A look back at a decade of music that finds me here today, bathing in falsetto….

How I grew to love Bon Iver……

I guess the root of it can be traced back to my older brother. It’s always your brother, or somebody’s sibling I suppose. The benefit of a few more years on the planet, and with that the chance to educate yourself on what’s popping, handed down to the young ones so they can work on getting their comeuppance. When able, when the menacing creature who once raised me above his head in one movement and sent me hurtling towards a couple months of sulking about with a broken clavicle, was out of the home, I would inch into his room and wear out his cassette tapes. I remember all the covers so vividly – a prism transforming a single white line to a literal rainbow of colors, four men returning their zippers to their upright position after relieving themselves on a lone concrete slab, and so on. It was my first real taste of the adventurous and abstract nature of music as I was, when not robbing my sibling’s taste, simply gulping down with vigor whatever MTV was feeding me at that point, which wasn’t really all that bad truth be told, but this was different. Jim James is quoted as saying “we are all victims of classic rock”. I, too, was a casualty of that war.

The groundwork laid, the foundation of how I ended up bathing in falsetto is pretty much what you would expect from a kid straight out of a stereotypical suburb. But that isn’t the whole story. There is much more to it.

Inarguably (try me!) the most relevant thing to happen in the music industry during the 1990s was hip-hop’s rise into the main fray. I was swept up in it and although many genres have fallen in and out of my graces my love of the boom-bap has never wavered. In the early 90’s hip-hop lured me in with the strong bait of the Wu, as 36-chambers was on bump, constantly. L’s after school had us all thinking we were much harder than we were. It was empowering. In fact, that is one of the greatest strengths and underlying reasons for hip-hop’s success. Everyone wants to be a gangster and hip-hop makes us feel as such. A strong hip-hop arm was cultivated through the mid 90’s as the all time greats dropped their classics (Illmatic, Reasonable Doubt, Only Built for Cuban Linx, Del la Soul is Dead, Aquemini, Liquid Swords, The Chronic, Check Your Head, Ready to Die, Ironman, etc.) and when hip-hop became conscious in the late 90’s with Black Star, Common, the Solesides crew, and the dysfunctional Rawkus family I was deeply entrenched on the front lines. Concurrently, when hip-hop got weird due to Kool Keith, Company Flow, Aesop Rock and the like…..even better as I was growing a taste for the offbeat.

Wait, you may be saying, how does this relate to Justin Vernon’s unique brand of folk? Fair question but trust me, all the pieces matter.

In the late 1990’s I finally packed my bags and was released from the imprisonment of the helmet and knee pads of living at home with parents, and I checked into a Bachelor of Science program at the state university. Here is where the magic happened. Here is where a boy became a man forever altered by the experiences that awaited. If you are not opening your mind up during those 4 to 5 to possibly 6 collegian years, that door is doomed to forever remain closed. It is imperative that one not test waters, one must dive in, fully clothed if need be.

It might be hard to fathom with its popularity these days, but EDM once had a heyday, which was located squarely in this under hyped, oft overlooked, decade of the 90’s. It had a moment where it was as popular as underground music could be. The nation was going crazy for it and parents were huddled tightly together trying to figure out exactly what the word “rave” meant, as Buddy Holly’s translation just didn’t seem appropriate. I didn’t have a nose ring or a saucer in my earlobe but I assure you the people I gathered amongst in hotel rooms late night (early morning I should say) sure did. Countless nights were spent in dark rooms with lights able to seizure even the most seasoned of glowstick spinners, with performers such as Oakenfold, Aphex Twin, Sasha, Digweed, Massive Attack, Van Dyk, and other hopefuls who ingratiated me to the power of computer generated noise. Before this brand of music was labeled in a tight little box of ‘EDM’ it was alive and well and being soaked up by thirsty juveniles like an able sponge.

We are slowly but surely getting somewhere. I promise.

Hip-hop and electronica were not the only genres having banner years in the 1990s. When we discuss rock in this era we will not be solely speaking about Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, STP, Smashing Pumpkins and grunge….although I wouldn’t have a problem if we took some time to discuss just that, as the 90’s just would not be the 90’s without these bands, and what these bands did to advance music is momentous. I do not want to know what the world would look like if Nirvana did not exist. I imagine it would be desolate of bands such as Deer Tick, White Denim, Portugal the Man, and even Ty Segall. I also imagine a naked baby swimming alone in a pool would always be a cause for drastic alarm rather than a brief nostalgic moment.

No, so much more went down; seminal albums were dropped by prodigious bands such as Pavement, Yo La Tengo, Sonic Youth, My Bloody Valentine, Wilco, Ween, and Beck. These artists, with their novel and eclectic sounds, broke down walls allowing emotion, wit and melancholy to thrive in rock and roll. These artists, eventually, led to me relishing in quaint lyrical moments such as: ”And I told you to be patient – And I told you to be fine – And I told you to be balanced – And I told you to be kind – And now all your love is wasted – And who the hell was I? – I’m breaking at the bridges – And at the end of all your lines.”

One album in particular had me wide open. I still have that Challenger /OJ’s White Bronco memory of its first listen, as I know exactly where I was when it occurred, when my senses got assaulted by a piece of intricate music with a rare form of subtle power I had yet to stumble upon. Tortoise’s TNT was more delicate than the music that rocked my stereo at the time, and more complex. A group of classically trained musicians from the Chicago area created a sound that was barely describable. Labeled as ‘post-rock’, the band fused seamlessly dub, dance, jazz, techno, rock, and classical minimalism, with no part overpowering or overshadowing the whole. A sound that has whiffs of Miles and scents of Coltrane, one that on the surface was easy to listen to but underneath was hearty and layered. I couldn’t get enough of it.

All the while I was obsessed with a quartet from Vermont versed in the art of long form progressive and improvisational rock. A band that toured often, and I with it, as their sets were varied and intoxicating. A band that could transition from a psychedelic rock journey with a heavy metal undertone into a melodic whisper at the drop of a hat.

Then an English rock band from Abingdon, Oxfordshire caught my fancy. One with a transportive expansive sound, that was laced with emotive lyricism, who in 1997 dropped what I at the time would call the perfect album, entitled OK Computer.

I had a taste for the eclectic and no genre was off the table at this point. My pulse raced to the French duo Air’s masterpiece Moon Safari. DJ Shadow’s Entroducing introduced me to the art of sampling and its many capabilities. Stereolab’s Emperor Tomato Ketchup couldn’t find its way out of my stereo if it tried. I even checked my man card in and fell for the childhood woe and sensitivity of Belle and Sebastian. I was all in. And when I needed an edge, something grimy and gritty, I looked no further than Tool, Fugazi, Trans Am, Primus, or Rage. The best of both worlds, pulsating out my stereo, one immediately after the other.

Words began to matter more with age and I fell in love with the storytellers. My classic rock roots came home to roost, as the modern incarnations of Bob Dylan and their introspective worldview became my thinking mans soul food. Jeff Tweedy, Conner Oberst, Will Sheff, Andrew Kenny, David Berman, Jeff Magnum, Colin Meloy, Elliot Smith, Jarvis Cocker, and Will Oldham painted portraits of the world I could never paint, and their narratives hit so very close to home. The sound encapsulating the tales still mattered a great deal, but I was now addicted to wordplay and admired those skilled in the art.

I think you are starting to see where this is headed. We are on a collision course with a man who recorded his debut album in a cabin in northwestern Wisconsin. It all adds up perfectly. It makes sense.

You see Bon Iver is a unique cocktail, one with a plethora of ingredients that intermingle in perfect harmony. That perfect mix of oblique heartbreaking lyrics which somehow surprisingly uplift, layered psych rock, panty-moistening crooning, appealing repetitive hooks, and choir-like symphonies that fill a room when experienced live. Justin Vernon doesn’t sound like anyone else and that is a good thing in an oft cookie-cutter ‘if-that-worked-let’s-do-it-again’ industry. Bon Iver is a curious brand of enchanted rock. It is intense while being anything but. It’s non-traditional and everything that I had learned to love about music.

Some may laugh, mock even….but it was in the cards and out of my hands from early on. This direction was chosen for me. I stand here fully self aware that there are parts of myself, pieces from my past, which would never envision myself here, bathing in a sensational bath of falsetto. Feeling fully alive and loving every minute of it. But it is those same parts of me, that when added up, are the exact reason I am.

Struggling to live in a world without flavor…..

On Friday May 10th, 2013, around 6:15pm, my sense of smell and taste disappeared. Took off like a thief in the night. Only what was stolen from me wasn’t some prized family keepsake or an expensive piece of art. No, what was taken has no value in the material world, falling easily into that category simply entitled: priceless. 2/5th’s of how I now perceive the world is gone and I’m desperate to get it back.

How is this possible you may say? One’s senses simply do not disappear. That’s true. For me it’s quite simple actually: I’m suffering through one of the worst sinus infections I’ve ever experienced in my life. It’s crippling. It’s left me listless and numb, deafened and dull, feeling like a visitor in my own body, clumsily trying to control my limbs with a brain foggy on drugs like Multi-symptom, Maximum-strength, Mucinex Fast-Max Cold and Sinus, chock full of designer compounds like Acetaminophen and Guaifenesin and Phenylephrine HCL. I’m actually struggling to write this essay right now, transfixed by this perpetually blinking cursor……Where was I? Oh, yeah….these drugs I’m taking, they only treat the symptoms. They do nothing to treat the affliction.

“It has to run its course,” my physician Dr. Doug tells me as I struggle to put my pants back on in the examination room. Why I have to take my pants off when I come in complaining of a head cold still to this day baffles me. I think it’s some sort of doctor-patient power struggle that I still don’t understand.

“How long will that be?” I ask weakly.

“It could be anywhere from one to six weeks. It’s either viral or bacterial and either way there isn’t much we can do.” Dr. Doug replies nonchalantly, like that’s no time at all, as he causally checks a text on his iPhone. Except for me one to six weeks is a long time. A lifetime actually. Each hour, each minute, each second takes forever to pass these days and since I’ve started feeling this way Time seems to be blending into an endless haze of grayness.

But back to the point. I’m sorry, that’s another side effect of what I’m going through. I can’t seem to stay focused. What was I trying to say? Oh yeah, I can’t taste or smell anything. I told this to my wife the moment I realized it over dinner and she just smiled, like I was overreacting again as I so often do. Except this time I wasn’t. I had to run it by her several more times until finally, she said:

“Oh? You mean like you really can’t taste or smell anything?

“Yesssss.” I replied softly, crushed, defeated, anxious, my hand going to my head to support me as I glanced down at the delicious home-cooked meal I had just prepared. It was a curried chick-pea dish served over Israeli couscous that I had perfected over the years. I had prepared a side dish of roasted eggplant with a generous slathering of tahini and a yogurt, dill and cucumber salad to go with the meal. It looked delicious and is one of my favorite meals to cook, especially on a chilly day like that Friday was. I love the delicate interplay of flavors in the dish, the bold taste of the spices my wife had brought back from her trip to Turkey that develop as they simmer in a fresh tomato-vegetable broth, the coolness of the yogurt-cucumber salad and the sweet, bitterness of the tahini, all of it coming together to create a truly delicious flavor combination. But as I picked up another heaping spoonful and placed it on my tongue I was again met with blandness. Actually it was less than blandness. It was a complete lack of flavor. How do you describe that? Words fail me. Usually taste and smell weave a delicate dance, a sensual interplay that produce something we experience as flavor. What I experienced could only be described as sterility.

In a moment of panic I leapt up from the dinner table, startling my poor chocolate lab who so patiently holds vigil beneath the dinner table, defending the floors from any errant scraps of food that may fall, and I ran clumsily to the kitchen. I flung open the refrigerator door and grabbed the jar of prepared horseradish that I use to season the homemade Bloody Mary’s that I usually make on Sunday’s. I tore open the jar and held it up to my nose. Real close. Like almost touching close. I breathed in deeply and was met with nothingness. Tranquility. Business as usual. Not a blip on the sensory radar. I brought the jar over to my wife and asked her to smell it. She told me to get it the hell away from her. That she was OK. That she could smell it from the kitchen.

I was suddenly filled with anxiety. I grabbed a lemon from the fruit bowl next to the cupboard. Cut it into thick wedges and sunk my teeth in deep, like I was eating an orange back when I was a kid playing youth soccer and it was halftime. I couldn’t taste anything. I ate the whole thing and was left with nothing more than a burning sensation at the back of my tongue and a promise that I’d be needing a handful of Tums later. Defeated I stumbled groggily to my computer and blew up Google, devouring any information I could find, entering search strings like “What are the side-effects of sinus infections?” and “Do sinus infections cause you to lose your sense of smell?” and “Help! I’ve lost my sense of smell.”

The last meal I tasted, lunch on Friday May 10th. Teriyaki Tofu Bento Box.

I learned a lot, quickly. The Mayo Clinic’s website told me that a loss of one’s sense of smell is called Anosmia. It can be either temporary or permanent, partial or complete. My mind got the better of me for few moments and I had to use all of my limited focus to shut down my imaginings of a future where I have a permanent, complete loss of flavor. Moving on I learned that the deadening of my senses was most likely being caused by a temporary irritation of the mucous membranes lining the insides of my nose. I also learned that people with seasonal or chronic allergies also suffered from Anosmia, but to varying degrees.

I’ve never had seasonal allergies and I’ve never really considered what people who suffer from this affliction go through. The fact that as a result of their allergies they could develop a permanent reduction in their ability to sense the world never occurred to me. And now that I’m swimming in their waters, I must say that I have a newfound respect for what they suffer through. For too long my canned response to someone telling me they have bad allergies usually was “Oh that sucks.” But now that I’ve learned a bit more, gained some perspective on the whole matter and walked a few miles in their shoes I won’t be so cavalier in my response.

Our sense of smell is a primitive sense and it deals heavily with emotion. So much of how we perceive the world is tied up in it’s essence. Memories, thoughts, sentiments. Pleasure, pain and indifference. They all draw heavily from this sense. Be it the ancient, infinite scent of the salty ocean in Summer as it instantly whisks you back to a childhood vacation, or the sweet odor of a perfume on the wind that reminds you of love’s first kiss. Whatever it is, it’s woven deeply into who we are and how we experience life.

When we smell something, a volatile odor molecule physically binds to us deep within our nose, interplaying with an olfactory receptor in our nasal cavity. Densely packed and occupying less than an inch squared, these receptors capture the whiffs of the world and are hardwired through delicate nerve fibers to the olfactory bulb in the brain. Impulses travel quickly down these nerves and stimulate us, creating a constant stream of scents that function to build an endlessly dynamic perception of the world around us. And it isn’t just the nostrils that transmit smells to our olfactory system. Our mouth and throat play a role too. There are channels that connect the top of the throat to the nose and many of the flavors that we enjoy are due to the interplay of taste and smell, volatile odors from the foods we consume drifting up into our olfactory receptors in our nose and allowing us to smell the food we eat. It truly is a remarkable system our senses of taste and smell, and they are so indelibly linked that to lose one or both is incredibly disorienting.

My body has been adapting to my loss of smell and taste in a most curious way as of late. Spring is befalling us here in Brooklyn, and where I live the endless, tree lined streets of my neighborhood are awash in all manner of flowering trees. Lilac, Dogwood, Magnolia, they all are in bloom. Crabapple, Pear, Redbud and Cherry are there too. And usually when I walk my dog in Spring, our mornings and evenings are sure to visit a particular Lilac tree up the block. It’s an older tree, twisted and gnarled from its many years of growth and the lush odor of its blossoms are intoxicating. The fragrance is sweet without being overpowering and fruity without being citrusy and clean and fresh and crisp smelling. Whenever I pass below its low hanging branches it’s like stepping into a momentary fog of bliss. It takes me back to the Lilac tree that grew below my bedroom window growing up, and the sweet odor of its blossoms that awoke me each Spring morning and bedded me each night. But lately the effect as I pass the tree is different. I’ve lingered below its limbs for many minutes, vainly struggling to whiff its intoxicating fragrance to no avail. But my brain seems to be trying to connect the dots for me. Trying to use my other senses to experience its fragrance. A few nights ago I could have sworn I felt the odor of the Lilac. Smelled its colors with my eyes and heard its perfume with my ears. It was truly a remarkable and quixotic experience.

I know, its the drugs you think right? I thought so too but it happened again over dinner last night. My wife made a delicious homemade soup to make me feel better. “Something to warm you from the inside.” she said. It was kale and barley and carrots and mushrooms and northern beans, all simmered beautifully in a garlicky vegetable broth. It looked delicious but sadly I couldn’t taste a thing. But I could certainly feel it on my tongue. I could sense the texture of the pearl barley as it popped and danced between my teeth. I could feel the slick texture of the kale as it slid down my throat and the slight resistance of the carrot as I bit down. And the warmth of the broth as I carefully sipped each spoonful, its essence spreading out to fill my chilly frame. Together, somehow, I began to “taste” the soup. My recollections of what each ingredient tasted like interplayed strangely with my enhanced sense of feel and sight and sound. And although I may not have actually tasted the soup last night, I did exclaim to my wife “That soup felt delicious.” later that night as we watched Games of Thrones on the couch, but she just smiled at me strangely.

So as I write this I’m only eleven days into this cold and there is no end in sight. I wake up each morning, struggle to undo the cranial constipation established during the night, drink endless cups of burning hot green tea, soothe my membranes with saline nasal sprays, blow my nose, take my drugs, look at myself in the mirror through red, bloodshot eyes and struggle to pull myself through the day. When my senses will return I have no idea, but I’d like to think it’ll be soon. That there’s been no permanent damage. But I have an overactive imagination. The mind wanders. “Time will tell.” the old adage goes and while I wait I’ll continue to explore my new reality, one devoid of taste and smell, and see how my other senses step up. Who knows, maybe I’ll begin to smell the world with my eyes and taste the world with my hands?

Stranger things have happened…

The best thirty seconds of your day……

There’s a daily ritual you have that gives you a tremendous sense of peace. It happens first thing in the morning, every morning, and it doesn’t matter if the weather is scorching or frigid, sunny or rainy. Every day, on the way to your office, you pass by the community garden, and these brief few moments set the tone for the rest your day, often putting matters in perspective. But today you’ve grown extremely agitated, almost irrationally so. Today you blew right by the community garden without even glancing in its direction, and the disappointment you feel toward yourself because of your negligence is rather troubling.

It takes you approximately thirty seconds to walk from the community garden’s north end to its south. Thirty seconds in your entire day. You learned long ago that you benefit the most from structure and routine, and regardless of how much you may boast about how willing you are to experience new things, you acknowledge that you are a creature of habit. You’re grateful that this garden has been placed in your path on the way to your office. You’ll never pick up the pace when you’re strolling by it, even if you’re running late, and yet neither will you linger in an attempt to prolong the experience. Thirty seconds is all you get. Sometimes when you walk along the pathway while listening to music and sipping on your coffee, you’ll gaze through the chain-link fence and consciously raise your awareness. You become truly appreciative of the collective efforts of the young caretakers who brought their vision to fruition. The sight moves you. You won’t realize it then, but this may be the highlight of your entire day.

The community garden is eclectic. In its northwest corner is a lagoon with lily pads and bamboo shooting right up out of the water and reaching for the sky. One day you saw a heron, or a crane (you’ve never really understood the difference), standing on one leg at the edge of a water. You ask one of the young gardeners if it was put there, but he surprises you by telling you that it shows up on its own every so often. For some reason this information pleases you. As you walk along, you take in the area reserved just for succulents, and they appear to be thriving. There are both bird feeders and bird houses, both of which are usually populated. You even spot a humming bird feeder dangling from a tree branch. There’s a winding pathway that cuts through the garden, and as you pass along the flower bed filled with colorful miniature hollyhocks, California lilacs, and godetias, you eventually make your way to the garden’s south end, to the Japanese style rock garden, complimented with a statue of the Buddha. The whole perimeter is enclosed in, and shaded by, beefy palm fronds that only contribute to the garden’s allure. At the end of your walk you see the skeletal beginnings of what may eventually become an arbor, and you think to yourself that it’s a nice touch.

Some might feel that the compost bin on the western side of the garden is an eyesore, but you think that it has its place there. It’s indicative of the sustainable ecosystem movement that’s continuing to pick up momentum out here in Cali. In fact, you’ve grown to appreciate the garden’s imperfections, including the occasional weed that sprouts up in the flower bed, or the crab grass that tugs at the corners of the fence and threatens to compromise the serene beauty of this place. You’re proud of the individuals who’ve made this project a reality. You’re proud to know them.

So why are you so upset with yourself? Is it simply because today you brushed right by without taking notice of it? Yes, that’s it, but it’s more than that. As you walk into your office and start dropping items onto your desk, you realize your mistake, only now it’s too late. You won’t double-back and go outside to take in the garden. You had had your chance, and you blew it. You didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the garden as you walked by it, and now you’ve probably thrown your whole day out of whack. You’re being hard on yourself, and you start to wonder if the feeling is justified.

You come to the conclusion that it is. If you were really too distracted to take notice of this place that serves to put you at ease every morning, then that means one of two things has happened: You were either dwelling on what happened yesterday or worrying about what may or may not happen tomorrow, and this is no good. This is not how you’re trying to live your life. You’ve spent a lot of time and energy striving toward living in the moment, and today you failed utterly. Your daily walk by the community garden is symbolic of this endeavor.  Now here you are, and you realize you’ve once again gotten caught up in those old habits that used to make you crazy and bring out the worst of your nature. Lesson learned.

At the very least you’re aware of it. This is a good starting point. This goal you have won’t be achieved overnight; you’ll need to continuously work at. Today you had a relapse, but it’s not the end of the world. Tomorrow you’ll be keeping your eyes out for some minute detail of the garden’s layout that you may have previously missed. Whatever it may be, you’re sure it will bring you a sense of contentment. It always does.

As your time here at this job quickly draws to a close, you realize how precious few days there are left, but you’re not going to worry about that right now. Tomorrow morning you’ll have thirty seconds all to yourself, and for thirty seconds you will remain present, in the moment. You can’t change what happened yesterday, and you don’t know what will happen tomorrow. You’ve spent a lifetime trying to grasp the basic concepts of this very simple idea, yet somehow living by this tenet has proved to be frustratingly elusive. You’re making progress though, and you know that this place, this community garden, has been extremely influential in this new way of thinking.

Your problems will be waiting for you when you’re done with your stroll. Maybe, instead of focusing on them, you should focus on the beauty of the garden. You just might find the solution that you’ve been looking for.

Join us for an in-depth look at the John Slattery directed “Man with a Plan”……

”Whatever that relationship is about (Don and Sylvia) is a lot of what the season is about” -Matt Weiner

Following last week’s game-changing episode, “For Immediate Release”, we knew we were going to be spending some time picking up the pieces. We knew layoffs were immanent, and we knew there would be way too many cooks in the kitchen. What we didn’t know is how the gang from CGC was going to be received walking into SCDP, particularly Peggy. What we also did not know was the name of the new company. And after this week’s episode, entitled “Man with a Plan”, we are still holding our breath awaiting that answer……

Ted and Don, whose relationship was at the core of this episode, are now on the same team, yet still in direct competition with each other. Ted quickly establishes himself as a charmer in his first partners meeting, offering Pete his chair, talking about his personal plane and flirting with the head receptionist running the meeting. And Don, true to form, appears disgusted by all of this behavior. These two operate differently: Ted, a man with a plan, is going above and beyond to make a sound impression on everybody and Don – who took a cue from an argument he overheard between Sylvia and Arnold – takes time out of his very first day back at the new company to set Sylvia up in a hotel and then pay her a visit.

The theme of Sunday’s episode was control, as Don and Ted jockeyed for position as the creative head of SCDP. Ted, a sharp, innovative and interactive leader, applies his skills to garner appreciation, even engaging his team in a free-association exercise and a roundtable discussion. Don, in a weakened position, alters the rules to better suit himself and brings alcohol into the fold. The tension between the two comes to an apex as they fly in Ted’s plane to an emergency meeting with Mohawk Airlines. In a particularly poignant moment, as a storm rattles the plane and Don’s nerves, Ted tells Don “Sometimes when you‘re flying you think you‘re right side up, but you‘re really upside down.” This is symbolic and resonates on many levels, as Ted, calm and collect, navigates the plane to sunny skies, and Don, overwhelmed, pulls out Sylvia’s copy of ‘The Last Picture Show’ and resigns all control to Ted.

Don is falling out of step with the times, something he is beginning to grasp. He feels like he is losing it, and thus attempts to control Sylvia. Don’s best jab at Betty has always been that she’s childish yet Don completely embodies that role this week, (and does it louder than Betty ever did) when he uses the sudden attention from Sylvia as an excuse to drift into a fantasy world where he’s degrading her every chance he’s given. But Sylvia’s strength eventually shines through, as she has always been the person who sees right through him, and she offers a stoic retort to Don’s claim that it’s easy to give up an affair when you’re satisfied contending: “It’s easy to give up something when you’re ashamed…..”

Pete and Don’s storylines paralleled again this week. Both men abandoned the SCDP office to deal with women locked away in rooms. The main feature of a Slattery directed episode, as established in last year’s ‘Signal 30’, is a focus on torturing Pete Campbell. Pete’s mom drops in on him, and is eventually living in his bachelor pad by show’s end. Given his contempt for his family, it’s the perfect thing to happen to him in the midst of a season of misfortunes for him. It could be a tipping point for Pete, and the show is always entertaining while profiling Pete’s failings.

Emerging from the background this week is Bob Benson. In the middle of all of this transition, Joan has a sudden health scare. She retreats to her office and stays there hoping to maintain the illusion of ordinance she has shown the incoming crew that day. Bob, conveniently, finds Joan in her pathetic state, and as expected steps up to the situation. Unexpectedly, he ends up charming the hell out of Joan, expediting the waiting process by lying about her condition at the doctor’s office. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as both of them really needed an extra friend around the office. Later, Bob comes to Joan’s apartment to check on her, thus winning over Joan’s mom as well. After he leaves, she plants the seed deeper in Joan’s head that there’s something special about him. Throughout the season Bob has been an unusually highlighted character, despite having no real story arc revolving around him. He’s literally been the guy in the background. He left his biggest mark in this week’s episode, but it’s still anyone’s guess as to where Matt will take his character from here. It’s easy to compare him to Peggy in the first season: a diamond in the rough.

At the episodes conclude we find Don back at home with Megan. She is recounting her day and he is zoned out, not hearing a word. He has finally done what we didn’t think he was capable of, and what he was warned not to do. He has fallen in love with Sylvia.

The end of this scene was flat-out beautiful. Megan was crying while watching television mourning the world’s loss of Bobby Kennedy. Meanwhile, Don is crying on the inside, mourning the end of his era with Sylvia. He is broken and alone. His failed game of sexual dominance could be the end of his beloved affair and he is losing his hold on SCDP as well. Two souls, once closely knit, are so far apart in the very same room. To further emphasize the contrast, the upbeat “Reach Out Of The Darkness” by Friend & Lover begins playing off-screen and into the credit sequence, with the newscast audio of the Kennedy shooting playing over the music. The execution of this scene was spine tingling, undoubtedly the greatest ending to any episode so far this season. Slattery directed episodes tend to have a dark tone to them, with a Film Noir quality, and “Reach Out Into The Darkness” was perfectly paired with the duality featured in the final scene of “Man with a Plan.”

]]> http://acrossthemargin.com/mad-men-season-6-episode-7-deconstructed/feed/ 0 http://acrossthemargin.com/extraordinary-america-part-iv/ http://acrossthemargin.com/extraordinary-america-part-iv/#comments Fri, 10 May 2013 12:45:09 +0000 acro0390 http://acrossthemargin.com/?p=4304 by: Chris Thompson

They didn’t need a story. They just needed the real world. Until eventually, they became the story.

Hermes was like shaking hands with a hurricane I thought as his iron chariot flew us down the wind-swept back country roads, the truck throwing up a billowing cloud of dust as the miles fell quickly away. Or maybe he was like trying to argue with someone in a language you did not speak. Just misunderstanding and frustration, all bombastic and fervent and wrapped up in semantics slamming up against an impenetrable wall of comprehension.

But whatever he was I thought, I had never felt so alive. It was as if Hermes had ignited something in me. Had drenched my soul in gasoline and touched a match to the mossy fathoms of my brain, replacing my heart with a thundering grenade blast. There was an infectious nature to his brand of reality and it had gotten in deep, achieving in me a certain level of harmony with the world. And as I huddled in the back of the truck, my good friends pressed in close, our bodies awash in an endless stream of newfangled experiences, the effect was exhilarating.

I could see that same exhilaration replicated in the eyes and smiles of the faces encircling me too. In Simmons as he lightheartedly talked the ear off his smiling uncle. In Manny as he perched confidently upon a faded red Thermos cooler, beaming with the satisfaction of knowing he was part of this adventure, the flamboyant colors of his tropical shirt as it ruffled in the breeze likening him to a bird engrossed in an elaborate courtship display. In Tyler as his fingers moved wildly in front of him, the bass riff to Violent Femmes ‘Add it Up’ or Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ running circles in his head. In Kimmell sitting atop a ragged tarp concealing some amorphous detritus of Hermes’s existence, fumbling expectantly with one of his intricate gadgets. In Cough with his eternal pained expressions to his face, the sour, disapproving looks he flashed the world dissolving momentarily into smiles as I spied him in the side mirror. And in Erica? I didn’t know enough about her yet to speculate on her headspace but I could tell by the way she carried herself that she was riding high.

The first time our hands had touched her skin had felt electrified, like a static charge was building up, poised to discharge its stored energy at any moment. I could sense that charge was growing still as we drew closer to the lake, the delicate hairs of my forearm rising to meet her each time our bodies drifted close. Each one of us had drunk from the same bottomless well of adventure and the farther we voyaged from home, the more we felt alive. It was a strange feeling, becoming more like yourself, all the thoughts and sensations long since dormant awakening from their slumber. I was out from under the spectre of my father’s menacing reign, shifting away from the browns and greys of melancholy to the rich and vibrant yellows and reds, greens and blues of cheerfulness and I let it wash over me in waves.

We had just passed through Redwood City, pushing out into Lakewood, leaving the ordered arrangement of weathered clapboard houses and white picket fences that defined the surrounding towns for the wide-open country, when the conversation drifted to what our adventure names would be. My thoughts were miles away, soaring high above the clouds and I had to quickly reel in its line, stowing away my reflections for another time. I turned my head from the blurred spectrum of roadside colors to face my closely gathered companions. Manny, leaning into the group, his eyes alight with excitement was looking in my direction as he spoke.

“So how about it Fawcett? You heard Hermes. We all need to come up with an adventure name. It’s the price for his services. You pick one out yet?” He said to me, a wry grin spreading across his dirt streaked face. I could tell he was poised to fling an insult my way, Manny was easy to read like that, and the flicking of his tongue across his dry lips was his tell. “What’s your name going to be, huh? Jabba the Hutt?” Manny snickered, gazing at the surrounding faces as he let his joke fly.

“No Manny. That one’s already taken.” I replied quickly.

“By who?”

“Your appetite.”

That one got the group good. Manny was an easy target like that. I hated to do it to him but he so often left himself open for ridicule. He was his own worst enemy. Tyler burst out in laughter, breaking with the focused intensity of his silent bass jam and Erica and Kimmell looked goofily at each other, giggling under their breath.

“Shut up Fawcett! I’m not fat, I just big boned!” Manny shouted, almost falling off his perch as the truck suddenly swerved to avoid a pothole.

“Sorry!” Hermes yelled through the open window.

“Mom says I come from a proud line of husky De La Vega’s.” Manny said, pausing as he scrambled to reposition himself on the shifted cooler. I could tell he was working on a way to win us back to his side as he glanced about quickly several times, lingering momentarily in Erica’s direction. “Do you know that on the moon I’d only weigh twenty-six pounds? Manny finally blurted out. “It’s a fact. I read it in a book.”

“We’re not on the moon Manny,” Tyler replied. “We’re crowded into the back of this flatbed truck, cruising down a dusty back-country road that’s a million miles away.”

“I’m just sayin’ fellas. Weight’s all a matter of perspective!”

“And so’s your attempts at humor Manny,” I replied. “Maybe you should go tell your jokes on the moon.”

“I’ve got a name!” Simmons blurted out abruptly, turning around in the front seat to face us as he poked his head out the trucks back window. Manny, grateful for the attention to be off him at least temporarily, leaned back and sulked, nursing his wounded pride as Simmons continued on.

“Call me Douglas Fir,” Simmons said, stretching his long arms out in the cramped quarters of the trucks cabin. Hermes swerved the truck a bit as he struggled to see through his nephews long fingers. “It’s one of the tallest species of trees in America, ya’ know that?” Simmons continued keenly. “My grandpa was a forestry ranger and he told me all about it. He told me all sorts of interesting facts about them. Did you know they’ve got roots that go down like hundreds of feet and cling right to the bedrock? Well that’s me right now, only I’m anchoring myself to this truck so it doesn’t throw me off and break my ass whenever we hit a bump.”

“Nice to meet you Douglas,” I said, reaching out across the flatbed to high-five him through the open window. The action was repeated around the trucks back as each of us welcomed Simmons’s new persona to the group, even a sullen-looking Manny partaking of the camaraderie.

“I’m next,” Erica called out excitedly. I barely knew anything about her but the sound of her voice was captivating. The movement of her hands as she spoke mesmerized me and I hung on her every word, my mind speculating on a million names she would choose, as she paused for dramatic effect before speaking. I was desperate for more information about her, some insight into her personality and I saw this as a perfect opportunity. “You can call me Leia. Leia Falcon,” she said, giving our group a slight bow from her seated position as she spoke. “Leia because I’m just as smart and beautiful as Princess Leia and Falcon because I’m as fast as the Millennium Falcon. Faster even. You should see me run track. I’m a dangerous combination boys, the best of both worlds; quick and beautiful.”

“Alright! Leia Falcon! Welcome to the gang Princess.” Tyler yelled out as he reached over to smack her hand loudly.

Erica had me. I was in love all over again. Star Wars had become one of my all time favorite movies. I had watched George Lucas’s Episode IV so many times on my family’s VCR that I had worn the tape out. This was too good to be true. When her hand went to mine I felt another dose of that electricity flow through me. “Nice to meet you Leia.” I said, envisioning crimson and blue sparks flying powerfully from our fingertips as we high-fived.

“OK, who’s next?” Erica asked, her eyes scanning our group. “Manny how about you? You’ve been oddly quiet the last few minutes. How about laying it on us?”

“Don Juan del Fuego!” Manny blurted out, barely able to hold it in. It was like he had known the name all along, had kept it secreted in his back pocket and was now excitedly sharing it with the world. It made sense of course, that Manny had an alter ego. He probably walked around his bedroom at night draped in blankets fashioned as robes and pretended he was the mythical Don Juan. “Don Juan because I’m a lover,” Manny explained, looking in Erica’s direction as he held his plump hand over his heart “and del Fuego because I burn so hot.”

“Aww jeez.” Erica groaned.

“Barf me with a stick!” Kimmell wailed.

“Wha?” Manny questioned. He obviously had no shame.

“I’m not calling you that Manny.” Erica bemoaned.

“You have to!” Manny implored. “It’s my name. I chose it.”

“How about I just call you DJ or Fuego? Is that OK Manny?” Erica asked. She was obviously trying to be understanding, to meet him halfway.

“I guess so,” Manny conceded. “But the rest of you guys have to call me Don Juan.”

“Fine,” the remainder of us said in unison, desperate to move on.

“Welcome to the group DJ Fuego.” Kimmell said mockingly, almost knocking Manny off the cooler again with a firm smack to his shoulder.

“Lemme get in on this fun,” Tyler said, playfully elbowing Manny back in his seat. “Oh ‘scuse me DJ Fuego. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to put out your fire.”

“Hah, hah. Real funny Tyler. I really thought you guys would like my name.”

“Like it? It’s hilarious Manny. It fits you perfectly. It’s just the mental image that your name suggests we’re, ah, having a hard time matching up to you.”

“Whatever Tyler.”

“Relax Manny. There’s plenty of time to test your new name out at The Lake. I’m sure all the girls there will just fall over with desire upon hearing you say it.” I said to Manny, hoping to soothe his wounded pride.

“Hello? I believe we were talking about me?” Tyler interrupted.

“Oh yeah. Sorry. Go ahead Tyler.”

“Mines easy,” he said. “A real no brainer. It’s someone who’s been with me for a long time now. You can call me Dirk Cheap.”

“Dirk Cheap?” We all said in unison, looks of confusion orbiting our varied faces.

“Who’s that?” I asked. I had never heard Tyler speak the name before.

“Dirk Cheap? He’s my alter ego. The wily star of all the detective short stories I write. He posses the wit of both the Hardy Boys combined, the cunning of Sherlock Holmes and the gadgetry of Inspector Gadget. It’s about time I got to step into his shoes and live out one of his adventures.”

“Ok! So Dirk Cheap it is fellas!” Erica called out, clasping her hands together excitedly. “Looks like the gang is starting to come together nicely.”

“Ho Dirk!” Simmons yelled out to Tyler from inside the truck.

“Ho Douglas!” Tyler called out to Simmons, their hands high-fiving loudly above Manny’s head.

“And I’m Rider Haggard.” Kimmell interjected, thumping his chest proudly.

“Oh no,” Erica said, a crestfallen look crossing her face.” I was worried this would happen.”

“What?” Kimmell asked, a slow smirk spreading across his freckled face.

“You know what ‘cuz.” Erica said.

‘What’s the problem?” Manny asked imploringly, always on the hunt for quality gossip.

“Rider Haggard is the name of the imaginary friend me and Kimmell came up with when we were little kids playing in his backyard. We imagined Rider lived in the boathouse next to his parents dock and he kept his magical pirate ship stored there. I remember Rider was quite the character. What did he have Kimmell? A peg leg and a peg arm and a parrot with two little peg wings and an eyepatch who sat on his shoulder?”

“Yeah something like that. But what I liked about him was that he was always on the hunt for buried treasure. Remember when we found that giant box kite half buried in the sand by the river, and we convinced ourselves that Rider Haggard had left it for us?”

“Oh yeah! I had forgotten about that. And your dad fixed it up for us and we flew it in the fields all summer long, it traveling so high that we thought it would touch the sun? And we thought that if we held on just tight enough that it would lift us both into space? Remember that? But then one day the kite string just broke and it was gone forever.”

“Exactly. And I was crushed. So I’m Rider Haggard,” Kimmell said, “And I’m on the eternal hunt for my lost wooden box kite.”

“Well I hope you find it Rider.” I said, throwing my arm around Kimmell  “It’s always good to have a proper scallywag on board.”

“So that just leaves you and Cough, Fawcett,” Manny said. “Hey Cough!” he called out into the wind. “Cough, you gotta name picked out yet?”

Cough turned around and looked at us through the back window, his stark white teeth flashing us a pained smile in the darkness of the trucks interior. He looked like had just gotten off a roller coaster and had then become carsick. It was a truly unique convergence of expressions.

“Better let him be Manny,” I said. “I’m sure Cough will tell us his name when he’s good and ready.”

“If he ever does,” Manny replied sarcastically. “Well that just leaves you Fawcett. Let’s have it then big guy.”

“Yeah Danny. What’ve you come up with?” Erica chimed in. “I’m dyyying to know.” she said, flashing me the subtlest of winks.

“Charles America.” I said flatly.

“Charles America?” Erica said questioningly. “How’d you come up with that one?”

“Yeah Fawcett,” Manny added, “Charles America isn’t as exciting as Don Juan del Fuego or Dirk Cheap. In fact it’s pretty mundane.”

“I like it.” Erica said.

“Me…me too I mean.” Manny replied quickly. “I think it’s extraordinary.”

“Ho Extraordinary America!” Tyler yelled out, jumping up quickly in the back of the truck, announcing to the oncoming winds the final member of our posse, throwing his fists wildly up into the air in an act of youthful rebellion.

“Extraordinary America!” we all yelled out in unison, rising up on our shaky legs, each one helping the other to steady ourselves against the random movements of the trucks flatbed. Erica stood adjacent to me, holding onto the worn denim of my jean jacket as we vibrated in the summer wind. “I really like your name Charles,” she said to me, leaning in close to whisper it in my ear. The wind was howling at my temples and I felt dizzy with excitement.

“I like yours too Leia,” I whispered back to her, the warm skin of my lips brushing delicately against the soft folds of her ear. And as I pulled back my head she kissed me fleetingly on the cheek, the firm press of her lips imparting a radiating sensation of warmth that grew to fill my head. Suddenly the truck shifted and she was in my arms, a smile upon her face. Uncle Hermes began to honk the trucks horn prolifically as we flew down the road, the five of us steadfast and unyielding in the onslaught of the rushing wind as it tore at our clothing and buffeted our skin.

And as we crested a slight rise in the road, our adventure names comfortably encompassing us like suits of armour, we spied the first glimpses of the blue-green waters of The Lake. It’s shimmering elegance like diamonds reflecting the tranquility of the pop-art blue summer sky.

We had made it…

To be continued…..

A new documentary takes you on the road with The National, while exploring what it means to be brothers….

Tom Berninger is a fuck up. A classic case. He is a true to form slacker metal-head who, at the age of 33, lives with his parents and is still trying to figure it all out. In college he directed a few slasher-films about ravenous barbarians, but since then has accomplished little else.

Tom Berninger is Matt Berninger’s little brother. Matt, as many know, is the lead singer of the band The National. He is by almost every standard an enormously successful rock star, and in regards to making something of one’s life Matt and Tom are polar opposites. In 2010 Matt invited Tom to join his band on tour in support of their latest record, High Violet, as a roadie. During this international jaunt Tom, in lieu of his assumed duties as assistant to the Tour Manager, wielded his handheld Canon Vixia to, supposedly, film a documentary about the band. The result of Tom’s time on the road with The National is the recently released documentary “Mistaken For Strangers”, which surprisingly led to a trip down the red-carpet at The Tribeca Film Festival for directionless Tom, as the film served as the opening film at this year’s event.

The National, slowly yet surely, climbed their way to the top of indie-rock’s competitive ladder, culminating with 2010’s High Violet debuting at No. 3 on the Billboard Top 200 chart. They are the darlings of critics, their last three albums hailed as masterpieces, and they have amassed multitudes of loyal fans, including yours truly. Listening to The National is a visceral experience. Matt Berninger’s existential lyrics poetically capture the complexities of everyday American life and are backed by a layered wall of sound created by Aaron And Bryce Dessner and Scott and Bryan Devendorf. Many of The National’s highly touted tracks begin fairly subtle, but the band possesses the uncanny ability to progressively heighten the overall feel of a song to a degree that ultimately concludes in a fiery and dizzying crescendo. Each song is a living, breathing, entity that theatrically grows as the band members harvest the power of their own sound to create a riveting whirlwind of tension released with precision at the songs conclusion. This is not your run of the mill indie rock band. Not by any means. It takes a certain ‘je ne se qua’ for a brooding indie band to achieve the success they have.

The National have toured the world, headlined festivals, and recorded songs for movies, television shows and video games. But, they have yet to be the subject of a rock documentary, and while “Mistaken For Strangers” is somewhat about the band, it is far from your traditional, behind-the-music rock-doc.

In “Mistaken For Strangers” The National serve as more of a backdrop to a surprisingly heartwarming story. It’s a film about family; and an incredibly relatable depiction about what it means to be brothers. It’s the portrait of one family’s black sheep trying to make it in the mammoth shadow of his successful, yet supportive, older brother. And it’s also a documentary about making a documentary – a self-deprecating “mockumentary” of sorts, which honestly displays Tom’s faults in an ultimately engaging, and humorous, portrayal of humanity.

The film does not wallow in the typical brand of rock-doc inner-band turmoil, and the reason for this is The National, who Tom describes as “coffeehouse”, operate fairly drama free. The film fails in giving (or better yet, it doesn’t even attempt to) ample airtime to anyone who does not have the last name Berringer. The interviews with the other band members, who are so often neglected due to Matt’s imposing presence anyhow, are hacky and devoid of substance. There is minimal footage of The National in the studio recording their upcoming album, Trouble will Find Me, and Tom is more apt to turn the camera on himself then share the spotlight. But we do experience the highs and lows of tour life, and we luckily catch a few fascinating moments with the band….

We are taken backstage before The National’s first gig in Paris where Matt paces nervously. He then heeds his brother’s advice to just scream and let it out all, escaping into a stall bellowing out the lyrics to the moving “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks”, which gloriously echo down the hallway. We attend a Los Angeles show that comes unhinged and an unsuspecting backstage coat-rack takes the blame. And we bear witness to the dark place that Matt delves into when performing, storming off the stage to cool off alone, or within the soothing comfort of his wife’s arms.

In the film’s third act, which takes place in Matt’s home in Ditmis Park, Broolyn Tom moves in to finish editing the film. You get the sense that Matt (and his wife) allow him to do so to ensure that Tom finally finishes something. This is where the film begins to culminate as Tom’s vulnerability is exposed like a wound, and Matt’s love and support for his brother tourniquets the incision.

Like any good rock concert “Mistaken For Strangers” comes equipped with an encore. In an extremely sharp and well-executed second-ending to the film we follow Matt into the crowd as he wails out the apex of the song “Terrible Love”. As “It takes an ocean not to break”, It takes an ocean not to break” resonates throughout the room, Tom and Matt share a moment that brings the whole thing home.

Dissecting “Mistaken For Strangers” after viewing it is part of the fun. It’s interesting to contemplate if this film, which is damn good, is the jumping off point for Tom. Has he learned from Matt how to chase his dream with the dedication it takes to attain it? Has he, through the process of making this film, learned how to see things to completion? Has he garnered the confidence to move forward into other projects with newfound focus and determination? Or, is this just another case of Tom literally riding Matt’s coat tails to his one and only taste of success? Whatever the case, Tom will always have this documentary under his belt, proof that he saw something through to the end. Proof that he is not just capable, but talented. And, proof that he possibly isn’t quite the fuck up we all thought he was.

In the name of the father, the son and the…..

“My country is the world and my religion is to do good” – Thomas Paine

I am not a religious man. This should not be interpreted to mean that I have a lack of Faith however, for of that I have plenty. It merely indicates that I prefer to not belong to any team.

Don’t get me wrong. I was force-fed Catholicism at an early age so I’m familiar with its feel. Was raised on the crushing guilt that comes with being a Catholic despite the weekly absolution of my sins. I did it all. I wore the outfits and said the prayers, sang the songs and went through the motions. It’s so much a part of me now that I could easily put it back “on” like the donning of a suit. But it never felt right. Like a wool sweater shrunk too small. Or a turtle neck a bit too snug around the neck, all itchy and tight.

During my religious “education” I would spend long Sunday mornings at St. Andrew’s struggling through mass. Or weekly evenings in CCD learning how to pray, how to say the “words”, how to obtain forgiveness, and how to fit in. But when I came home all those teachings would diminish, would tumble away the further we drove from church. And with any luck, by the time my mother pulled our faded blue station wagon into our gravel driveway, I could no longer feel its effects.

Finally home, I would launch myself from the backseat of the car, tugging at my necktie as I ran, tearing off my wool sweater to expose my AC/DC t-shirt underneath. And as I crossed the threshold of our front door I would toss my sweater to lay crumpled on the bench, and kick my Oxfords that too tightly pinched at my toes into the corner by the coat rack so loudly that it sounded like I was bowling the perfect strike. And all the while I was writhing and twisting as I shed my layers in an attempt to feel more like ”me”.

Oftentimes when I arrived at home there was one layer that I could not shed. One part that followed me for hours on end. It was a black cloud of frustration that I wore like crown, sometimes barely able to fit in the front door of my house. It was my anger that I didn’t have any say in becoming a Catholic, and my jealousy towards my father as he greeted me when I returned home.

It didn’t matter if it was a warm summer afternoon, or a dark and cold winter evening, there my father would always be, elatedly awaiting our arrival home. He always looked comfortable and relaxed, maybe he had the Hornets game on, or possibly the paper was in his hand, the crossword half-done and a five letter word for shovel circling around his head. Or maybe he was laid-out on the recliner in the living room, slippered feet up, a pair of gray sweatpants complimenting his favorite flannel, and a half-drank Amstel Light on the table besides him, tiny beads of condensation running occasionally down its sides as he listened softly to talk radio.

My father you see is an Agnostic or possibly a Theist, I’m not sure, it’s hard to tell. He’s a close guarded man and does not speak freely of these topics, but he most certainly is not religious. And when my sisters and I were away at mass or CCD or some cookie-cutter religious event, my father stayed home. That was simply how it was. That was my father’s time. His hour or two here and there scattered throughout the week to be alone and I was envious of it.

The role my father played in my being raised a Catholic was trivial. Outside of throwing on the occasional suit and posing for the requisite family picture whenever his children passed a milestone, he barely cared. No, the push for a religious upbringing was my mothers, stemming from a proud Eastern European heritage and steeped in tradition and complacency.

To be honest I’ve never heard my father utter a single word about God or Religion or Jesus or Faith in all the years I’ve known him. Even when the people he’s truly loved have passed, his silence on these matters was deafening. His relationship with religion can be described as barely registering, like the flatline on an EKG machine or a calm day at the San Andreas Fault. There just wasn’t anything going on.

Religion and my father parted ways years ago, right around the time he married my mother. They shook hands and donned their caps, each of them heading off on their separate ways. But what I have to tell you about that fact is this: my father is a brave man. A heroic man. A man who had to choose between religion and family at an early age. A man who before I was born chose the new family he was creating with my mother over the people he’d known since birth. Over the parents who raised him. Over the brothers and sisters he grew up with.

For you see, my fathers family are a group of people who exist at the extremes of faith. They have woven their religion so deeply into their lives that they reject those who do not share their beliefs. My dad’s father and mother, his brothers and sisters, their husbands and wives and all their children went this route. Choosing to find salvation in the fervent teachings of a man who founded a church in an old bowling alley. But my father did not conform. Did not go the way of his siblings. It simply wasn’t for him, he didn’t buy into these teachings and for that he paid a heavy price.

I believe now that this is why my father rejects religion. Why he brushes it aside. He’s a brilliant man, the smartest one I know and his decisions aren’t made lightly. He considers all. I suspect he sees religion as a personal matter. Something between him and God. Religion took his parents and siblings from him and forced him to make a choice. So choose he did. He decided to create his own religion and call it Family, and made my mother and sisters and I its congregation. And he devoted his life to it. His actions became his sermons. Our family vacations to Disney World and his coaching of our basketball and soccer teams and the late nights helping us to finish our science projects his teachings. And his belief in the power of family over the power of a religion-based God was his credo.

I respect that. You have too right? If he hadn’t called bogus on the pastor who was reeling in his siblings and who had already hooked his parents, and hadn’t made the difficult choices he had to make, I’d be living a totally different life today. I would have been married in my teens. I would have been swaddled with kids by my twenties. I would have never gone to college. I would not be sitting here writing this essay to you today. Most likely I would right now be sitting in….church.

Without my knowing it, I’ve followed in my fathers footsteps. It took me awhile to find my way, to discover my path and crystalize my beliefs. But because of my father I’ve taken on a more simplified approach to religion. I always knew Catholicism and organized beliefs weren’t for me. I knew it wasn’t the right fit, that I no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t square it away with what I felt. And even though my father may not have been the most open man, the most vocal about his feelings or beliefs on God, I understand now why he chose his path. The whole while I was being force fed religion I was learning what it actually means to love and believe in something greater than yourself by my old man.

For I believe in a higher power, an omnipresent force. But I just believe it resides in all of us, in that quiet place within our hearts, existing on a deeper level with no need for one religion to claim ownership. There’s no need to go through the motions, the routines of religion, sing the songs, wear the clothes, and say the words to be saved. My father taught me that being saved begins within and whether he knows it or not for that I am grateful.

A business-centric ensemble episode forever changes the landscape of SCDP. “For Immediate Release”….

This week’s episode of Mad Men was an unadulterated barnburner. The first series of scenes felt like a dream sequence, thrusting us into the action so swiftly we hardly had a chance to strap in for the ride. So much has occurred since last week’s episode: SCDP was preparing to go public, Peggy and Abe are settling into their new Upper West Side digs, Roger – finally thrust back into the spotlight – is carrying on like a horny teenager with a stewardess (and invaluable informant!), and everyone’s favorite mother-in-law is back in town. This was merely the beginning, as last night’s episode was easily the most deliberate episode of the current season, not to mention the flat out sexiest.

“For Immediate Release”, the episodes title, refers to the press release Peggy finds herself writing in her office in the late hours of May 17th,1968. This release served as an announcement to the world that SCDP and CGC, two bitter rivals, have merged. Yes, the evening’s climactic development occurred after sparks flew between Don and Ted and, in order to land Chevy, an elite and highly sought after account, they decided to combine forces. Tension soared to new heights in this perfectly executed ensemble performance. Written by Matt Weiner alone, the episode pops even harder than last week’s as heightened levels of impulsive and penetrating decisions were made, on par with a grandiose season finale.

When Peggy left the agency last season, we wondered if it was the end of her arc on the show. To our relief, we caught back up with her in last season’s season finale, “The Phantom”. Her character is vital to the show due to the reach of her talent, and influence of her character. She has played a leading role in the evolution of SCDP, and was thriving at CGC. Don, in last year’s “The Other Woman’, said that he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to get her back upon her resignation. Last evening, Don’s wish became a reality. When Peggy walked into Ted’s office as the episode waned, after touching up her makeup, she is confronted and then spooked by a tidal wave the size of Don Draper. In what could be the defining moment of her lifetime, Peggy is suddenly made the most important copywriter on Madison Ave. upon the revelation that SCDP and CGC have merged.

“Just once I’d like to hear you use the word “we” because “we’re” all here rooting for you from the sidelines, hoping you’ll decide whatever you think is right, for OUR lives.”  -Joan Holloway, to Don Draper

Roger has apparently been hard at work staging his comeback, and we soon realize that his fooling around with a stewardess, Daisy, in the beginning of the episode was actually a business strategy. While Pete was floundering about, losing Trudy for good along with Vick’s, and Joan was finding out her tryst with Jaguar was all for not, Roger was busy getting his groove back. We even had the opportunity to experience a nostalgic moment with Don and Roger, as it’s been awhile since these two have taken us with them on that always entertaining ride when they are passionately pursuing business.

In a classic Don moment not to be overlooked in the scheme of this very busy and bipolar show Don fires Jaguar. Herb Rennet from Jaguar is fed up with Don’s lack of cooperation, and Roger has insisted the two of them have dinner, presumably to hash things out. Don’s ego comes out in full force at dinner when Herb tries to put Don in his place. What is fun to think about in this scene is that Don carries a business card around with him, of a fellow employee who will be handling business for him if he decides he doesn’t want to work with a client anymore…..thus, giving him the opportunity to fire someone in this dramatic fashion. Awesome.

The scene where Ted runs into Don in a bar in Detroit could prove to be the defining moment of the season: two enemies come together and become each other’s savior. Everything we’ve seen so far this season would hint at another pissing match to happen here, but not this time. Instead, they’ve dropped their defenses, exposed their vulnerabilities, and had an elegantly transparent conversation assessing the situation, and each other. Mutual respect is acknowledged, and an alliance is conveniently formed. The entire episode could be summed up with one word: merger – For business, and for pleasure.

Mad Men, after what many deemed to be a slow start, appears to have hit its stride. Every scene seems to be ahead of its time, constantly thriving in character development. Season 6, at this point, has exhibited more ambition than previous seasons in regards to quantity. Roger’s igniting of the Chevrolet situation was definitely the backdrop of the episode. It was nice to see Roger up to his old tricks and it will be nice to see the gang back together again. Pete looks to be out of Trudy’s life, and the fall of Dr. Rosen has began. “For Immediate Release” continues the trend of titillating story arcs revealing themselves one after the other. Each episode has been better than the last. Usually, the head writer of a show writes the season finales by themselves in order to tie up loose ends and produce satisfying lead space into the next season but Matt Weiner waved his magic wand all over this episode and unleashed a classic.

In the end, it was all about Peggy – arguably Mad Men’s most vital character. It’s hard to not look at the season thus far as an impressive set up to reunite Peggy with her former co–workers, and particularly Don. Matt Weiner decided to give the audiences the reunion they were waiting for and an episode devoted to American Business at play – something Mad Men does so very well. The world of Mad Men just got bigger, more complicated…and imposingly more interesting.

A guest contributor bestows us with a tale for all children……

Once upon a time there lived a dear old woman whose cheeks were rosy and whose hair was long and braided. She was old in her bones yet young in her heart and fervently beloved by the town. This woman was wise and she spent many afternoons wandering the woodland and making sure the animals were living peacefully and fairly, that the squirrels and birds were sharing their hollow-tree homes, that the dogs were sharing sticks and she also made sure that the bulbs were planted in Spring and that the flowers were watered in Summer.

The wise old woman had many friends who would ask for her good advice “How do you grow such beautiful flowers every year without fail?” some would ask, “How do you get the squirrel to follow you through the woodland? And how is it that you talk the same speak as the birds?”

“Oh,” replied the wise old woman, “The answers to your questions are too long and too full. Perhaps I will write them in a book and then you can see how it is that I have come to love this town.”

“Oh yes oh yes!” replied her friends and they went off to wait patiently with joyous anticipation.

Days passed and the years did too. Soon Summer had turned to Fall, before long it was Winter and soon enough Spring had sprung once more. Many times, friends knocked on the old woman’s door, “Have you written the book yet?” they’d ask until their patience ran thin.

One afternoon, when the sun was blazing hot, the friends of the wise old woman put on their sun-hats and took to the streets. They walked through the town, past the library, the school and the post office until they came to a quaint little lane with a crescent of small houses. The friends of the wise old woman stood outside one home in particular which had a wooden bird house near the door and a water fountain by the path. The friends knocked on the wise old woman’s door with a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’.

“Why, what a surprise to see you all here,” she said, “but please forgive me it is not my birthday, my birthday comes in the Autumn when the conkers fall from the tree. As you can see, the sun is blazing hot, bright enough to wear our hats and search for shade to hide in. There must be some confusion”.

“We have had enough of waiting!” replied the group, “You must have written that book by now. We must know more about the town, its plants, its animals, its creatures, and the lay of the land. No single body can tell diddly-squat about the ways of the birds or the sickness in the trees, you must help us,” they insisted.

“Ah, friends,” she answered, “come with me into my yard.”

Then and there the whole group trundled through her small home and out to the back garden. The gentlemen took off their hats when they entered the house, as a mark of respect, and the ladies tried ever so carefully to rub the muddy patches from the soles of their shoes. The whole while they walked though there were ‘Ahh’s’ and ‘Ooos,’ as the group admired the wise old womans’ woollen rug hangings and soft quilted blankets that lay about here and there making her home ever so snug and warm in a cozy kind of way.

Before long the army of friends had paraded through the house entirely and stood there in her garden, and my, what a sight it was to behold; blue jays and robins, starlings and sparrows flitter fluttered as they flew from branch to branch of her blossomed fruit trees. Cats curled at the guests ankles looking for a stroke whilst little terriers snuffled at the friends fingers looking for a scratch behind an ear or with any luck a scrap for a treat. The garden was full of the hummmmmm from the bees as they darted hither and thither going from flower to flower collecting sweet pollen on their heavy laden little bee legs. The group of friends from town were astounded and quite silenced by the beauty of it all.

“Let me explain,” replied the old and wise woman. “You see, I have some new neighbours, they moved to our street at the end of last summer, and they were quite happy getting on with their own ways, but now you see, it appears that their two youngest girls just want to spend most of their time in this garden. I apologise friends, as I know you are expecting a book as promised by me to you. Please understand how difficult it is for me to turn the girls away, they simply adore their time here with the cats and the dogs, the toads by the pond and the dragonflies that zoom in and out. The girls even come out here when it rains. I hear the thunder rumble and the heavens open and I think ‘the girls won’t come to today’ and then ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ goes the knocker on my door, and there they are, all suited and booted, ready for a day in the garden! On a rainy day, if the wind blows East, we sometimes have ducks come and visit us here; you see if you look around it really is quite a sanctuary!”

The friends from the town were spellbound. The garden was the most pleasant place and they understood entirely why the wise old woman had opened her doors and welcomed the children to play. The friends of the town told the wise old woman that there was no rush for the book to be written and instead asked if they could come and help tend to the garden.

“We can do more than that,” suggested the wise old woman, “let us tend to the whole town, together, and I’m sure the young girls will also help. We shall take our shovels and our spades and our buckets and our rakes and we shall plant up the town from corner to stone from brook to bank. I promise you friends, if we do this you will learn more than from any book I could write”.

The friends of the town agreed to this, and sure enough on the summer that followed the town held a festival and on that day a man came from the Borough who declared the town the most glorious in all the land. The young girls grew to be women themselves and the town is still on the maps as a place of radiant beauty.

He had to do Nothing. He chose to do Everything. Mariano Rivera’s farewell tour….

Legendary Yankees Closer Mariano Rivera is calling it quits. After 19 seasons he has amassed an awe-inspiring cache of accomplishments: 619 regular season saves, 42 postseason saves, 5 Worlds Series Championships, and 12 All-Star Games. The remainder of this season will serve as his victory lap, a chance for us all to ovate his accomplishments one final time. But he has a touch more in mind than just soaking up the admiration of his countless fans….

Rivera’s lifetime ERA of 2.06 is the best ever for his position. No one comes close. His WHIP is 0.998. Nearly perfect. He has a lifetime 0.70 ERA in the postseason, with a 0.759 WHIP. And, In 141 postseason innings, he has allowed 86 hits and 21 walks. Just remarkable.

Mariano is widely, and appropriately, considered one of the most dangerous weapons to ever play the game of baseball, and what he has accomplished is due in large part to a single pitch he perfected early on in his career. This pitch, a cutter, looks like a fastball when released from his hand but spins on a tilted axis and moves laterally about 8 inches as it approaches the plate. This pitch has broken bats and garnered outs at a mythical rate.

He is the best Closer in the history of Major League Baseball, and this isn’t at all debatable. To put it all in glaring perspective, more people have walked on the moon (12) than men who have scored against Mariano Rivera in the postseason (11). And when this season comes to a close he will walk away from the mound, showered in thunderous applause, as one of the most accomplished and beloved athletes ever.

On April 11^th Mariano made his last scheduled visit to Progressive Field in Cleveland to play the Indians. While he was there, Rivera took the time to meet with 25 Indians employees, including ushers, ticket sales people, and custodians for a half-hour. He posed for pictures, answered questions and gave out autographed baseballs. This is what Mariano has planned for every stadium he visits this season. This is the way he plans to execute his farewell tour. He has arranged to meet with every employee at every stadium in every city the Yankees visit, and he plans to say…..thank you.

“I appreciate what you guys do,” Rivera said to employees at Progressive Field. “We see mostly what goes on when we’re on the field and not what’s going on behind the scenes. I wanted to say thank you for everything that you guys do, for the love and passion you have for your team.”

Rivera, while in Cleveland, also sought out the famed Indians drummer to show his respect. When he was introduced to the drummer, John Adams, he said, “Hey, you the man. Being loyal, being there day-in and day-out. I really respect that.” And when Adams offered to let Rivera take a turn on his drum, Rivera declined, saying, “No, I can’t. That’s your thing.”

Later in the month, during one of his final visits to Tropicana Field in Tampa, Rivera met with about 15 military veterans from Tampa’s James A. Haley Veterans Hospital (pictured below). The group of veterans, as well as some active military constituents, spanned the ages of 23-93, having served from World War II to Vietnam to the Gulf War and current operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. He wanted to say thank you to them as well. This level of awareness from an athlete, and this level of gratitude, towards all who contribute to baseball’s prosperity, and to our country’s well-being, is unprecedented. It’s class personified, and it’s moving.

All too often well-revered athletes let you down. This is undoubtedly our own fault, as putting a man or woman on a pedestal simply for their athletic prowess is misguided. But it is difficult to not glorify these athletes as role models, as in many circumstances their accomplishments, and stunning feats of strength, inspire us, and overwhelm our emotions, clouding our reason. So many of these seemingly uplifting stories have shattered before our very eyes. But, not this time.

Mariano Rivera has made it easy to be a Yankee fan. When the game is tight, the pressure on, and the tension in the stadium thick, all anxiety is relieved when you hear the first licks of “Enter Sandman”. As the Metallica anthem blares from the loudspeakers Mariano is released from the bullpen like a bat out of hell prepared to put a bow on this thing, and call it a night. He is the Fat Lady, his ‘cutter’ – the song he sings. There is nothing I would love more than to have the opportunity to thank him for all he has done. Thank him for all the joy he has bestowed upon me, all the moments of blissful celebrating. I would like to further thank him for the way he has handled himself, the classy manner in which he has conducted his business which has restored my faith in athletes and redefined and expanded the limits of excellence I previously thought impossible. But Mariano would prefer to be the one expressing the gratitude, and his farewell tour has just begun. For the next five months when the team hits the road, Mariano will be doing what many athletes simply don’t. He’ll be giving back, showing gratitude, and cementing his astonishing legacy.

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