Moving to a new place is always a little terrifying. Our list of moves over 40 years includes finding homes when I went to work for companies in Chicago, Los Angeles, New York and St. Paul. You can add to that our recent move from Gualala in Mendocino County to Richmond in the East Bay. In travel time, it’s about a 3-hour drive from Gualala to Richmond. And once moved, there is the matter of making all of the usual connections: groceries, health care and a pharmacist, Post Office and more. On a more mundane level, there’s adapting to the larger population, the traffic and the ambient noise.
The biggest, most immediate (and obvious) difference is transitioning from living in a small costal town of a couple of thousand people to living in the middle of a collection of counties, cities and towns—in this case, the San Francisco Bay Area—with a total population of some 3.5 million. That sheer size brings along most of the other differences: freeways, traffic, noise, commercial and military jets, passenger and freight railroads and more. However, I’ve been remembering something I learned while working in large cities like Chicago and New York. Each city has special places to embrace, special neighborhoods to explore, new friends to make and, after the initial culture shock, it all starts to make sense. Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that coffee—as much for the socialization as for the brew itself—was also a question when we moved to Richmond. Coffee is central, but let me explain.
When I began working at A&M Records’ home office in Hollywood in the late 1970s, I was ‘schooled’ in a good cup of coffee. My boss (and later, my friend), VP of Sales Bob Fead, kept only Hawaii’s Kona Coffee brewing in the A&M Sales Department. Granted I wasn’t then (and am not now) an expert in coffee brands and brews, but I was easily able to taste the difference and learn a bit about good coffee. In addition, that was my first work-environment where we talked with co-workers or artists or managers, conversations that inevitably usually began over a cup of fresh-brewed Kona. Fast forward to 2007 when I discovered a local coffee spot in Gualala, and for most of the next 17 years, Trink’s was my go-to-place for coffee, a latte and conversation.
Within a few days of following the moving truck to our new home in Richmond, I knew that I’d have to find a coffee spot. For many, coffee (and caffeine) is about the total experience of a great latte or cup of brew. For those of you who believe that “coffee is coffee”, i.e. there is no difference between coffee here or coffee there, let me be gentle and express some understanding. You’re wrong.
During my first month living in the East Bay I drove around the area hoping to find my, hopefully, new coffee home, and happily I found it: Roma Caffé on Garrard Blvd in Point Richmond. The café is owned by Yoli and is exactly the type of pub I wanted, as it’s friendly, attracts a lot of locals for their first brew of the day, and others for breakfast or lunch. And the latte’s are first rate. Parking is on the street along Garrard Blvd (at the corner of Cutting Blvd). There is some additional on-street and off-street parking nearby requiring a short sidewalk stroll, taking perhaps all of a minute or two.
One morning, while taking the sidewalk stroll to Yoli’s, I noticed that someone had used chalk to add their own poetry (or favorite verse) to five of the sidewalk blocks. Seeing and reading the short verses—one chalked on each of the consecutive concrete blocks—slowed me down on the way to my latte. It was the artist’s script that made me stop, turn and retrace my steps, taking time to read and re-read each of the poetic messages. The five verses were:
Peace Heals Within
Ocean With No Shores
Sky With No Clouds
Spacial Awareness
Joy Whispers Healing
I was struck by the simple charm of the verses, the thoughts that each brought to mind, and the ability of one inspired person to turn a sidewalk into an art project. I also had a desire to find out who brought this beautiful bit of graffiti as a temporary public display. With the recent rains, the poetry has disappeared. I can only hope that the poet/artist will return and create a new pop-up art display, and accomplish what art can do: confront, inspire, compel.
Finding a place to call home, when you’ve moved to a new city or town is a welcome moment. If you cross the San Rafael Bridge and need to make a stop, have a glass of wine, a sandwich or a latte, look for Roma Caffé in Point Richmond, and perhaps you too will discover some sidewalk poetry. And maybe make a new friend. By the way, if you’re a serious biker, as in cyclist, with the required ride, seat, water bottle, cleats and wardrobe, come Saturday or Sunday morning and you’ll be in good company. And say “Hi” to Yoli.
If you can, think back to your childhood, say from age 10 to 17, as we were growing up most of us became a bit wary when the calendar neared April 1. Excluding the actions of my older brother, I don’t remember the first time I was pranked as a child. I do recall some moments in my adult life where a friend of mine, or perhaps some non-lethal acquaintance attempted (and occasionally succeeded) in pranking me.
Perhaps the following two somewhat familiar examples will ring a bell:
“Oreo Or Else” • You’re given an Oreo cookie by a trusted friend, but unknown to you the regular cream inside the cookie has been replaced with Toothpaste (or worse).
“Sugar?” • Add sugar to your coffee or tea. Harmless enough, unless the sugar container is filled with salt, which you discover with your first sip of fresh brewed coffee.
Real news stories (around April 1 or in general) can be just as surprising. Some days it feels almost dangerous to read the news. Here’s what I’ve found in the “real news” this weekend.
“It Wasn’t Me!” • According to the Washington Post and Dr. Trisha Pasricha, MD: “Female flatulence tends to have a greater concentration of foul-smelling sulfur, and high altitudes — such as on flights — lead to increased gas volume.” Who knew? She opens her article with this: “Know that we [fart] 10 times a day on average — but up to 20 times a day would be in the range of normal. And scientists have observed that we pass gas at a similar rate whether we’re old or young.” Speaking only for me, as a sensitive old man, I’ve been hoping for something that allows me to credibly state, “it wasn’t me.”
Anti-Rainbows? • Republicans—at least those in Congress—have been clearly identifying one of the most dangerous actions that they believe our government can take: Publicly displaying the Gay Pride Rainbow Flag. Wait. What? According to Amy Wang, the new Budget Law, passed in March, has a component aimed at the colorful flag. The $1.2 trillion package, authored by the GOP/Republican controlled House, limits the types of flags that can be flown or displayed over U.S. embassies. There are a dozen or so flags that would remain “approved”, including the Stars and Stripes. Excluded from the list—which means barred from government buildings—is the Gay Pride Rainbow Flag. The ‘why’ is simple. Generally speaking, the GOP doesn’t like to acknowledge that there are LGBTQ people in the United States and, God forbid, if they actually exist, we dare not treat them as regular human beings. Welcome to the closed mind.
“He’s what?” Back in the stone age—that’s my stone age (late 1969), I was in my first job in the music industry. Listening to some upcoming releases I heard a soon-to-be-released single from RCA Records. Written by Glenn Martin and Dave Kirby, the song, “Is Anybody Goin’ To San Antone” got immediate attention. First, because it was simply, a brilliant new country song, and second, it was recorded by a rising star of American Country Music: Charley Pride. Successful Black recording artists in Country music were rare then. Certainly, Black stars in Country Music today are not as much an anomaly as Pride was in 1969, but still, in my opinion, we need more. Which brings me to Texas-born Giselle Knowles.
Giselle Knowles, better known today as Beyoncé, is going country. The Grammy collector—she has more than 30 of the awards, so far—apparently has C&W music people talking with her release of two new country-themed songs. The tracks—“Texas Hold ‘Em” and “16 Carriages”— debuted on Super Bowl Sunday night to announce a new album, “Cowboy Carter.” The timing was about promoting her new album and, as importantly, the promotion and launch of her hair care brand Cécred. (Read that “Sacred”.) As for Black artists on country radio, when country music station, KYKC-FM (Ada, Oklahoma,) replied to some fans requests to play Beyoncé’s new music, the station’s representative, according to ABC News, told the fan “the staff at KYKC don’t play her.”
The CEO of Boeing is leaving the company. My only question for him is “what took you so long?” I’m glad I’m no longer a road warrior, flying from here-to-there via 60-80 separate flights each year. It’s one thing when unexpected events cause commercial flights to end in tragedy. It’s another thing altogether when bolts are missing, and doors, windows, wheels and miscellaneous parts fall off your plane during a trip to, well, anywhere.
The CDC, Center for Disease Control reports that “as of March 21, 2024, a total of 64 measles cases were reported by 16 states and the District of Columbia. Clearly the state of Florida has been pushing the stupidity that safe vaccinations to ward off known communicable diseases are unnecessary. What could possibly go wrong? Well, some equally naive—I was going to say stupid or idiotic and thought, hey, I’ll be nice—where was I? Oh, right. Some stupid, thoughtless and/or naive parents are NOT vaccinating their children. The only good news here is that having gone so public with their “No Vax” decision, the children may have grounds to sue their parents for neglect or abuse, assuming they survive.
I’ll close with this. Here’s hoping that the sugar in your coffee is, in fact, sugar, and that the creme in your Oreo isn’t toothpaste. And let’s hope that our children are safe. Vax up, America.
As most of us know, at some age—10, 13, 25—most humans were introduced to a particular word. It is the key word in the phrase, often abbreviated as “What The F” or WTF. I chose this shorthand for any too-young readers, although I wonder what the current age of first hearing the “F” word is these days. In any case, for me it was near my 10th birthday that I recognized that my father had placed some significant emphasis on that particular word which my 17 year-old brother was more than happy to tell me about. Today that ‘f’ word has become quite common in everyday conversations. Which brings me to the question: W T F?
Twenty years ago, Thomas Frank’s book, “What’s The Matter With Kansas” became a best seller and remains a classic. The book made the New York Times bestseller list, and the wonderfully opinionated writer Molly Ivins praised it as “hilariously funny . . . the only way to understand why so many Americans have decided to vote against their own economic and political interests”.
The Times added that Frank’s book “is a vivid portrait of an upside-down world where blue-collar patriots recite the Pledge [of Allegiance] while they strangle their life chances; where small farmers cast their votes for a Wall Street order that will eventually push them off their land; and where a group of frat boys, lawyers, and CEOs has managed to convince the country that it speaks on behalf of the People.” I tell you all of this as I recognize that in many states, as the saying goes, ‘the inmates are truly running the asylum’.
I’m not unique when I say that I love living in California. At age 75, and having resided and worked in Wisconsin, Illinois, California, Connecticut, Minnesota, New York and California (again), I love it here. And, while I’ve not lived in another country, I’ve done some traveling. Between 1970 and today, I’ve visited 30 countries on four continents, and all but three of the 50 states. (For the insanely curious, I missed Alaska, Idaho and Montana.) If you’re wondering why this may be of interest to you, give me a few more paragraphs.
I first set foot in Texas when our family vacation took us to Dallas to visit my mother’s parents, my grandfather Jesse Lee and his second wife Lehella. They owned a small restaurant and to this day I can still taste Alice (the cook’s) fried chicken. For a 10-year old, her food was heaven. (That’s me in the hat….)
Alice’s chicken aside, Thomas Frank could revisit his theme and write “What’s The Matter With Texas”, but in reality, the issues with Texas are easily understood. As comedian Ron White observed, “You can’t fix stupid”. The entire Texas state government hierarchy is GOP: Governor, Lt. Governor, Attorney General, Comptroller, Land Commissioner, Agricultural Commissioner, Railroad Commissioner, Education Commissioner, and the entire Texas Supreme Court are officially members of the GOP or true believers. If the Texas government is not stupid, they are clearly ignorant of the fact that Texas is not a country but is one of 50 states. Among other things that make Texas “unique”—and not necessarily in a good way—is the simple fact that, by choice, “Texas is on an electrical island. Texas isn’t connected to the 120,000 miles of the North American power transmission grid, so nearby states [cannot lend Texas] electricity during the outages.” Way to go, GOP buckaroos.
Remember, just a few years ago (and under this GOP/Republican control), the people in Texas shivered in the dark for 4 days, unable to turn the lights on, or heat their homes, operate needed medical equipment and worse. Water pipes froze (and many burst), cell networks went down, and on and on during some of the coldest days in Texas’s living memory. Texas controls the energy grid within its state borders. Period.
These are the same Texas God-fearing people today laying concertina wire (or razor wire) along the border between the United States and Mexico, including along the Rio Grande River. For Governor Abbott and Attorney General Paxton, the injuries suffered by human beings are, after all, the point.
Perhaps you read the latest from Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene, that quintessentially stupid GOP politician from Georgia. Greene has called for a “national divorce” between red and blue states, and this week she’s encouraging so-called “red states” to outright “consider seceding from the union.” As much as it pains me to say, I think she may be on to something. She’s suggesting that these states, the consistently poorest states, whose populations often fall below the poverty line, who also “offer” sub-par public education, and were the most enthusiastic members of the original 11-state Confederacy, should secede. A September article in Rolling Stone reported that “some modern-day Republicans have begun to view secession as a favorable alternative to actually doing the job of representative governance . . . . In March, Texas Republicans introduced a bill that would place a referendum for the state’s secession from the United States on the 2024 ballot.” FYI, Seniors, you will likely lose your medicare benefits when Texas secedes.
As I tried to make it clear earlier, I’ve lived in, traveled to or through, and observed life across the United States my entire adult life. America isn’t perfect. California isn’t perfect. But we continue to work towards what the founders of the United States envisioned and desired:
. . . to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity. . . .
I like what I’ve seen of the world. I like the people I’ve met along the way. I want California to continue its success, but I also want the country and this state to evolve. After all, even California can improve.
I don’t want the union to fall apart, but I am perfectly willing, if asked—and at my own expense, if needed, to travel to Georgia and assist Ms. Greene with her personal secession from the United States. After all, as Ron White reminded us, you can’t fix stupid.
Few things in our society bring on as visceral a response as the phrase “I need to see the dentist”. Equally distressing can be the realization that “I need to go to the DMV.” I’ve been to Department of Motor Vehicles offices in Wisconsin, Illinois, California (Los Angeles), Connecticut, Minnesota and California (Fort Bragg). Almost every one of my visits brought on an acute anxiety reaction as I anticipated the visit. That anxiety continued with each passing moment. Grabbing my keys, getting into the car, driving there and walking toward the DMV building have always been filled with stress. Once arrived, we all glance around to wonder or confirm that everyone else is having the same trepidations as they, too, approached the entrance and anticipate the worst.
Over the years the DMV visits have often initiated those fears, although to be clear those fears have never been about personal safety but, rather, have been drawn from experiential memories, and often begin by just stepping to and through the doors. There’s the “take a number” sign—sometimes without any more numbers to take, or long lines, insufficient staffing, seemingly arrogant ‘helpers’, and the knowledge that I need my drivers license to function in society. Movies, television and personal stories have brought most of us humor and drama in long and short anecdotes, each in their own way, immortalizing our collective fears of the DMV. And that collective fear never completely disappears. So there I was on Tuesday morning.
We’ve been settling into our new place in Richmond, enjoying the surroundings, strolling along the water of the Bay, watching the sunsets . . . but Tuesday was different. It was time to get a replacement drivers license reflecting my new address. I got out my iPhone and programmed the nearest DMV location (El Cerrito) into the map. Parking my car at about 9:30am, I really didn’t need the iPhone to tell me that I had “Arrived!” as I observed that two long lines had already formed from somewhere within the depths of the building and continuing outside: 20+ people in one line, 12 in the other. My heart rate started to go up, perspiration began to become noticeable. The signs above the two lines read “With Appointments” (long) and “Without Appointments” (longer).
I had no appointment so I stepped to the back of the longer line, winding its way out of the building, down the sidewalk and then some. After just a couple of minutes I had a thought. Since this was a simple change of address, was there an online appointment option? Happily, there was, and while standing in line, I logged on and requested an appointment. The DMV computer told me I was suddenly 4th in line. With 20+ people in front of me, how could that be? With an unspoken “A-ha” I switched to the “with appointments” line behind a dozen or so people. At some point, perhaps 3 or 4 minutes later, I became cognizant of loud-speaker announcements telling those waiting that “Appointment number G-O 17 was ready at window 14”. A minute or two later another announcement: “G-O 21 go to Window 16.” I looked at my iPhone and realized that I was G-O 21.
Arriving at Window 16, I confirmed that I was requesting a replacement license with my new address, checked the info, paid my $33, and was then directed to another window to have my picture taken for that new license. I had a brief pleasant conversation with another customer waiting in line, and was then asked to step in front of the camera. Smile. Click. All done. I was in my car and driving back home in less than 30 minutes. While some may feel that a half-hour is too long, my history with (perhaps) a dozen DMV offices in five states tells me that this week’s DMV encounter was almost painless. As one who has been known to whine about past painful experiences, I feel obligated to compliment the operations at the El Cerrito office. Was it just a lucky moment, or the luck of the draw sending me to one particularly well-run office? Hey, maybe things have, indeed, changed? I’ll offer some insight after my next DMV encounter in a couple of years. Until then, Drive on!
Image attached credit: Tom Lai at FourSquare City Guide.
My hitting the age of 75 this year was no achievement, but maybe a moment. It’s not insignificant and, predictably, it absolutely tasks one to think. My father died earlier than 75 (61), my mother lived to be 84. My sister died in June at 77. My brother is 82. As children, we don’t really spend time wondering “what will it be like when I hit 75?”. At least I don’t remember doing that, although maybe I just don’t remember. In any case, as legendary Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards often opines, ”It’s really good to be here; it’s really good to be anywhere.”
Dolly, my strong-willed wife of 50 years, has always been the go-to person for strength in difficult times. I was excused, perhaps, because I traveled so much in my work that dealing with many difficulties invariably fell on her shoulders. Expressed another way, consider Dolly’s derivative of Murphy’s Law: “When shit happens, David will be on the road.”
As my friends and family know, for the past year we’ve been preparing for our move to the Bay area. The word “preparing” sounds like organizing the ingredients to create a simple dinner. Well, this ain’t dinner and it ain’t simple. After almost 12 months on the market, we’ve sold our home in Gualala. I hadn’t really considered that selling was the easy part, at least compared to physics. Relocating your life actually includes elements of mechanics, heat, light, sound, electricity, magnetism, and the structure of atoms. Oh, and emotion.
I’ve recognized for years that my vinyl record collection totaled about 1,500 albums, all in our garage. After 4 days of a reasonably well-publicized moving sale, we recently disposed of what I thought was almost all of those vinyls. Then I opened another dozen or so boxes and, surprise surprise, found that I still owned about 800 more. With a post on a local website, and one enterprising stranger who was ready to take virtually every remaining vinyl disc (all of which I previously claimed as precious,) the vinyl was gone.
I’ve calculated that between 1972 and 2023 we moved in and out of 9 residences in 5 different states (our 10th move is scheduled for this month). While you may already know this, it’s worth mentioning that ‘discovery’ is an integral part of every move. Moving from Chicago to suburban Los Angeles in 1972 I came to the realization that I wouldn’t need the multiple ice picks, snow shovels (2 or 3), sidewalk scrapers, bags of salt and sand and other winter survival gear that I brought with me to California.
I kept all of the aforementioned winter-weather needs through 13 years and two homes in L.A., but put them back to use in Connecticut, and later in Minnesota; I then brought them to Gualala. Throughout almost 17 years of living in coastal Mendocino County I actually got the snow shovel out only once, and that was the day our deck was covered with about an inch of snow, ten years ago. As we get ready for this move to the Bay Area (and thanks to the moving sale) we got rid of things we are certain we won’t need. Stay tuned.
When you move your residence, you never know who will be your new neighbors. Arriving in Gualala in 2006, we soon realized that we had gotten lucky. On one side our neighbors were Allen and Camille, and on the other side Carol and Frank. All four were kind, thoughtful, helpful and the type of people you absolutely want as neighbors. I don’t believe it was the fates who intervened but rather just good fortune bringing us our new friends. While Allan and Camille are still here, Carol moved back to the Bay area about 7 or 8 years ago. Frank was another matter.
Frank Beach and I became buddies soon after I arrived in December 2006. In fact, both Dolly and Carol predicted that Frank and I would quickly become pals. And they were right. We regularly took time to stop and have a glass of beer. Or wine. Frank, the PhD, took me under his wing, and got me properly introduced to living on the coast. He took me to Cooks Beach, the Saturday Farmers Market, the Bar at the Gualala Hotel, or taking in the regular beautiful California sunset. Frank also showed me the almost secret ‘short cut’ to Jenner (I can’t reveal it here.) We’d stop in Guerneville for lunch and on the return trip to Gualala affirm how we could save the world.
Ours was one of the best and shortest friendships in my life. Frank was 70 when he died on May 10, 2007, little more than 6 months after we began our regular discussions about life. Like me, Frank traveled and moved a lot during his life. He constantly reinvented himself, a re-invention that included changes of scenery and of career at a time when most Americans of his—and my—generation would live and die within 50 miles of their original home.
In the days when there were pool tables at the Gualala Hotel, (and later at Bones Roadhouse BBQ), Frank and I would discuss and debate many of the world’s problems. We were so ‘effing’ brilliant that we solved problems while calling out which pocket we’d sink on the pool table. (Both pool tables are long gone.)
Frank came to a few live concert events I created in 2007 while I was managing Arena Theater. (I believe his favorites were Richie Havens and later Tom Rush.) Like Frank, taking in the beauty of the Mendocino Coast was a joy. Hearing the surf. Getting a bite to eat. Watching the sunset, attending a concert or solving the problems of the world, I learned so much from Frank in 6 months, and I’m forever grateful. And I miss him every day. As the saying goes, “savor the moments”.
In the language of business travelers in the 1970s, ‘80s and ‘90s, I was a road warrior, getting on and off planes every week. Early in my career I found myself on many short-haul flights; you know, about an hour each way, between my office in Chicago and Detroit or Cleveland or St. Louis or Minneapolis. By 1979, I was flying much longer trans-continental and international flights, and in pre-cell phone days, and pre lap-top days, there was usually plenty of “book time”. Time to read.
Long before George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart brought the thought center stage, “You Can’t Take It With You” was—with the exception, perhaps of some ancient Egyptian royalty—a reality for we mortals, yet it seems I may have subliminally been ignoring that precept. Realty began to take hold as we recently began the inevitable “purge” in anticipation of a move to the Bay area. We’re going through everything, every drawer, every cabinet, every box of our belongings in anticipation of the move. It’s been a cathartic experience debating—sometimes between Dolly and I and other times between me and me—what to keep and what to get rid of. Yesterday I found myself opening boxes and emptying bookcases. I found books from my days in the music business, from my days as a college professor and then, inevitably, I found some of the books I purchased “simply” to read.
While attending NYU’s Graduate School in 2001, I found the required reading list for one course included “The Killer Angels”, a 1974 book by Michael Shaara. Having worked in New York City for more than a decade I might have assumed it was a book about the seedier parts of New York, gang violence, or the Mafia. Hardly. I found Shaara’s novel at NYU’s bookstore and immediately noted the blurb on the cover. It was a quote from the Army general who wrote the battle plan for 1991’s “Operation Desert Storm”. Of “The Killer Angels” the late Norman Schwarzkopf said, “The best and most realistic historical novel about war I have ever read.” It is a riveting civil war novel. Yes, it’s fiction but you quickly forgot that because Shaara’s words work.
Speaking off the Mafia, in 1997 I picked up a book for another road trip—as it turned out, one of three round-the-world business trips I made in the 1990s. To some this might be a surprising choice for those long flights but Peter Maas’s “Underboss: Sammy The Bull Gravano’s Story of Life in the Mafia” was worth the read. It got my attention in no small part because, as I mentioned earlier, I worked in Manhattan, and regularly heard many of the local organized crime stories. As the book’s sleeve tells you, “In March of 1992, the highest-ranking member of the Mafia in America ever to defect broke his vow of silence and testified against his boss, John Gotti.” Gravano is still alive, living in Arizona (having served almost 20 years in prison). I’m not admiring killers, but the book is a good read and enables us to get close to the Mafia without the danger.
I’ve always been fascinated by Winston Churchill (1874-1965) and and the late William Manchester’s bio didn’t disappoint. The first volume, published in 1983, is “The Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill: Visions of Glory, 1874–1932”. Who knew that the life of a comfortable professional politician (but a man who wasn’t blessed with a wildly wealthy family) would be so interesting. It may not be for all, but I loved it. Whether you read one or all of Manchester’s triology, you may conclude (as others did long before me) that whatever weaknesses Churchill had during the first 50 years of his life, he was the perfect choice to lead Britain through World War II.
I found “The Hunt For Red October” in 1984 as the book began its second printing. While standing at the Doubleday book store on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, I picked up Tom Clancy’s legendary early novel, read the blurbs and thought this is a book for me. Clancy’s writing is really where to find the weight, and he his able to bring great detail to his style which, for some, is too much. For me it was just right. If you don’t mind a bit of ‘too much detail’ here and there, the fact is the book was solid enough to be transformed into a credible (and successful) movie. I ended up reading Clancy’s next 5 books.
The title of this column is no accident. What follows is an excerpt of what I wrote in a piece for the October 2016 Lighthouse Peddler.
“In the early 1980s I found myself on a Pan Am flight to London clutching “The Right Stuff” by Tom Wolfe. My copy of this classic, Wolfe’s 8th book, shows the wear and tear of all that travel. When I pulled it out of the bookshelf in our home this weekend, an Eastern Airlines “seat occupied” card fell out of the pages. For any younger readers, Eastern was once one of the ‘Big Four’ domestic airlines, and like Pan Am, it had a glorious history, only to be eclipsed by a dramatically changed travel industry.“
Both Eastern and Pan Am are long gone, and NASA is still working in multiple areas of space exploration, but not the high-profile organization it was in the 1960s. Nevertheless, “The Right Stuff” is an amazing book. Chuck Yeager, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, John Glenn, Alan Shepard, Neil Armstrong and all of the other wannabe ‘spacemen’ are here. Wolfe’s recounting ranges from stool specimens to test flights, and then the final glory of being selected to sit on top of a rocket and be hurled into space and history. ‘The Right Stuff’, as the saying goes, was a ‘page-turner’. I recall a British flight attendant on that Pan Am flight, observing my reading material on my way to London. She simply looked at me and said, ‘powerful stuff, that!’. Understatement of the day. And Wolfe told this amazing story in just over 400 pages.”
Whatever you choose to read, read. It’s important. It provides information, contrasts, comparisons, and most importantly, perspective. Lord knows, these days we need perspective.
As the new year begins it’s appropriate to take a look and remember those we lost in 2022. This is not about mourning. This is about celebrating what each of these people gave us.
The singer Marvin Lee Aday died at age 74. We came to appreciate rock n’ roll’s operatic voice delivering Jim Steinman’s lyrics. “I want you, I need you, but there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you, but don’t be sad, ‘cause two outta three ain’t bad”. Meat Loaf was one of a kind.
Veronica Yvette Bennett died this year. If the name doesn’t instantly bring her to mind, it’s understandable. Most of us knew her first by her voice, and then as Ronnie who, with her sister Estelle and cousin Nadia became The Ronettes. The voices were wonderful, the songs were perfect, and the production was wrapped up inside Spector’s Wall Of Sound. Those pretty faces, wonderful voices, tight skirts and big hair connected with me and most other horny boys. Ronnie was 78.
Whenever you hear “The Way We Were”, you should know that Marilyn Bergman crafted those lyrics to the song her husband Alan composed. Her words will stay with us. She was 93.
Film director Peter Bogdanovich died in January of 2022. This man was a Hollywood icon whose life’s output included drama, money, love, loss, comedy and fantasy. He was also a filmmaker, best known for three early movies from the 1970s: “The Last Picture Show,” “What’s Up, Doc?” and “Paper Moon”. Bogdanovich was 82.
Time caught up with Sonny Corleone. The man who personified the tough, New York, Italian, eldest son in “The Godfather” is gone. James Caan died at age 82.
Irene Cara who helped craft huge pop hits like “Fame” and “Flashdance” died at age 63.
Robbie Coltrane died in October. Loved him, of course, as Hagrid, but thoroughly enjoyed him in the detective series “Cracker”. Even his cameos—as in “European Vacation”—were great. He was 72.
“The Beaver’s” older brother Wally died this year. Tony Dow was 77.
You probably heard that the head of state in the United Kingdom died. Queen Elizabeth was 96. Love her or not, she had her moments. I do remember waving to her from a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan in Milwaukee. She was on the royal yacht Britannia as it sailed by on its way back from Chicago to England. She had come over to celebrate the opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1959. (I’m not certain she waved back.)
No more watermelons in concert. Gallagher’s defining stage prop will probably go back to just being a summertime refresher. He was 76.
Gilbert Gottfried had a voice we all instantly recognized. His comedic style might be described as a bit crude by some; others might compare it to the brakes on a large dump truck approaching a stop. Regardless, he’s someone to be missed. He was 67.
William Hurt connected with audiences in a variety of films and a variety of character types. I’ll always remember his performances in “The Big Chill”, “Body Heat” and “Broadcast News”. Mr. Hurt was 71.
Naomi Judd is gone. The mother of Wynona (and actress Ashley) was 76. No gimmicky mother-daughter singing duo, the Judds could sing. Before success arrived, Naomi Judd had already been through one marriage, survived sexual assault and drug use, supported her daughters on welfare and became a registered nurse.
Margaret Keane died at age 94. Many of us can remember her paintings of those little children with the large, paralyzing eyes.
Michael Lang, was one-half of the team that created “Woodstock” in 1969. He was 77.
Ramsey Lewis personified the hip, swingin’, music of “The In Crowd.” He didn’t write the song (Billy Page did that, and Dobie Gray’s vocal hit is a classic) but Lewis made it his own hit with his eponymous trio. He was 87.
Ray Liotta died at age 67. Two of his most memorable films were “Goodfellas” and “Field of Dreams.” He could easily move from gangster to dreamer. And we believed him.
And Jerry Lee Lewis died. He was 87. “The Killer”, as he was sometimes known because of his amazing live performances, gave us “Great Balls of Fire”, “Whole Lotta Shakin’” and so much more.
Loretta Lynn died at 90, We all remember her as “The Coal Miner’s Daughter”.
I remember seeing an album cover and hearing the music of Christine Perfect when I was working in college radio in the late 1960s. I loved her voice, and later believed that her songs were a perfect counterpoint to the songs of Stevie Nicks (as part of Fleetwood Mac.) Both have given us great songs, but Christine McVie—as most music fans know her—had the edge with me. She was 79.
Olivia Newton John died this year. She was almost a poster child for the all American girl. The Australian native was 73.
If we were ever flying around the universe, we’d want Uhura to be in charge of communications. Nichelle Nichols died at 89.
Wolfgang Petersen left us. He’s easily remembered for directing films like “Air Force One”, “Das Boot” and, “The Perfect Storm”. (He always made certain that the musical soundtracks for his films were worth listening to as well.) My favorite Petersen film was “The NeverEnding Story” (1984). Petersen reportedly told the New York Times “If people don’t dream anymore, they won’t survive . . . The whole idea of the film is that we need your imagination, your dreams, your wishes, your creativity to fight against all these dangerous problems in the world.” The dreamer was 81.
And we lost Sidney Poitier. Of course I enjoyed his films, but beyond his commanding physical presence on screen, there was that voice. Dignified one minute, and ‘take no prisoners the next.’ “Mr. Tibbs” was 90 years old.
Bobby Rydell is gone. Those of us who listened to those pure teenage singles in the 1960s—“Wild One”, “Volare”, “Sway”, “I’ve Got Bonnie”, etc.—can picture him. One of Philadelphia’s favorite sons was 79.
Bill Russell was, perhaps, the most enjoyable basketball player of all time. He was tough, talented, charming, and owned a smile that no one could resist. He was 88.
Another “movie gangster” (also in “Goodfellas”) died this year. Paul Sorvino was 83.
Those of us who sat in theaters to see movies like “Chariots of Fire” and “Blade Runner” walked out of the theaters remembering not just the story-lines, but the music as well. The sound tracks were by Vangelis. Although significantly different storylines, Vangelis created music for each that was right on the money. The composer was 79.
Many more have left us, as is the case every year. Thank you all.
My immediate post-high school years were (in no particular order) college, Navy, playing in my band, dating, broadcasting, and then the music business. It was the music business that, as I’ve mentioned before, moved me around the country, and required me to do some world travel. And while most of my business travels were about flights to major cities both here and abroad, I made an extra effort to visit many smaller cities in the United States. When I went to Denver, I’d make stops in Colorado Springs and Boulder. When I went to Dallas or Houston, I’d visit Amarillo or Austin. A trip to Cleveland would include a stop in Columbus, Akron, Canton or Pittsburgh.
One of the fringe benefits of business travel was “discovering” places for foodies. For example, in Pittsburgh I found a great pizza place downtown near my hotel. I believe—don’t hold me to this—it was “Tony’s”. In Austin I had fried chicken and fried fish that was, as Rickie, my old associate at A&M might describe, “to die for.” In Oklahoma City we enjoyed some amazing BBQ. And in the ‘80s, Tad’s Chicken and Dumplings just east of Portand (in Troutdale) was the best chicken and dumplings since Grandma’s. [NOTE: I’ve learned Tad’s closed a couple of years ago. Sigh.]
One of my favorite memories was ordering lunch for 6 of us on a stopover in Texas. I was told by either Larry or Nick, from our office in Dallas, that [a] we had to order in advance (almost a week in advance), [b] it was all cash—leave your fancy Amex card at home, and [c] it’s not really a restaurant. That recommendation brought me to “Bryants”. As it turned out, “Bryant’s” wasn’t a restaurant. It was a suburban ranch house somewhere an hour’s drive from the A&M office. We parked in front of a typical ranch house, walked around the side of the house to the backyard, and discovered BBQ heaven. The backyard was huge, with 8-10 picnic tables, three long tables in a line for people to identify themselves (to get the right order,) and then to pay and pick up the food. The lovely, senior lady behind the table greeted me, and then said, “what’s your name honey.” I told her, she looked at her order book and said, “Yep. You’re here. That’ll be $125.00.“ Forget inflation. $125.00 more than 30 years ago was a lot of money for a little ol’ cash-only BBQ place. So I peeled off 7 $20 bills. She just looked at me. So did my friends. I got the message and peeled off another $20. That worked, because I got a look, a smile, and a sincere “Honey, don’t you forget us now.”
We sat at a picnic table, devoured every bite, dropped our mess into the garbage and got ready to leave. It was at that moment I realized I didn’t get a receipt (for my expenses.) So I went back to the lovely lady and explained that I needed a receipt. She looked at me, and with a proverbial twinkle in her eye said, “Honey, we don’t have no register. All we have is a cash box.” I thought for a second and then asked her, politely, “How about you just write it down on the paper there.” She looked, smiled, tore a 3 foot by 2 foot piece of butcher paper (pre-greased), wrote down the amount I paid, and then handed me my “receipt”. I wasn’t certain if I was breaking a rule, but smiled and said, “Young lady, would you mind signing this receipt? My boss will want to know it’s authentic.” She smiled and signed the greasy receipt. I had the feeling that I may have been the first to ask for a receipt at Bryant’s.
I took great pleasure attaching that oversized, greasy, piece of paper to that week’s expense report. I received a call from A&M’s accounting department who said, with an over-the-phone smile, that Mike (the VP of Finance) was amused. The real point here is, that backyard BBQ place in Texas was maybe the best BBQ I ever had. And that elderly and delightful woman was part of the charm of our business lunch that day.
So last Friday, I stopped in at Trink’s Cafe in Gualala. It’s not an every day ritual, but I will admit it’s at least 3 or 4 times per week. (OK, maybe sometimes 5.) Depending on the day and the time of year, there might be one or two people making the same stop at 8 am. Other days it can be 10, 12 or more people in line when they open. Trink’s in Gualala is about more than their lattes. Or their scones. (The Ginger Scones are awesome.)
One day last week was a classic “busy day”. There were, in fact, 10 people in line and Trink’s hadn’t officially opened yet. When the door was unlocked, we all began a slow, casual walk to re-form our line inside. No pushing, no shoving, no anger, no hissy fits. While some of the faces were familiar, others were tourists exploring the coast. It is the norm, that even when there are a dozen people in line, all craving caffeine or a scone or full breakfast, there are simultaneous congenial conversations going on, and few (or more often than not zero) people talking on their phones. Ten years ago that could be explained by poor cell service. These days the phones work, but few people make a call.
Just before I got to the counter to place my order, I saw my friend Dan. We chatted for a few minutes and I noticed Val was behind Dan. And standing three people behind Val was Phil. As we chatted, Phil’s wife Jeri later joined our conversation (having left their canine friend Quest in the car. Believe me, Quest didn’t need any caffeine.) The line moved and shortened, as most found a place to talk, think or simply look at the ocean while they sipped their drink.
This part of the California coast has been like that. People are welcoming, and comfortable. And I’m not simply talking about locals. One day last week I chatted with David and Wendy from Napa. Another day I spoke with Kelly from Chicago. She asked me if I lived here, and for how long, and did I like it, etc. She was here on business, loved what she saw but couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago as she missed her two-year-old son.
The bottom line is, I really do like it here. And I’ll miss it when I’m gone. Now that cell service has become reasonably reliable, the complaint I hear most often is from coastal business people who cannot find enough help to keep their businesses operating. I’m told it’s due primarily to the high cost of housing, And I don’t know just how, or how soon, that will improve. Nevertheless, it will. Necessity drives so much of our commerce. And good people are a necessity.
I’ve got nothing against national and regional chains, but so far, our little world here has survived with hard working local owners. We need to continue supporting them. And they’ll be here for us.
Augie Blume was, to my thinking, a saint in the music business. When our paths first crossed he was V.P. of Promotion at RCA Records in New York. I was living in Milwaukee and had been doing promotion for RCA Records for about 4-5 months when we met in 1970. Augie came through town to visit local radio stations and record stores, and as it turned out, to spend a fair amount of our 6 hours to help me understand my job and, in turn, get better at it. At the end of our time together he got into his rental car and headed to Chicago. The short version is that Augie wanted me to understand that everyone—every record store, radio station, programmer, distributor, disc jockey, newspaper and others—needed to be visited because all were important to the success of our artists.
The business was witnessing a transition. The days of the major labels dominating the music business was changing with dozens—more likely hundreds—of independent labels becoming a force in music. So the major labels began spending money on things that didn’t make sense to anyone other than some major label exec in New York. Which brings me to the Klowns.
The RCA Records label—home to Elvis Presley, Jefferson Airplane, Jose Feliciano, the Archies, Chet Atkins and others announced they had completed a deal with . . . wait for it . . . the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. Each partner would put in money and “expertise” and create a band. One of the people they hired to make this “group” a success was songwriter and producer Jeff Barry. If the name isn’t familiar, he was a successful songwriter, producer, and collaborator with his then wife Ellie Greenwich. Remember “Doo Was Diddy”, “Then He Kissed Me”, “Da Doo Ron Ron”, “Be My Baby”, “Chapel of Love” and on and on. He’s a legend.
Hundreds of us were all introduced to the Klown’s album at a special event in Chicago. Let me put it this way. The event included the screening of a custom film and an appearance by the group. The album was awful, the songs were sub-par, contrived and worse, and the members of the band all wore costumes and makeup to make them look like, well, clowns.
Coincidentally (or not) Augie checked in with me that week, asked me what I thought and all I could do is ask, “any suggestions?” That’s when Augie introduced me to a new phrase, at least new to me. He said, “working on a record like this is like being asked to ‘polish a turd.’” There was a 5-10 second pause, and then I heard Augie say, “Everyone involved with this project should be made to atone for their sins.” Within a month or two of release, the album, the singles, and the Klowns disappeared from our current priorities. Almost as if George Orwell was running the company.
Augie died more than a decade ago, and yet I continue to remember him as a thoughtful, dedicated and smart record guy, and one of my earliest influences on how I approached working in the music business. As a relatively young man I listened to him, and one of his words that stayed with me was “atonement.” Whether you are religious or not, it seems to me the concept of atonement should be universally accepted, and universally applied. A dictionary tells us that “atonement” can include (at least in part) acknowledgment, reparation and reconciliation.
When I was a child, maybe 9 or 10 years old, I would sometimes walk into or through my grandmother’s garden. Among the flowers and shrubs and a few trees were the ferns. Lots of ferns. You know, the kind that grow to look a bit like a hand-held fan? Just then I that, ‘wouldn’t it be fun to strip the leaves’, and it was easy. You place a thumb and index finger at the bottom of the stem, and pull those fingers up and easily strip all of the leaves, with only the stem remaining. Voila. Cool, right? I quickly realized that I had either killed that plant, or at least destroyed one stem. It bothered me enough that I never did that again.
Some five years later I was on a walk through Grant Park on Milwaukee’s south side. I was with three friends headed through a wooded area toward Lake Michigan. In short, we were just being stupid teenagers, attempting to entertain ourselves on a sunny, summer day. One of my friends, and I really don’t remember which one, brought along a pellet gun which looked to me like a 45 automatic. He shot at a log (yes, a fallen log) about 30-40 feet from the group. Although it wasn’t a ‘real gun’, it made a solid popping sound, more like the “silencer” made with a TV cop-show gun. Some minutes later he said to me, “Hey why don’t you try it.” Being comfortable and just passive enough I asked, “What am I shooting at?” He simply said, “whatever you feel like.”
I looked around and noticed a good-size woodpecker on the side of tree, maybe 50 feet up, minding its own business, working the bark for bugs. I raised the pellet gun, aimed toward the woodpecker and fired. To my (everlasting) amazement, like right out of a movie, the bird fell backward off the tree and dropped to the ground. Dead. I was stunned. First time. First shot. I killed an unsuspecting woodpecker. Nothing came to me but remorse. I handed the gun back to my friend who said, “nice shot”. I didn’t pick up a gun again until I was in the U.S. Navy Reserve boot camp at Great Lakes, Illinois.
While living on the Mendocino Coast the past 15 years I’ve re-noticed a few things. There are ferns here, and there are woodpeckers here. While I no longer strip the ferns or shoot at the woodpeckers, I can only accept that these days there are probably far fewer critters—fewer ferns and other unsuspecting life forms—out here in the beautiful woods on the coast than when I arrived in 2006. Not due only to me, but in reality due to all of us.
We have adopted a bunny, or perhaps she has adopted us. This is a formerly domesticated bunny, now feral who comes by most days for breakfast or dinner. Still shy, she will show up at 7 am or 6 pm, and Dolly, who dutifully watches for Bunny (yes “Bunny” is her new official name), sees to it that Bunny has food. The food reflects on the produce I’ve picked up at the Farmers Market on Saturday morning and we’re using for our meals. Bunny receives the remnants of dandelion greens, parsley, apples, cilantro, spinach, broccoli, kale, carrot greens and from time to time the carrots themselves. (Caitie tells us that carrots are essentially chocolate to a bunny so use discretion when doling out the various foods.) Bunny moves around the neighborhood and, so far, has regularly (and safely) crossed the road without becoming road kill. Sustaining Bunny has become a part-time duty; and an enjoyable one.
Thinking back there are days I truly have remorse for the fern and the woodpecker, and I hope to some degree I have atoned for that stupidity more than 50 years ago. I’m not certain just what is an appropriate atonement. Maybe a prayer, a memorial or some other penance. Maybe it’s simply helping Bunny.
There’s a well known quote, often attributed to John Muir, that when venturing into undeveloped areas, “take only pictures, leave only footprints”.
Dolly, Caitie and our friend Sue spent almost three weeks in Africa in 2000. We visited Zimbabwe, Botswana, and South Africa. We saw the animals, birds, fish and various wildlife. We could only wonder then what these places might have been like 100 years before our visit. And we wonder what those places are like since our visit 22 years ago? Particularly when we read about environmental idiots (like members of the Trump family) who’ve gone hunting in Africa.
Let’s make room for the Stellar Jays, Fox, Raccoons, Quail, Forest Pigeons, Skunks, Deer and all the others. They are our companions here on the planet and deserve some respect. Besides, I don’t want you to agonize on just how to atone when you’re reflecting back 20, 40 or 50 years from now.
I worked in the music industry for more than 25 years, and in 1997 I decided to turn my attention to the completion of my long unfinished BA. While studying at Fairfield University in Connecticut, and based on my 25 years in the music business, I was asked by the head of the music department if I’d be interested in teaching other undergrads about the business of music as an adjunct professor. I wrote and submitted a syllabus, tweaked it and, once approved, began teaching.
After graduating from Fairfield in 2001, I continued teaching two courses there. That fall I enrolled in the Masters Degree program at New York University and coincidentally, the director of NYU’s Music Business program asked me to teach a couple of courses for grad students. I thought, “hey, I’m commuting to Greenwich Village for classes, why not teach a class as well.”
NYU Campus in Greenwich Village
In the fall of 2002 (and borrowing a phrase from Bob Dylan and Rick Danko,) “If my memory serves me well”, one evening I came out of my teaching class at NYU and I found myself at the corner of Mercer and 4th. Walking along 4th Street I noticed a sign that said “Tonight: Pete Seeger”. Yes, Pete Seeger was still doing some gigs in his 80s.
I reflected on Seeger’s music and his life. The confluence of those minor events—the location in Greenwich Village and Seeger—made me reflect on Seeger’s music and his life. This is the guy, born in 1919 who, as one writer put it, “touched millions of lives with ballads rich in history, humor and a sense of social justice.” He was praised for his musical and political voice, and he was also vilified for his politics. With the criticisms, Seeger lost tour dates and recording opportunities, having been branded, among other things, a communist. Nevertheless he emerged from the attacks and name-calling and in the 1960s stayed true to his beliefs. And his legend grew.
In 1959, the songwriter in Seeger had been inspired to transform a biblical thread from an old testament bible verse into what would become one of the most memorable songs of the 1960s. Most of us ‘of a certain age’ know the song “Turn, Turn, Turn”; and the recording by the Byrds was so successful (and so often played on the radio), that many, still today, can easily sing along in the car or at home.
A close listen to the lyrics made some listeners pause, because this beautiful and haunting song was true to its inspiration, drawn from the first three verses of Ecclesiastes:
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn), and
a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late
Seeger put together a lyric of life: birth, death and everything in between. And the Byrds single of “Turn, Turn, Turn” hit number one in 1965. More to the point, thinking about the song more than five decades later both Seeger and that biblical inspiration were correct: To every thing there is a season.
The Mendocino Coast is a fascinating, beautiful place. We have lived here for more than 15 years. We bought a home on the Gualala Ridge in 2005, and moved here a year later. We both spent time working for local businesses owned and/or operated by great people. Whether reflecting on my years working for public radio station KZYX, Dolly’s years working for Cafe LaLa and Bed & Bone, or my four years at Gualala Arts, we’ve loved it here. In 2016 we took on the additional work of editing and publishing the monthly newspaper, The Lighthouse Peddler, an experience we’ve embraced and loved; and we’re hopeful that we can hand it off to a new team, just as our predecessors Madeline and Mitch did with us seven years ago.
Turn turn turn. Our daughter, Caitie, lived here on the coast for awhile before going to college at the University of San Francisco. She graduated with honors and has worked hard to accomplish what’s important to her. She got married last year and is expecting the birth of a baby girl in February. Needless to say we’re ecstatic. Caitie has suggested, that now is the time for us to retire and live closer to her in the east Bay. And we agree.
Returning to Mr. Seeger, I can look out and see the wisdom in at least half of those “Turn” lyrics, and agree that there is a time to every purpose, under the heavens. I tend to prefer the ‘glass half full’ view and, for the moment, ignore the half-empty. For me I can see it’s a time to laugh more, to dance occasionally (not necessarily a pretty sight,) to paint if I feel like it, to build up where I can make that possible, to heal where I might be needed, and to love.
So here I go. You may recall that 30 years ago, the producers of the Star Trek franchise released the 1991 film “Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country”. Whether it was the British Empire or the Klingon Empire that gave us William Shakespeare—you have to be a Trek fan to get the nuanced humor—the fact is the future, for all of us is the undiscovered country. And so is the next chapter in my life.
I’ve worked in Milwaukee, Chicago, Los Angeles (Hollywood), New York (by way of Connecticut), St. Paul, and Mendocino County. In each migration I thought it possible that “this will be the one. This will be the last time we move.” And once again, this next move, I believe, will be the last one. But wherever the future takes us, it is always, and truly, the undiscovered country. I will miss Mendocino County, the beautiful California Coast, and all of the friends I’ve made in 15 years. And the north Bay of San Francisco, where we will likely settle, is simply another adventure.
I will be speaking with many of you over the next few months, and I trust we will all find ways to stay in touch. I hope that we do. Until then, raise a glass of wine or a glass of water, if you prefer. Embrace this beautiful place and stay in touch. With everyone.
Jazzdavid 