viral “KONY” video this week and did a little research on this brutal thug, committing so much horror. Apparently Joseph Kony is a Ugandan man, abducting children, forcing them to kill their parents and join his army. I was obviously moved by the stories told and atrocities recounted. The video is well produced and held my attention for thirty minutes …which is hard to do. It has every element of a great Hollywood blockbuster; evil rogue terrorizing children for apparently no reason. Fresh faced American (with blonde hair and California accent) befriends the brother of one of the fallen children. American is moved by the senseless death and abandons his own ambitions to become a film-making crusader. Meets opposition to cause. Then, makes a breakthrough via social media. Now (as the music pulses faster) people around the world rally, make signs and protest the shadowy, sociopathic antagonist in the streets. It’s all coming together! This sick, twisted maniac is about to come to justice because of ordinary people giving just a few dollars a month! Governments are sending support and troops! In the end, the perfect cliffhanger wraps with a cute kid saying “we gotta get him!” Fade to black. Yes young man, we gotta get him indeed and I’m glad your dad is teaching you who the good guys and bad guys are …but it might be a little more complicated than that.

I’m not trying to make light of the KONY video or the cause. I’m sickened by images of those children being harmed. My sincere prayer is that this man be brought to justice as soon as possible. I applaud the campaign that is leading the charge, but there are things to think about in a crusade such as this. What happens when they do find Joseph Kony? Does anyone think he’s going to give up peacefully and go quietly? If he has to be shot and killed is that acceptable? What if a lot of people around him have to be killed? Is it worth it? What if he consolidates his power to the point of making himself virtually impossible to apprehend without intervention by a significant number of US military troops? What if he can’t be brought to justice without the certain loss of innocent life or the lives of those troops? These are the questions that good men in positions of power wrestle with day in and day out.

Bill Clinton and George W Bush were both begged to intervene in Iraq for years. At his ultimate political peril, one of them did. Saddam Hussein exterminated ten times as many people in one year as Joseph Kony has kidnapped in ten. Hussein had systemized “rape rooms” designed to utterly demoralize women in order to get information from them. This man defied twelve attempts by the entire world community to discontinue certain armament programs. Yet, when this man was finally put on notice to step down as dictator or suffer consequences, he turned on CNN and saw millions of people marching in protest against the one putting him on notice …the United States. It has been reported that upon seeing these protests, he thought the world was on his side and became emboldened in his defiance …causing a monster to believe himself the good guy. I’m glad to see that’s not happening this time around by those speaking out about Joseph Kony. I’m glad to see they’ve aligned themselves with the good guys and not the mass murderer. I hope the same righteous indignation compels them to side with Israel in the coming months. Another violent man of honor (Benjamin Netanyahu) is probably about to make some controversial decisions in the defense of his country. I believe his country to be the good guys. I hope moral clarity prevails.

You see, one day my five-year-old T-ball player will be a full-grown man, squelching, restraining and re-shaping his most base, primal instincts every day of his life, in order to ensure peace and order in his home, community and world. He MUST understand who the good guys and bad guys are and what constitutes good guys and bad guys. He MUST understand what is moral and correct in this world. I also believe, he MUST be willing to defend it. That’s the only rudder we have. It’s the north star of human justice. Without it, any horrible act, any injustice, any terrorizing force can be seen as acceptable as long as it isn’t affecting us. Men of honor must be prepared to become violent in defense of the good. It’s a tough paradox to get your head around, but Joseph Kony will certainly only surrender if he knows his life is in danger. That will only happen when a man of honor points a gun at him and forces him to do so. Whoever that man is, he will have to be bathed in the knowledge that what he’s doing is just. If pulling the trigger is required, he must know that it is a righteous act. He must have no question in his heart that he’s the good guy.

Good guys and bad guys aren’t born, they are made …and I’m trying to make a good one every week on the T-ball diamond. I hope he never has to face a Joseph Kony. But I want him to have no questions about what to do if he ever does.

R

I want to hear all sides. I’m curious. I’m interested. I have a relatively open mind. People ask me all the time, “Regie, how can you keep so-and-so as a Facebook friend? They’re horrible!” Then, I’ll hear from someone from the complete opposite side of the argument, asking, “how can you keep so-and-so as a friend? They’re …blah, blah, blah …” and on and on it goes. The deal is, I really don’t need anyone to prop up what I believe about any given topic. I know what I believe. I’m interested in what YOU believe …and why.

This past week, we’ve seen the death of one outspoken political thinker/talker and the excoriation of another. Andrew Breitbart was a lightning rod for the new conservative movement. I didn’t know him but I know a few people who were close to him. I feel for his family, and his death was certainly untimely – he was my little brother’s age. On the week of his death, he’s being called every horrible name imaginable by those with whom he did political battle. I find that unseemly. Name calling and disagreeing with someone is one thing. Reveling in their death is quite another. Andrew dolled out his share of unseemly comments, it’s true. I would rather him not have called Ted Kennedy a “piece of sh..” upon his death. He could have simply said of Mr. Kennedy, “I’m sorry for his family, but I believe he should have gone to prison for criminally negligent homicide.” I find the cold truth is often more stark than hyperbole. Also, I didn’t think Andrew should have told anti-tea partiers to “go to hell” anymore than I thought Maxine Waters should have told pro-tea partiers to “go straight to hell” – but I sure wouldn’t celebrate either of their deaths.

Rush Linbaugh is currently embattled as well for apparently calling someone a slut. I am certainly no apologist for Mr. Limbaugh, but at least I can post his pejorative here. What Bill Maher called Sarah Palin can’t be. Still, I welcome their freedom to be fools on the airwaves. If I don’t like what’s being said, I turn them off. Problem solved. To all my friends who are taking pride in their ultra-inflammatory, anti-Rush Linbaugh comments …you clearly don’t see the irony. Anger indeed gets the best of us all sometimes.

Having said everything above, I have unfriended several Facebook friends lately. Now, you must understand what it will take to get unfriended by me. My Facebook friends range from right-wing bible thumpers (I hate that term and love many of those people), to flaming homosexuals (I hate that term and love many of those people). I don’t want all my friends to think or believe the same things. That’s not very Christ-like in my opinion. Jesus turned water into wine – not wine into water. That says to me that he loves the party …the delicious over the simply functional …the color over the clear. I’m with him. I have a Mexican wife and a Chinese daughter. I work in the entertainment business, with everyone from drug addicts to embezzlers – from alcoholics to womanizers – from liars to cheaters …and that’s just a Thursday. You can’t embarrass me. You can’t shock me. You can’t make me hate you. But you can make me disagree with you and …unfriend you.

The people I have unfriended recently, have ironically been left-wing extremists. I know, you’d never think of the uber-liberal, touchy/feely “fairness for all” crowd to be violent …but that’s what they sounded like to me. I make no judgements on the people themselves as I do not know what’s in their hearts. All I can do is make a surface judgement based on the content of their posts. Of the people I’ve unfriended, two of them were openly gay and one was a transexual. I couldn’t care less about that, but I think it’s important to note that anyone, from any point of view, can drift into hate. Their sexual situation brings on a lot of political anger and vitriol I suppose. I can appreciate that, but what they posted was not okay with me. I only unfriend someone if they post open death threats or death wishes, or if they get into something uncomfortably personal regarding my family. In every single unfriending incident, that was the case. These people were violent and murderous in their rhetoric about some perceived injustice being visited upon them. Once again, I understand anger and disagreement …but they said publicly that they wished someone dead. I cannot abide that from anyone. I’m personally a fan of Jesus and Ghandi and Martin Luther King. Those dudes were above the fray and showed mercy to their enemies. I’m trying to get there and don’t need the extra death wishes to bring me down below my own level.

I see people on the news (and in person for that matter) with whom I vehemently disagree all the time. In no case, however, have I ever wished someone dead or maimed or the like. I don’t have that in my heart. I’m fine with Osama Bin Laden and Kim Jong Ill being dead because, rather than just talking about killing lots of people …they actually did it. But there’s a big difference between mass murderers and people who don’t like me or what I stand for or who post really insulting and hurtful things on my Youtube clips. I don’t particularly like Bill Maher …but I would genuinely feel sorrow for his family if he were found dead tomorrow. I have heard people (standing in my own house) say they would like to see Rush Limbaugh tortured. I find that appalling. Of all the people I find seriously unpleasant, I can’t think of one I would like to see tortured. Of course, if you hurt my children I might change my mind …but I digress.

Folks, we’re all somebody’s child. If we can’t do better than to wish harm on each other, we’re going backwards …not forwards. I reserve the right to speak my angry and twisted mind. I reserve the right to make fun of everybody (maybe even you – certainly myself). I reserve the right to stray from “people first” (one of my least favorite phrases by the way) political correctness when I feel like it. At the end of the day, however, I’m still glad we’re all here and I’d like to keep it that way. I say speak your angry and twisted mind too. But if you post that you would like to see someone dead or injured or you wish this group or that group would finally “get what they deserve,” I will unfriend you immediately. I simply won’t be a party to violent speech …I’m already party to enough stupid speech.

R

I was checking my iPhone (like all the other dads) and casually watching the “king-of-the-hill” bouncy room, when drama caught my eye. A boy, bigger and stronger than the other boys, was atop the center rise. All the other guppies were trying to climb it …but to no avail. This boy was a grade ahead of our pre-schoolers and had staked his claim at the top of the rubber and fabric of this particular netted room. I walked over and peered in, curious. Boys were climbing to get to the top of this mound in the center of the air-filled edifice, but this boy was a beast. He was pushing and kicking the younger kids off with ease and impunity, raising his arms in victory after each conquest. Suddenly a smallish, wiry lad appeared next to him and rather than knocking him off, stood beside him, backing him up. Ah …the quintessential follower. I’ve always hated those guys. Big man as long as he’s standing next to the alpha.

Then I saw him …the warrior poet of the lost cause. A fierce, sweaty kid with tears rolling down his face was trying over and over again to get to the top, but couldn’t seem to best the two-headed coalition pushing and kicking him off the mound. He was clearly in a full emotional meltdown from being hit and kicked and slapped, but would not stop no matter what. He was trouble for the king of the hill and his cohort, but they were simply too dominant. I looked around to see if anyone was monitoring this situation as it was becoming a little testy, then looked closer to realize that the crying contender was indeed …my own son. I was gut-punched for a moment and saw myself in his struggle. Smaller, weaker and outnumbered …yet refusing to give up. It was epic, poetic and tragic. I was frozen. Suddenly, the two kids on top jumped off the mound, onto his recently vanquished body, and began slugging my son with the oversized boxing gloves provided in the bouncy room. He was screaming and flailing but giving all he had. His mother would’ve stopped the fight immediately, diving in and embarrassing the boy. But every man reading this knows why I stood and watched …and why I had to let him fight his own way out. He did it, and it was beautiful.

Finally, after fending them off, he made more attempts at the mound, but was still being brutalized by the big boy and his punk sidekick. Then the boys dove off the mound onto my son yet again, and took it to an unacceptable, almost dangerous level. I quickly dove into the bouncy room and ran over to the fight. I pulled the big kid off with one hand and threw him to the side (I knew he’d be fine). He disappeared. I grabbed the sidekick and yelled, “get up!” He jerked around and peered up at me in terror. Then he got up dutifully. I knew he would …he’s a follower. Then I issued an edict; “no more two against one. One against one is fair. Two against one is not!” He said, “yes sir” and moved on. I knew he would …he’s a follower.

I didn’t pull my son from the struggle or shut down the match …I just leveled the playing field. My small warrior clung to me sobbing, “dad they’re both hitting me and won’t let me play and I can’t get up to the top and …” I stopped him in mid sentence. “I know pal, and it’s not fair.” I wiped his tears and nose, straightened his tousled hair and looked him in the eye. “Remember when we read about David and Goliath?” He whimpered, “Ye …yes.”  “Ok then …stop crying.” Then I winked at him and said the phrase we’ve been learning about for a year. I put my hand on his chest and whispered, “have courage.” He looked at me with renewed energy, said, “ok dad,” and jumped back into the fray. Upon realizing I was sending my five-year-old into battle, I was horrified at myself. So, in a split second I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back to me. I turned him around and looked deeply into those trusting eyes, holding his small head in my hands. I pulled him close and said, “buddy …listen …I …I think you can get him in the knees …go for the knees.” My little man smiled and then attacked like a wolf on fire. He didn’t completely knock off the bully, but he never gave up and kept going after that mound no matter how many times he got knocked down. That’s when I knew he was going to be okay in this world. I needed to see his character …and it is strong.

We’re all winners if we make it into the world, you know. The journey a single sperm makes to fertilize an egg is a microcosm of life on earth. We fight our way to the goal every day. We compete. We move forward. We win …we lose. No matter how much we want to protect our children, at some point we have to watch from the sidelines as they struggle to make their way. We can only hope to instill the right things in them that make them people of honor and character and iron will. I suppose one could look at my Sunday afternoon encounter as an example of a survival of the fittest essay. Men, in particular, are steeped in competition from birth. Like I said, a sperm fighting its way to fertilize an egg is indeed a microcosm of life. Boys fight and compete to be worthy of the girl. When they’re five they don’t even know why they’re competing …but they do it nonetheless. My five-year-old is obsessed with good guys and bad guys. He needs to know he’s the good guy at all times. My job is to make him that and to show him what constitutes a good guy and a bad guy.

For me, the transcendent figure that turns the whole thing on its side is Jesus. The act of sacrificing, laying down ones pride and human instinct for others runs counter to our human nature. Jesus is important to me because he’s the big boy at the top of the mound who says, “I can defeat all of you but that isn’t important. Let me help you get up here. Let me show you how fun this bouncy room is. I can own it if I want, but I want you to feel like you own it.” That is the measure of full maturity and spiritual enlightenment. Obviously five-year-olds aren’t quite ready to understand the concept of self sacrifice and losing ones own life for the salvation of the world. The truth is, almost forty years after my own father taught me how to stand up to the bully, I’m not really sure I completely grasp it. I’m not sure I really ever will in this life. God knows I’m striving for it daily …but sometimes I still want to see my son attack the bully at the knees.

R

I remember the first rock star I ever met who went on to die tragically. I can’t remember his name, but he was Australian and I met him at a radio conference in Atlanta. My wife was a radio executive at the time, and I joined her on a working weekend in the A-T-L. We hung out with several would-be musical luminaries that week, none of whom you would know today. You see, the underbelly of the music business is filled with next year’s heroes. At any music conference, or seminar or conclave of any kind, you are going to meet the next big thing …that the world will never hear. They strut about with their entourage and try to look important yet unaffected. A large percentage of them – in fact, around ninety percent of them – will never even get out of the gate. I was one of those once …it’s a fun few days.

This particular young man, in Atlanta, was supposedly the hit of the week. Witty, sexy, personable and brilliantly talented, according to all the experts at the radio conference. I thought I was meeting a future superstar and was certain I would see him at the Grammy’s soon enough. But instead, the next time I saw his name was in a trade paper blurb. He had overdosed on heroin and was found in a hotel room. All of his music business champions mourned him for all of about three minutes …not quite the length of his single …then he was forgotten.

One of the strange by-products of this business I’m in is being in the locker room of your gym and hearing a song over the speaker system that was a favorite of yours in high school. Somewhere at a party in the 90′s, you met the lead singer of that band. His new wife, at the time, and your wife became friends and then one day your wife got a call when he committed suicide. Now, the dude dressing next to you, in the locker room, is humming along with the song on the speaker. He doesn’t know the pain that followed that hit. He doesn’t know the devastation visited on the family of that vaguely familiar voice in the air. He just likes the tune and it reminds him of a girl he dated in eleventh grade. He doesn’t know that it haunted the man singing it for the rest of his life, because he couldn’t repeat it …and because he lost his record deal …and because couldn’t make sense of his existence anymore …so he ended it. Being human is difficult sometimes when everyone thinks you’re more than that.

I went to New York City for the first time in 1992. A friend of mine was singing background vocals for Whitney Houston’s opening act. I hung out for two days with some of Whitney’s band members, (actually witnessed her music director pay over two hundred dollars for a pair of sunglasses – the first time I’d ever seen such a thing), met Cissy Houston and BeBe Winans (for the first of like, eleven times – I’ve produced award winning vocals on the man and I’m still not sure he knows who I am) and saw Whitney perform at Radio City Music Hall …at the top of her game. My wife and I left that show, walked around mid town for a few hours, then down to the Village, where we hung out in a funky little jazz club until it closed. We then went down to Batterie Park, got a couple of bagels, and watched the sun come up over the twin towers. It was magical and it’s the way everyone should experience NYC the first time. Whitney was young and beautiful and vocally stunning on that evening. After watching her burn down Radio City, I was certain I had just heard the greatest instrument, housed in the most perfect vessel …of all time. She was nothing short of spectacular on a dream night, in New York City, all those years ago.

Since that magical night, I’ve been following the demise of that beautiful young woman and it has been painful to watch. You see, we don’t change all at once. We change one moment at a time …day by day …bite by bite …drink by drink …puff by puff …line by line. Whitney Houston was a divine talent with the greatest possibilities on earth, yet she ended up an all-too-familiar cautionary tale; among the ranks of Elvis …Jimmy Hendricks …Janis Joplin …Amy Winehouse …and that kid from Australia. Sadly, every person I’ve ever met was a human being, and Whitney Houston was no different. The most promising and incredible among us can drown in a bathtub …or overdose in a hotel room.

So, I hope sweet Whitney is singing with angels, where everyone is immortal and no one decays, and where the audiences aren’t as fickle as we humans…

R

I believe the entire political spectrum in this country can be divided into two categories: pro-choice and pro-life. I know of so many people (often, women) who don’t realize how staunchly conservative they are, save one issue …the “A” word. I also know a lot of people who think they are conservatives but who really aren’t …until it comes to the “A” word. This issue cuts through the fabric of our culture like a sword. I personally know of three women who had this procedure in their youth. No …the progeny in question weren’t mine, (the Mumps secured my place in the “unable to re-produce” category many years ago), but the aforementioned women live with deep, emotional scars. I’ve heard them discuss it and they all believe that what was inside them was indeed human life. Every single one of them say they regret their decision. I make no judgements or statements and preach no sermons …I always just listen.

My views on the “A” word have evolved over the years. I have a special needs daughter and I have nightmares about her getting raped and getting pregnant. What would I do, knowing a full term pregnancy would almost certainly kill or permanently damage her? Why should she be forced to carry a child she had no say in creating? These are not easy things to reconcile and I’ll be honest, I don’t really have the answers. Believe it or not, Bill Clinton articulated a point of view that changed my own thinking. While giving a speech, on the “A” word, he said that he abhorred the practice and thought it to be a sin, but was unwilling to make it a punishable offense that criminalized young women. I tend to agree. I’m glad none of the women I know who had this procedure went to prison. Still, I find it nauseatingly horrible and find myself ethically pro-life …while functionally pro-choice.

Despite the legal and political arguments for the “A” word, it is ultimately emotional. It cuts to the core of the human condition. Do we bring one more life into the world? Can we provide for it? Can we give up a bit of our own lives to make room for this one? Do we have the right to scrape away something that is now more than merely the residue of one individual …but the combination of two? If I may quote the President, the answer to those questions are “above my pay grade.” What I know is this; both my children are adopted and are fiercely wanted by my wife and me. My oldest is one of those whom Margaret Sanger would not liked to have seen brought into the world. Sanger was the founder of Planned Parenthood and in my opinion, one of history’s hidden monsters. Contrary to her “saint” status among women, she was involved in Eugenics; the movement that found its way across the ocean to Germany, and the basis for Hitler’s Final Solution. She was very interested in curbing births among the “lower races” and “criminal elements.” She was a racist and an elitist and veiled it all in women’s health and reproductive rights. She almost certainly wouldn’t have approved of Ray Charles entering the world …but I’ll bet she would’ve loved his music.

Well-meaning intellectuals might say that society would be better off if her birth mother had been able to “A” word my daughter. My daughter doesn’t speak. She can’t bathe herself. She requires 24-hour care, she is a danger to herself and others; and yet she is the subject of a book …possibly a movie. She has inspired thousands of people and has been the catalyst for several songs (one of which, a record setting number one). She has caused people to go into professions of therapy and science and countless other pursuits they might never have imagined. In short, my daughter has probably created more jobs than the president …just by being her …and being here. My son is probably the only reason many people follow my tweets. He is a game changer. A life changer. My guess is, a world changer …and yet he was almost not among us. I’m so incredibly glad he is. I can’t imagine my life without my children.

Everyone on both sides is always waiting on their political candidate to say the exact right thing to make them happy on this issue. I’m personally a big fan of how Rudy Giuliani handled the issue in New York. He is constantly excoriated by conservatives for being pro-choice, but “A” words went down substantially in NYC on his watch. Why? He worked to champion adoption laws that favored adoptive parents and gave girls in trouble easier and better alternatives. That’s actual problem solving and not just partisan rhetoric. Thats what I’m looking for. Yelling at people and debating the issue doesn’t bring babies into the world. The fact is there are more families waiting to adopt children than there are available children in the United States right now. I’ll bet you didn’t know that. Because adoption laws are so screwed up from state to state, adoptive families opt for overseas adoptions. My family was one of those. If you want to really end abortion, lobby for more favorable adoption laws in your state. Don’t march …it’s trite.

Finally, I’ll say this. If you want to have an “A” word, that’s ultimately between you and God, but I kind of bristle when the government starts sending down edicts in this realm. I also don’t really want my tax dollars paying for it unless an equal amount is allocated for adoptive families and adoptions. Hear me out; my wife and I fought for our children. We couldn’t produce our own so we adopted them. My daughter cost twenty thousand dollars to adopt. When she came home from China, she was dropped from our insurance plan and I spent well over a hundred thousand dollars, out of my pocket, paying for her health care. I think it was well worth it and I would gladly do it again. So, I’ll make a deal with you; I won’t charge you for the $120,000 I spent to rescue a baby if you won’t charge me the $500 it costs to kill one. Deal?

R

I was asked by an Obama supporter recently why I thought the economy was not turning as it should. The conversation quickly veered off into “man Bush must’ve really screwed it up bad,” land. I asked some specific questions that this person couldn’t answer. Then I gave my opinion. This economy, and its sputtering, can be traced to one word …PREDICTABILITY. You see, aside from my operating cost, as a small business owner, the two largest line items in my yearly budget are as follows: TAX LIABILITY and HEALTHCARE COSTS. In president Obama’s first two years in office, he completely obliterated any predictability in health care costs by championing a law that is so convoluted and over-reaching that no one understands it, and seventy percent of the population is campaigning to repeal it. I believe in healthcare reform and have been a victim of the system in its current form, but so far, all that has happened is my insurance premiums have gone up twenty percent a year …for the past three years. Second, all I hear the man do is give speech after speech about how successful people aren’t paying their fair share in taxes. But he refuses to give us a “fair” number …or even a budget. That freezes investors. If you can’t determine what your tax rate is going to be on investment returns or on earned income, you can’t invest in startups or put money in the market. I personally know of about a half dozen guys who have great startup ideas that require seed money, but they can’t get it because investors have no idea how to do three-year or five-year projections. They also have no idea when some group of smelly 20-sometings is going to show up on their lawn, start protesting, and not leave for like, eight months.

Furthermore, banking regulation is so tight, no one can get a loan any more. The loan terms out there are great …but you can’t get them. All the rules have been set in opposition. I can say with complete certainty that until Mr Obama is out of office, this economy will never completely turn in a positive direction. As much as I actually liked the guy coming in, he has proven to be obstinate and staunchly ideological. The majority of those who might invest in a startup are laying low until after the election. It’s just that simple. Without startups, unemployment (or underemployment) will continue to be a problem …and 8.5% is nothing to be proud of.

You see, it’s a bit like a problem I had recently. A gutter, on this little storage building on my property, kept overflowing and washing rainwater into the building. For weeks I speculated as to why that gutter wasn’t working properly. My initial instinct was to call the gutter guys and make them do their job “right this time” or go into some extravagant water re-direction project. Then, one day, I was cleaning said gutter, and realized that under some leaves, where I couldn’t quite see it on the first inspection, was a rubber ball my son had inadvertently thrown into it. It was simply clogged. I could have “fundamentally transformed” the entire building or lobbied the city to tighten building codes, or even sued the gutter maker and installer. But the problem was so stupidly simple it was almost embarrassing, and it cost nothing to fix. That’s what we’re dealing with in regards to the current state of the economy.

The American people understand what we are and what we’re not. The Tea Party was a direct reaction to two things: bailouts of failing businesses and a trillion dollars in stimulus packages. You know what? The Tea Party was right on both counts. They were way off on the George Washington wigs and three pointed hats …but I digress. The best regulation of all is …well …failure. Had President Obama come into the White House and said on his first day in office, “I’m issuing an executive order to cease all bailouts of private business. This is the government and we have no stake in someone’s winning or losing in the free market. Also, I’m sending a two-page document to Congress that makes the Bush-era tax rates permanent. Now, we’re going to take the next two years and figure out what can be done about some cracks in the health-care system. Once we get a bipartisan consensus on how to deal with cost hikes and pre-existing conditions, we’ll vote on, and pass, a law that has support from the majority of the electorate …not until,” he’d have a ninety-percent approval rating right now and unemployment would be around five percent. That’s what he had when he took office …you know …before all the white people who voted for him mysteriously became racists.

It’s my belief that Mr. Obama took a simple “gutter clog” and used it as an excuse to start tearing down the building. Because of that, every rancorous extremist in this country has decided to weigh in on the subject, and we’re actually being made to take seriously those radical theorists who believe that the greatest economic system in human history is somehow inherently evil and flawed. Well, it is flawed – like everything man-made – but it doesn’t feel as evil when the unemployment rate is under five percent. Everyone seemed to be just fine with capitalism when Clinton was in office.

We can get into class warfare and yell at each other all day long. But the truth is, some people know how to earn large sums of money and some people don’t. I’m one of the latter. But I do know how to provide for my family and make sure my business runs efficiently and profitably …and I’M A JOB CREATOR for Pete’s sake! I’m one of those people the President keeps yelling at to hire and is trying to force me to do so. The problem is, I have no freaking idea what kind of country I’ll be living in next year. If my tax rate is suddenly forty seven percent, I’ll have to stop hiring the people I currently pay for services. If all the things stay in place that have allowed this disheveled, moody songwriter, with no formal education, to provide a nice home, comfortable lifestyle, college education and hopefully nest egg for my drooling years, I can manage the float of being a self-made dreamer. That’s what this country is supposed to be all about. But if all of the certainty on which we make financial decisions ie; which house we buy, which dreams we chase, when we expand our operations and hire, when we tighten up, is in a constant state of flux – as it has been for the past three years – we, the ones who attempt new things and pray for them to expand into operations that need employees, will simply fold our tents and do something else. At some point, it’s just not worth the trouble.

Until those issues are addressed adequately, you can give all the halftime pep talks you want. But all I’ll hear is blah, blah, blah. That’s all my fellow small business owners will hear as well. Get the ball out of the gutter and save the speeches. When Eli Manning was asked what he said to his team mates in the huddle to inspire them on the winning drive he said, “they didn’t need a hi-riding speech. They knew what we had to do and they did it …”

Damn right …

R

I saw a movie this week that is still haunting me. I can’t shake its images and powerful themes. The film “The Grey” follows a handful of plane crash survivors on a perilous exodus from the wreckage of their aircraft, through the frozen tundra of Alaska, to try and find some form of safety. It kind of asks the question, “if a hundred guys no one cares about fall in the forest, does anyone hear them?” As the movie unfolds, and people predictably die, we begin to realize that there actually is no safety. The men struggle with nature, wild animals, horrible injury, primal fears, painful regrets and ultimately …with themselves. It’s a classic character study and philosophy essay. It grapples with our deepest questions; why are we here? Do we matter? Is there a God? If so, does he care about us or is he ambivalent to toward our trouble? In fact, is he even good? Could God be nothing more than a violent driving force, powered by the pain and unimaginable suffering of his creations? These are questions asked by all of us at one time or another, and this film literally takes us to the heart of those questions. Metaphorically, it also shows us that sooner or later, we will have to come to the answers to those questions on our own terms and in our own way.

In my book, Angels and Idols, I describe a particular night I fought with God and screamed at him at the top of my lungs. You can’t ever have an honest relationship with God until you cuss him out. At least that’s my opinion. You see, as much Sunday School as I’ve had and as many sermons and hymns as I’ve heard and as much theology as I’ve read and as many prayers as I’ve prayed, I still wrestle with those afore mentioned questions every day. If you’re honest, I’ll be you do too. My daughter is a constant reminder to me that I will simply have to wait to get closure on all of life’s painful questions. I don’t like waiting. Maybe that’s the poetry.

After seeing this film, I did a show with some other songwriter friends in Vegas. Most music people I know believe in the spiritual realm, even if they don’t buy into the orthodoxy of Christ or the church or the classic explanation of God. Anyone who speaks the language of music, knows there is spirit and truth. We performed our “show” for the crowds at hand, complete with witty banter and strong hooks that might leave one laughing or crying or tapping a toe or humming a tune. Thats the craft of entertainment. But then we went to a bar around the corner and played songs around the piano till the wee hours. I haven’t been involved in a jam session, playing cover tunes, in so many years, I couldn’t remember keys or lyrics or chord progressions of songs I thought were burned in my brain forever. But even given my butchering of “Piano Man”, I somehow felt like maybe I was tapped into a bit of the meaning of life while the whole bar was singing it. It felt like when I was a kid and the whole church would be singing “I’ll Fly Away” or “Victory In Jesus”. Voices raising toward the sky. Music. Harmony. Poetry …love.

I went back to my room, fell on the bed and dreamt I was writing songs for Tim Tebow. Weird. When my alarm woke me up for the early flight, I tried to make sense of the dream and something occurred to me. Tim Tebow’s one playoff win this season was watched by more people than watched the super bowl. Why? Did the kid just capture our hearts and cause us to want to see him win? Maybe it was something more than that. Tim Tebow transcends football. He represents something we’re all trying to find – even those of us who have been around it all our lives. We watched that innocent kid, with unwavering faith, play football because we want to believe in something bigger …something eternal. We want to believe we’re not alone down here. We need to believe God is good and just and …well …there. We need to believe it so much we will root for an awkward lefty on a football field. In some strange way, my sub conscience was telling me to write songs for someone like him. It was telling me that I still crave the truth on some level, even if it’s mangled in the pieces of a dream.

I’ve been distracted in my profession for the past few years. I’ve gotten sloppy and disinterested. My mind continues to wander into those eternal questions and the minutiae of music and lyrics and publishing and performing and whatever else, just seems silly to me. Pitch and time and meter and tone and rhyme-scheme have become these bothersome details that give me a headache and I don’t really care about them. Things that used to matter a great deal to me don’t seem to matter at all anymore. I know it’s affecting my work and I feel like I’m being pulled in a different life direction. Where to is anyone’s guess but I hope it’s to a peaceful center. Maybe I should write more books. Maybe I should work at Wal Mart. Maybe I should just find some refreshing reason to keep making music. Whatever the case, from thirty-thousand feet it all looks and feels small, and on most days, when I’m flying, I find myself pondering what’s above the plane a whole lot more than what’s below it.

R