A History of Love, Part 3

 "History is the meaningful sequence of unpredictable events." ~ Albert Borgmann

Some believe that everything is predestined in your life. I think we only impose order on our past which is a random series of events. We see a path of destiny helped by invisible hands. As much as I want to believe that, there are parts of me that remain a realist.

The sudden passing of my father changed everything. The family spiraled for a while until my mom realized she couldn't manage two maniac growing boys by herself and so she got remarried. Long story short, we moved to West Virginia.

When I visited West Virginia to get used to what would become my new home, I thought I had gone to some southern paradise. The mountains were intoxicating for a kid spent looking at "rolling hills." The people acted differently, the accent was alien but charming and the girls were, quite frankly, friendly and open.

I heard this new speech when I was ordering at Long John Silvers with my step-dad. The girl behind the counter spoke in a way that was so very foreign to me. I have many 'Burgers (Pittsburgh) in my family and the whole rural Pa way of speaking was in my ear and this sounded more like music. Vowel sounds were drawn out, single syllable words could become two or three syllables. "Jeff" became "Jay-eff." for example.

Get to the Hot Stuff, OK?

Actually, this is no tell-all (how dull that would be) and I offer no names (unless they are so ancient it is irrelevant) or intimate details. The Internet is not place for details which could come back to bite my ass. Besides, you gotta be cool, right?

Hell's bells, boys, let's move on.

When I found that a very cute girl was living right next door to me, I could have come out of my skin. Coming out of my skin around the opposite sex was pretty much my M.O. I had zero game.

What I was beginning to discover was the girl who called me ugly back in grade school held an opinion that was contrary to the girls in West Virginia. I was "cute" and even though I didn't believe it, had no maturity to act on it, there was evidence.

Two houses down was a sweet girl whom I shall just call M. M was a tall, lanky, sort-of-awkward girl who had a liking for this lad of tender years. I used to hang out down at her house so much that I knew all her family. The grouchy, mostly silent father, her stuttering brother, her baby sister and her mother, who was the Rosanne Barr of the neighborhood. Her mom was one of the most colorful people I have ever met. Her personality was big, bold, colorful and sarcastic.

M taught me the inequity of attraction, that is, the other person is not drawn to us.She had the all too telling signs when someone has a crush on you: the endless smiles, the laughing at every joke however weak and stupid, the undivided attention. I recognized that when someone has it for you, you hold power over them.

M and I were just innocent kids. We never even kissed.

She gets around.

Terry was a girl who had a reputation for sleeping around. I don't know if this was true, but I was kind of in awe of her nevertheless. She was older than us and she did have a direct sexuality about her. Remember, I'm an awkward virgin with nuclear hormones at this point and no social skills.

One hot summer, I remember smoking some tobacco with her on the river bank. Then we took turns "shotgunning" each other, which lead to some kissing. Some kissing lead to some other more steamier things which lead me to come near out of my tree in lust. It's hot, it's summer time, we're wearing few clothes as it is and we're higher than kites on love. Ahem..

At one point, I got so frustrated that I just got silent. She asked what was wrong and I said that I wanted to proceed further. "If you tell me you love me, I'll let you do it," was her succinct reply. But, hell, I didn't love her. I didn't know what the fuck love was, let alone tell a girl you actually love her!

By all that is true, I couldn't muster up the words, even for my first experience of heaven. I can't stand back now, all Wordsworth-like, and declare this a time of innocence and a coming of age story. Hell's bells, I wanted a girlfriend in the worst way. This was lust, so why didn't I just lie and embrace love's opportunity?

Beats the hell out of me. I must have had morals.

Next: Don't Stand So Close

Hell Hath Frozen Over



Rock's most flamboyant and hilariously lovable frontman/asshole,
rockin' Diamond David Lee

 David Lee Roth returns to Van Halen and a new album and tour are planned.

That's something I never expected to see. Kind of like Roger Waters and David Gilmour hugging it up on stage.


The classic '80's lineup of Van Halen was most amusing to me. Not only was Eddie Van Halen changing electric guitar playing with his innovative virtuosity, but drummer Alex had a most distinctive and influential sound (sampled on Funky Cold Medina) and bassist Michael Anthony had a better voice than any of VH's frontmen. As much as Eddie's chops made my head swim and our fingers seem useless, it was David Lee as comic sexgod ringmaster who kept me in stitches.

Roth reveled in his reckless rock star lifestyle while counterbalancing it with strenuous workouts and martial arts. Eddie probably felt a little jealous of Roth's magnetism, plus, I can't imagine David Lee is an easy guy to work with, but it was clear to everybody who was bringing what to the table.

When asked about tension in the band, Roth told Musician magazine: "There's tension between me and the bus driver. We're not traveling at ground speed."

Or other quotable quotes:
"I used to jog but the ice-cubes kept falling out of my glass."

'Whatever guy said that money doesn't buy you pleasure didn't know where to go shopping."

"I was with a girl not terribly long ago and she said "Mr. Roth, I think you’re the oldest person I've ever been with." I said "Honey I was gonna say the same thing to you."

"The world's a stage, and I want the brightest spot."


Let's hope Eddie and DLR can keep things in perpective: Eddie brings the talent and Roth brings the entertainment and big fun.

And hopefully more hilarious quotes.

Death of a Dictator

Tears of sorrow or joy?

News footage of the North Korean people in mourning over the death of all around nice guy and dictator, Kim Jong-Il, brings to mind several points:

1. Tears of joy or sorrow? They can't believe their self-annointed god is dead. Are they happy the old goat is gone and faking it for the cameras? I imagine Big Brother there watches day and night.
2. What mad man will replace him? Give a meglomaniac a kingdom and he wants the whole world.
3. How many of the North Korean people secretly embrace the idea of democracy?

Panic Not

A few things to reflect upon after this week's events.

Panic is an option, but not a good one.

This little expression of mine is something I tell myself when performing before a live audience. I try to make light of what is essentially hilarious: me in the spotlight for one and how freakin nervous I get.

 I got to MC before a sold-out crowd at an annual holiday event. Everybody backstage was so relaxed and down-to-earth, but these people had done this thousands of times before. I was the new boy. I was watching my pulse hover between 94 and 104. That's like a mild treadmill pace for me, but generally my pulse runs a lot lower than that. Panic is an option....

I kept hoping to find a way to slow myself down inside, but nothing worked. When this happens, I know that the only thing that will bring some relief is walking out on that stage.

Thank mercy for the soundcheck. At first, I felt a little winded and thought, "This will never work. Calm the fuck down." After facing an empty hall and bantering with the invisible sound engineer, this "first blood" was what I needed.

Still, being on a stage, even just reading from a piece of paper, takes practice. The band performs all the time-sometimes as much as three times or more a week. Plus, with the chops they possess, it flows out of them like water. They had their game down ten-fold.

In the end, things went well and everybody had nice things to say.

So kids: panic is an option,

but tell panic to go outside and wait in the car.

 You'll be out after the show.

As the Crow Flies

Call it something spiritual.

Oh no. He used that word. Let the arguments ensue.

I see that spiritual life, in any unconventional form, brings up the same sceptical attitudes over and again.

Spiritualism is not simply a question of rules, regulations, morality, ethics and the appropriate punishment for violation of such. Spiritualism is very different from religion. Spiritualism is what you do to commune with yourself and the world, both seen and unseen.

Morality doesn't enter my mind when I watch crows circle in a cloudy sky. Down near 53rd street, crows have been gathering on this one tall tree by the river. If you just pause and watch, something changes in you. You begin to sense something. I don't athropromorphize the crows. I don't judge them, I just watch. It's beautiful. It's spiritual to me.

Of course, this suspicious behavior brings out neighbors who want to know what this crazy man is doing. "Watching crows," I said to the lady, who came out to see what was going on, before she could mouth the question that was already on her face.

Why? Why would anyone stop and watch some stupid birds?

I'm surprised the police didn't show up.

TV talk

Stuff that's worth your time.

Best actor, Michael Pitt. You'll see.

1. Boardwalk Empire. I never thought after the Sopranos that HBO could ever produce another hit series. As Boardwalk draws to a close, this has been superb. The cast is one of the strongest I've ever seen in any movie or on TV. It's that simple. Prediction: multiple Emmys. I'll buy ya lunch if I'm proven wrong.

2. Homeland. Although reaching the season's end, Homeland is just getting started and each episode rewards the viewer with twists that challenge the mind and stir the emotions. Claire Danes is excellent as the more-than-slightly unstable CIA agent who has been hot on the trail of Sgt. Brody (Damian Lewis).

3. Dexter. Why do we root for a serial killer? Because he satiates his "dark passenger" by murdering people who are worse? Whatever the moral vagaries, we watch because this series keeps moving and lets the characters' actions speak for themselves.

4. Hell On Wheels. I had low expectations for this AMC series, but this gritty vision of the "Union Pacific Railroad's westward construction of the first transcontinental railroad" is unflinchingly brutal and savvy. SPOILER:

The fight scene was a little weak, but the aftermath was great.

Moot point: It goes without saying that Big Bang Theory is the best ' com on telly today.

I Coulda Been a Contenda
The Walking Dead "mid-season finale" closed with an episode that had a glimpse of the potential that this series has so consistently failed to reach. Drag, drag, drag, talk, talk, talk. If I want that, I'll watch the Lifetime network. Will someone step up and save this series????

Brit stuff:
Whitechapel. Worth a watch.

Real duds:

Unforgettable. I didn't think that the "watch me watch myself in the video vault of my mind" trick would be the reason to watch. Dull and predictable.

Person of Interest. Started out good, then fell flat. Can't say why.

Two and a Half Men. OK, now I'm starting to miss Sheen. Kutcher's lonely hearts club band song is a bit of suspending disbelief. He's funny, but Alan and his dopey son seem like they belong to another sitcom. The three are not coming together in a convincing way. You can see the strain.

Two Broke Girls. They have a horse that lives with them in NYC. Can I have the number of the doctor who precribed the medical marijuana? Laughs are occasional when el skeezo Jonathan Kite lets loose a way inappropriate invitation to love-which is all the time.

A History of Love, Pt. 2

Get Thy Bearings

In junior high, whilst still living in Pennsylvania, this amorous mess still continued.

There was a girl named Cindy who thought me cute. I was a bit taken back and way too backwards to know how to react. I certainly wasn't sure of myself at all. I do remember she had perfect blond hair and she wore a brace on one of her legs. The brace didn't bother me and I never asked. This was long before anyone at all had any sensitivity to a disability. At the end of the school year, she gave me her picture and wrote, "To the cutest boy in town. Love, Cindy." I think my brother, kind soul that he is, made fun of her.

Well, hell's bells boys (a drafting teacher used to say that). This might not be bad.

Enter Darkness

The move to Charleroi Area High School was a cold shower and a quick introduction to the inherent cruelty of kids this age. Again, this was back in the days when bullies roamed the halls, free to do whatever the hell they pleased to any underclassman who had the misfortune of being in the pathway of these sociopaths. The area I grew up in was pure redneck blue collar with a mill town mentality. As my cousin referred to them, before moving to California, as "dirty mill towns." Absolutely fucking right.

I saw violence on a daily basis. A senior threw pepper into someone's eyes and then excitedly told his girlfriend what he had done. A kid spit in my face, one guy taunted me as he stole the basketball from me that I had brought as part of a class demonstration, books were knocked out of my hands. In short, this was an ambiance of a state penitentiary. I learned to be aware, to mistrust and to hate. There were daily fights. Kids would sound the blood-thirst alarm: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Everyone would gather to watch wild hay-makers throw by sweaty, red faces. Students and teachers got into fights. Now, it seems a little unthinkable, but this was Charleroi High School: brutal, ugly.

What did the teachers do? They were either rolled over, abused and eaten alive. Or they were hard-assed bastards who ruled with an iron fist.

It's a wonder I haven't ever gone completely off.

Sidebar: I will one day have to blog just about this time period.

Oh, back to our topic. I remember a girl named Robin who sat on my left. She entranced me as she would wear some pretty provocative outfits. She was damn cute. How else would I remember her name decades later?

Then the class hottie was named Kathy. She was way out of my league. I noticed that even the seniors hit on her. I was probably a tongue-tied mess around her. I certainly wasn't old enough to drive or go out on dates. I think I just stared at her. She was beautiful.

Where I lived during this time was a place called Lover. Yes, the irony is not lost on this old boy. Lover, Pa was pretty much farmland, but you could call it a more rustic form of the 'burbs.

Life out there was pretty much "guy world"- meaning it was pretty much male friends with whom you played sports, hiked in the woods or sat around talking about girls or school events.

There was a girl named Terry (Boncarosky?) that I used to walk across a huge stretch of farmland to visit. I cannot recall how or why the courage was summoned to talk to her, but my guess is that we had to have shared the same bus. I must have been around 11 because I used to sing "These Eyes" by the Guess Who (came out in the US in 1969) as I wandered over to her house. (Why my mom thought it OK to let me wander about alone at such a young age speaks of the innocence of the time and place I suppose.)

The whole thing must have been hilariously awkward as an early Woody Allen movie. I just can't imagine what the hell we talked about and how goofy it all must have been.

Redd's Beach circa 1955 (before my time, dammit!)

Redd's Beach

Each summer was filled with wonders and endless possibilities. I felt like I was released from prison when school let out and the glorious and seemingly endless days of summer were ahead.

When the fam decided to join Redd's Beach, which was a huge pool for its time, this opened up a whole new world. That world was boogles of girls all in pool attire.

My pal, Richard, had a huge crush on this one blond. I distinctly remember him talking about her constantly and she damn well knew it too. At the time, Herb Albert had a big hit with, "This Guy's in Love With You." We were all in the pool and she pointed at Richard and sang, "This guy, you see. This guy's in love with me." Can't say I blamed him.

She didn't reciprocate, but neither did she treat him as if he didn't exist. Richard was a fat lad and as much as we now pretend to be blind to these things, fat boys had "romantical" troubles. They still do.

I do remember some magical moments where we'd get into a splashing/dunking fray with some girls. I was a flaming heterosexual and I knew it.

If I could somehow enter a time machine and talk to that 11 year version of myself, boy could I tell him some things. One of them would be: "Kid, it rarely gets better than it is right now."

Part 3: He has to move in order to kiss a girl

Signs o' the Times?

What idiot at the station thought that made any sense?

Mewonders why TV exists. Mewonders why I pay for cable.

Time Future and Time Past

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

Don't worry if you avoid contact with me at the grocery store.
I am trying to avoid you too. It ain't personal.

Grocery stores are interesting places sometimes, especially around the holidays. The holidays seem to be a rather brutal time of year no matter what horror or ongoing mess is happening. I suppose we think that we get some divine pass because it's Turkey or Santa time. The holidays only serve to underscore the messes that are our lives. C'est la vie.

First, I passed a friend's wife. She did the double-take and then smiled. I know about some of her personal problems she's been suffering through, so I left the exchange at that. The next time I passed her, I guess we skipped the hellos and decided not to recognize one another. The mask was gone-the smile was replaced by an aged, haunted look. Age she no doubt saw on my face as well.Worries are demons we carry on our backs, silently trying to kill us if we let them. Experiencing some rather intense ones of my own, I recognized the pain. Best to respect it with distance.

Then, making my usual backtracking for a forgotten item, I saw a guy that used to sing at the church where once I worked. I did avoid him. So sorry. He's the nicest guy you'd ever meet, but I didn't feel like going through the exchange.

Then I ran into an old junior high friend. People do that natural double-take when they recognize you, but not sure if taking the time to chat with you is worth it. Confession: I have avoided some really nice people because I want to get the hell out of the store as quickly as possible.

I saw my old friend, Donny. I went to school with him in junior high and at that time, we were inseparable mates. He did that "friend or foe?" double-take. I get to talk to him so rarely that I never do a true avoid with him.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries-which seems to me to be a test of residual friendliness and compatibility. A kind of tolerance test for future exchanges.

"I thought about you the other day, " I told him, "I remember how my step-dad and your dad used to drive us to school. I remember shivering those cold mornings." His dad worked at a Cadillac dealership and those leather seats were like trying to snuggle an ice block. Both of us have since lost those important figures in our life. He smiled widely. Like I said, we were once thick as thieves.

"I thought about you the other day," he countered. "A friend of mine recently closed out an estate of one of your neighbors. Remember Mrs. __ and how we used to torture her?" Indeed I do. "She recently died at the age of 90. She had one niece and she left her two million dollars. Two million dollars!" We both marveled at that. She lived almost nun-like: frugal, quiet, never loud or ostentatious. Who knew she was loaded?

One memory serves up another. They are, after all, chain links in a fence. She was our neighbor directly across from us. One curious summer, we noticed a man in a brown car circling around and around the block. He'd turn on his dome light and wave at her upper bedroom window. Not very subtle if you're going to have an affair and especially if you don't want monstrous adolescents taking a great interest in your love life.

 Which we did. Big time.

We even went up to her door and sincerely told her that there was man circling the block, looking at her house each time. She stumbled to find the right words the insincere concerns of these callous youths and then it came, "He won't harm anyone. He's alright." Screw that, lady. We want to know all about your love life. We are the white devils with little or no moral compass. God help us.

Ions have passed since Donny and I spent those unburdened days as school lads where our greatest concern was the lunch time race to get in line at Burger Chef or Long John Silvers before our hungry classmates. Or whether or not a girl might like us.

So, if you see me in the grocery store, I might do an avoid. Don't take it personal. Alright?

A History of Love, Pt. 1

Pre-ramble
Why do certain memories stay fixed in the mind and others fade as quickly as dusk? Answer: their importance.

A friend of mine recently said that, in the end, the only really strong memories we have are our interaction with the opposite sex.

The dude has a point.

I'm going to say the third grade was when I became aware of those most curious creatures. I wouldn't take that time as as accurate at all, but it's as close as I can come to pinpointing the time when I was aware of girls.

By aware, I mean they made me nervous. I would twitch and go silent. In high school, my friend started calling me "Silent Sam" because I would go mute around the pretty ones. Not just those, but all of them mystified me. One thing though: I liked what I saw.

Who's On First?

Where do we start? Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania in the year of our Lord 196x. Hell, I can't remember.

I remember going over to some girl's house and standing outside and talking to her for what seemed a long time. She was really cute, but her name is lost to time now. I do remember a Carol Ferguson- a blond whom all the boys had their eyes on. Her family ran the local funeral home. The same place where they would later display my grandfather, father and then grandmother. Carol was just a distant dream-unobtainable.

I suppose Susan Reilly (Spelling a guess, but her name was pronounced as "really") was the first girl I had contact with and my crush was bad. This was third grade and for some reason, I was the new kid. She sat behind me and I liked that-a lot, but a kick below the belt came one day when she told me, "We were in the bathroom and I said to my friends, 'I hope I don't have to help that new kid because he's so ugly.'" Sweet, yes?

You might as well have thrown me out a window. Looking on it now, we know young people play games with words and ignoring someone is a way of not letting your friends you think the new guy is cute. Whatever her meaning, I took the meaning literally and it knocked me sideways for many years.

Third grade went, but Susan and I had classes together and despite her basically calling me the Hunchback of Notre Dame, we were friends. I still had it bad for her. That never changed. One time and this was around Valentine's Day, I had bought her a box of Russell Stover chocolates. For a reason which I cannot now recall, I got really angry with her. Lord help me, I withheld my chocolates and she started crying. I remember her sitting there pissed and hurt, combing her hair, with red eyes. Not my finest moment, but I do recall realizing that Susan knew that I was her puppet. Maybe I just got tired of that role.
Now, before you call me a monster, I will tell you about what one of her friends did to me during Mrs. Smith's class years later. I sitting in the back row, chatting to this girl, so much so that Mrs. Smith warned me about talking.
The girl said, "Look at my shoe." Dumb as an ox, I did and she promptly kicked me in the face.

It is a wonder that I'm not a serial killer.

She laughed, I was stunned, but it wasn't over for me. Mrs. Smith came back and gave me several light shots with her fist to my nose. Yes, teachers hit students back then.

Imagine what I was learning: girls are devious, well ahead and smarter than boys and what they do to you gets you punishment from authority figures.

That was rough, but not the end of the lessons I was to learn about love in all of its thorny glory.

I did learn one thing about myself even at that age: I could get laughs. I don't know why, but being funny or stupid was both a means of getting attention and diverting the anxiety I felt around girls.

One fond memory I have is at a dance. Now, dances are normally traumatizing events where the socially awkward realize with even further clarity their alienation, but this one was part of Phys Ed. As my partner and I twirled about, I made her laugh with, "I'm going to vomit." I wanted this magical moment to be repeated when class came again, but it didn't happen. It occurred to me that moments like that cannot be recreated. They are spontaneous.

****

Later, I remember developing a friendship with a girl who was very sweet to me. Once I got over my initial shyness (Yes, once I was shy.), talking was a lot easier. I wish I could remember her name dammit.

She even flirted with me. "When a girl does this," she said while scratching the palm of my hand, "it means she wants you to [insert needed]." I honestly don't remember what sexual thing she was describing. Sorry to disappoint, but that has flown with time as well. I remember it because she was so nice to me.

I do remember having a long conversation with her over the phone. This was progress. Girls don't have to kick you in the face nor call you names.

OK, I'll stick with this.

We Are Not Nitpicking

As a Bass Trombonist I must take issue with the Toronto Symphony version of the Polevetsian Dances you played in the previous hour. In the 3/4 section the Bass Trombone down beats were obliterated by the timpani.

Several possibilities come to mind:

The Bass Trombonist was either absent or incompetent

The conductor was at fault allowing the Timpanist to overpower the Bass Trombone

The recording engineer did not place the mikes properly

You have other recordings which are correct in the balance between the Timpani and the Bass Trombone. In the future please play one of those rather than the Toronto. Thank you.

The Walking Dud

More of these, please.

AMC's The Walking Dead is pissing me off.

Well, come to think of it, I'm really not that passionate about it all. I find my mind drifting off during the dull "character developing" yak sessions. Lori and Rick having a dramatic moment! The love triangle with Shane! And all these merry survivors are getting along just peachy and care about one another. It's dull and heavy handed, quite frankly.

It's as if Walking Dead's writers are writing in neon: See? We're not just a shallow series with grisly canabalism or glorious Pekinpah head shots! We have story.

We can learn about charcters through their actions, not just meandering and dull dialogue. The bible of all zombie movies, Romero's Dawn of the Dead has four very vivid characters, all with distinct personalities (and issues), and when there's dialogue, it's not forced as it is in this series. Argh!

Less of this, please.

Rev it up or ratings will drop.

My Thin Rhinoceros Skin

Distrust anyone who wants to teach you something.
~Robert Fripp

I get lots of emails. Most of them are very nice. Some of them are not so nice.

Rhinoceros skin. I suppose that's a common metaphor to say that a person is not overly sensitive or thin- skinned. I am not particularly thick-skinned by any means, but after I calm down from my homicidal state, I can see that most of these disturbingly critical emails and phone calls are pathetic cries for attention. That still does not quell my homicidal rage. Sometimes it rolls off my back and sometimes the audacity is simply jaw-dropping.

Engineers get special communications from know-it-all blowhards who insist that it's our fault when reception is poor. One idiot actually said, "I am an Audiophile (his caps) with a gifted ear." I'm not kidding.

It's all our fault and we deeply apologize for whatever is wrong
with your lousy reception out there in TV land.

One idiot repeatedly told an engineer he had issues and our guys actually drove out to his bleamin' house. Lo and behold, an aerial on his roof was supposed to suffice in this digital age! He wasted state resources, so that he could garner attention from us.

The delightful people I sometimes hear from are not just rude, but condescending.


Classical music listeners are the worst. To believe them, you might think I just stepped off a turnip truck and my best shot at writing my name is an X.

They wish to educate me.

Seriously? I bow to my friends in their respective fields and in no way, shape or form am I the baddest dude in music (or academia), but most of the time, I feel comfortable among my peers. That's what matters most to me.


One college prof blowhard said he didn't want his students listening to me because I mispronounced (in his opinion) a title of a work. I have news for him: college kids are more concerned with hooking up and rolling doobies than listening to public radio or to his terminally dull lectures.

Then there comes the offer "to help."

No thanks, Mr. Bowtie. I'll pass on the tutelage.

It is the utter presumption of superiority that drives my blood pressure into dangerous zones.

The worst of them may be the ex-announcers who sit around and latch on to every mistake. This one guy kept calling me and while he had a friendly tone, I kept catching his little put downs. These conversations continued because I try to respect all callers, but soon the devil came through the mask.  I was a gentleman and never said anything until one day he stated, "I would listen to (xxx station in a bigger city), but I can only get it in my car."

I held my tongue which wanted to unleash, "Then get in your car, motherfucker and quit calling me."

From that day forward, I never allowed his calls to be forwarded to me, only voice mail.

Not to further drink of poisonous thought, but there was one ass from the northern part of the state who made it his mission to piss me off or bring a downer to an otherwise happy week. I found out that this guy applied for my job and was turned down. He even gave money to ensure his position.

Well, he failed to get the gig and punished me for it. Most of all, he wanted attention. A really poisonous person by my reckoning.

Of what then did ye learne?

This is one of many reasons I enjoy my weekends, vacations and a genuinely look forward to retirement. I imagine myself staring vacantly at the ocean on some forgotten part of the Outer Banks. More than slightly blotto from an aged rum and a real guarantee that my inbox will be filled with happy, friendly emails from friends who want to come visit my island bungalow.

When the ghosts ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

American Horror Story on FX. Watch if you like to be scared. Dark, sexy, freaky and convincing.

Excellent cast, great pacing and ghostly thrills.
Jessica Lange should get the Emmy.

This is NPR: Negative Public Relations

Lisa Simeone has been canned from Soundprint because she attended an "Occupy" rally.

Geez guys, after Juan Williams, you might want to keep from making such PR blunders, but I guess you didn't learn your lesson.

Home is Where the Hero Lies

Damian Lewis (Band of Brothers) plays a
marine who has been rescued from terrorist
captivity, but has he turned?

SHO's Homeland is daring and compelling. Damian Lewis is a chameleon who can go from looking like the nicest guy in the world to a man who looks insane.

Claire Dane plays the CIA agent who own zealotry borders on mania. She's convinced that this is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Mandy Patinkin (btw, who is notorious for leaving in the middle of productions) is the doubting Thomas reining in Dane and her unfounded suspicions.

Who is playing for who? Nothing is as it seems. Trust is hard to come by.

There's already been one character goneski.

Canceled

NBC has canceled freshman drama The Playboy Club.
I'm a little. but not a lot surprised.


"Playboy Club's cancellation comes after the drama premiered Sept. 20 to underwhelming ratings, attracting 5 million viewers and a 1.6 rating in the advertiser-coveted adults 18-49 demographic."

Ratings, not sexplotation, killed the bunnies.

"The series faced a backlash almost from the start, as the Parents Television Council called for a boycott and urged sponsors to pull out of the show that starred Amber Heard and Eddie Cibrian in a 1960s-set story about the Chicago Playboy Club and the bunnies and men who loved them.



Seven advertisers exited the series in the series’ second week after PTC president deemed the show a “commercial disaster” and called for the network to cancel the “degrading and sexualizing program immediately.”

Really?

To Badly Go Where None Dare Go

Sonny Bono's 1967 Inner Views is now a real contender
for worst album ever made. Scientists are studying this
as we speak.

I consider myself to be very amateur student of bad film. Two boxsets of Drive-In Classics and Horror Classics on the home DVD shelf are not there just for looks or an outward sign of ironic hipness. My wife and I have watched a majority of these bad, bad cinematic examples for the sheer pleasure of bad cinema. This interest extends to bad music. To clarify, not the bad music I hear at the local super market (formulaic Nashville, Emo, etc.), but music that was produced with serious intention.

Today, my colleague played me a track from this album.

Dear Lord! When they were punishing William Shatner, they were aiming low. Sonny Bono (God rest your soul) may have made the worst celebrity lp ever.

"Pammies on a Bummer" easily tops anything on that sacred document of Shatneralia.

Did Bono not hear the awfulness or was he just cashing in on the moment of popularity?

Whatever the reason, once you make vinyl, it's forever.

The Rhetoric of Arrogance

This hateful son-of-a-bitch asks the most outrageous of things from
record companies: fair payment of royalties. How ridiculous and
presumptuous of this menace. Let him eat cake!

So, you kids dreamed of being a professional rock musician? Be glad the gods never punished you.


From the RF diary Thursday, 29th September 2011 :

Now, onto OMG! – it’s UMG. The latest development in this sad example of a large company, making a series of mistakes which it initially denied, then grudgingly fiddled with and acknowledged some culpability, followed by more denials, obfuscations, threats, bullying and an Outside Lawyer Man sent in to settle with us for a fraction of what is properly due. An Outside Lawyer man because the issue is not worthy of UMG staff’s time, let alone the time of Power Possessor Numero Uno.



Nevertheless, the three principals of two small companies, Panegyric and DGM, are themselves dealing with the repercussions of deliberate slipperynesses at considerable cost to our creative and business endeavours. Guestbook posters who ask – why don’t you do XYZ and undertake these wonderful wheezes to delight your loyal and engaged customers? – now have one clear answer as to how several worthwhile projects are not projecting, with or without a K: we are being diddled and dissed by the largest music group in the world.


When we act badly, we hurt other people. When we know we have acted badly, and persist with the course of action generated by our bad behavior, other people get more than hurt: their sense of decency is offended, their confidence in social and professional norms undermined. Where the larger business culture accepts bad practice as standard practice, such as in the music industry (within my direct experience), and financial services (some within and mostly without my personal experience), the larger society becomes unsustainable, in the longer term. In the medium term, there is increasing breakdown. In the short term, there are resorts to conventional forms of redress, both formal and informal.

More Tube Stuff

OK, I watch commercial television. Call me low-brow. I don't own a jacket with patches on the sleeves either. I think it's got the best writing right now, particularly cable. Don't know why, but it does.



"Hey, let's see what Dexter is up to tonight!"

 PBS is only a fraction of what we watch. Guess what PBS? The British programs are the best programming on your airwaves. Shouldn't that say something? You better get more compelling (Laurence Welk is a joke that even SNL mocks.) and follow the example set by cable or you will go the way of the eight-track tape.

1. Revenge. That little slam against PBS being said, there is something artificial about network TV. ABC's Revenge is a great example. While Emily VanCamp does a delightful turn as a woman out to destroy despicable Martha's Vineyard snoots responsible for the ruination and death of her father, there is something almost too predictable and clean about this show. Network TV has this way of making everything look so perfect that only the best actors can penetrate the sterility.
 Madeleine Stowe does a great turn as the ice-bitch-queen of the Martha hive. Imagine if HBO had done this show. Now that would be a real fun time.

My rating: not bad, but let's rev it up a bit.

Critics have been praising Dechanel
as the goofy, but lovable, Jess on
New Girl. I liked the false teeth she
insisted on wearing to a wedding.

2. New Girl. The premise is kinda loopy: hot, but goofy to the point past annoying, girl, Jess (Zoey Deschanel), is a recent victim of a romantic breakup. She needs a place to live, so there's these three guys who happen to have a room for her in their apartment. Sounds mighty thin? Yep, but Deschanel is a hoot as a dorky misfit. The writing is good so far, but I'm not sure this is going to last.

My rating: Not bad and keep the laughs coming.

3. Terra Nova. I had low, low expectations for this one. Like SyFy channel low. CGI dinosaurs better be mighty convincing or I'm wincing. Premise: earth is dying (we done kilt it. them eco-assholes were right. huh.) and conveniently a hole in the fabric of time (I'm wincing here) allows folks to go back 65 million years when the earth was new and filled with large dinos. The novo society not only must  survive the raging carnivores, but a rogue group of people who split from the tribe to form their own society. Overall, it's not bad. I could skip the ubiquitous teen-love interest storyline, but the youth demographic prevails in network world. Let's hope this show doesn't go the way of the dinosaur unto extinction.

My rating: good start, now let the carno-devouring games begin.

4. Charlie's Angels. One episode said it all: some remakes shouldn't be remade. "Goodbye, angels." It's all beauty, slick, stylish and pretty lame.

My rating: Not this time, thank you.

5.  Dexter. This is some dark shit. If you let your kids watch this, you suck as a parent. That being said, Dexter is red hot and the reason cable is kicking the ass of network TV every week.

My rating: a "killer" of a show.

6. Hung. I am the only one in my household with any affection for this odd little show. It's inappropriate and naughty, naughty, naughty, but the humor is what saves it from being Skin-o-max and the show from taking the show too seriously. Thomas Jane understates and that's why his character works.

My rating: fun, light, good stuff.

Awfulness Revealed

Want a laugh?

Album covers are a thing of the past, but back in the dark ages, they meant something to us.There were some great ones, but then some absurd ones.

I don't think this truly qualifies as awful,
but annoying will do.

Loving the Awkwardness

Life can be full of beautiful mistakes
or glorious smartasses.

"Uh...pass the awkwardness Uncle Bill."

I want to do an entry on bad classical album art.
This might top the list.

I want to hear the audio, but this cover gives
me the major creeps. Rod Serling, anyone?



Everyone needs a hobby.



Someday I want to make an album.
But definitely not this one.

Add your own caption.

I draw the line at marrying outside of your species.

Audio- yes. Album cover-couldn't be more awkward
and super creepy. A masterpiece.

Tube Time

America's guilty pleasure: the television.
The best writing is here, folks.

Fall shows have debuted and here are few random thoughts:

1. Boardwalk Empire. This HBO original is on fire right now. Know when a show reaches that creative high point? That's where this show is right now. Watch it or miss some incredible characters.

2. Weeds. This season just finished up and it's time for this once clever and funny show to say bye-bye. The whole season's storylines were weak, pointless and just a rehash. Even the actors seemed bored.

3. Unforgettable. Poppy Montgomery has superior autobiographical memory, but can this gimmick be a compelling reason that brings back viewers? Methinks not.

4. Breaking Bad. I keep waiting for this series to begin to show signs of age or the storyline to become stale. It hasn't and every episode leaves you wanting more. Superb acting, twists and turns- watch the damn thing, ok? You're missing out. "Better call Saul."

5. Survivor. Every year when this starts, I feel like poor Sisyphus and his damned stone. "Now, I'll have to get used to another 16 castaways." What keeps this from extinction is the obvious: people are ultimately interesting to watch, even when they behave very poorly. Or in this year's case, when they begin to unravel mentally.

6. Two and a Half Men. Aston Kutcher is spot-on as a dim witted, billionaire, sex god. Charlie who?

7. Glee. Dullsville. Where's the humor? Where are the fun covers of rock songs? Dancing? The endless touchy-feeliness of teenage angst has become tedious. Yes, we know Kurt is gay and gay is ok (except when he's too gay by his own admission. Whatever the hell that means.), but having to be endlessly reminded of that fact is bordering on OCD. Yes, Rachel was born for Broadway. So let her go there and shine like the annoying. shallow theater nerd she really is. The best part of this show is the evil Sue Sylvester, but ratings have dropped because the show is trying out storylines that we aren't interested in.

8. Desperate Housewives. I find that my mind has been wandering, drifting in and out for about two seasons. It's time for this ham fest to be over. Everyone and everything about this series seems tired and way past its bedtime.

9. Kitchen Nightmares. Talk about formula. Ramsey comes in, acts courteous, tastes the food, it's horrible, then the spanking begins. Why then don't I get tired of the obnoxious, bottled blond, F-bomb dropping, Scotsman? Because the guy, after all his success and undoubted wealth, still gives two shits. You can't fake sincerity (unless your name is Johnny Velvet) and Ramsey acts as if its his restaurant that's on the line. I don't understand that level of commitment. I would have opted out to a private island and spent my days playing guitar in a hammock, but that's why he's a dynamo and I have a loser blog.

What's always interesting is the resistance Ramsey encounters when the delusional owner(s) come to realize that they have been, indeed, fucking up everything along the way.

10. The Playboy Club. No one decided to watch this Mad Men copy with the conviction that the show was going to have some substance amidst the bunny tails. I'm not saying this show has quite caught fire yet, but (spoiler alert) with the Mob, murder and political ambition set against the Hef pleasure dome, they are off to a pretty good start. Now, let's rev it up a bit. Ratings weren't great, but the party's just started.

11. Prime Suspect. Maria Bello has the chops to pull off the hardass female detective type, but I don't yet see anything that distinguishes it from the crowd.

12. True Blood. Some funny moments, some dramatic moments, but then it all feels like a cartoonish sitcom. Must everyone in Bon Temp have magical powers? How absurd. Look! The plot just turned into a bird! Or is it a werewolf?

13. Pan Am. Mad Men ripoffs without good stories never leave the runway. Also, a stewardess is going to be a spy? Good plan. Does anyone smell desperation?

14. Rescue Me. Despite its attempts in the last season to honor firefighters lost on 9-11, Rescue Me has been flat for the last two seasons. I really liked this show for a while, but it forgot its own strengths and when to pack it in. This last season rolled by with few highlights. It's bad when you notice the actors acting. Case is point was the big wedding day. That was amateurish. Not a good way to end a series that had such greatness.
15. Game of Thrones. This had some really good moments and then there were moments when I felt like I was watching a video game. It made me miss HBO's Rome. Come back Titus Pullo, all is forgiven. Kudos to scene stealer Peter Dinklage.

16. Fringe. This X Files copy was a little slow at first and then hit its stride and then some moron decided it was time to invent an alternate universe. Pleeeeease. Here's the alternate universe I'm up for: turning the channel.

Writing Certain Wrongs

Eno has his detractors, but I write that off as jealousy.
No one has written better ambient music (and other styles) than the man who
invented it. Like Cage, his ideas are seminal.

Preamble

Eric Tamm wrote a really good book on Brian Eno and for some reason, he is giving it away. I often come back to the section on 2/1 of Music for Airports. It's on page 117 if you download the PDF. Here's an excerpt.

The rhythm of “2/1” is serially organized. As Eno has explained, each long note was recorded onto a separate piece of tape, and each piece of tape was made into a loop of a different length. The relationships between the lengths of the loops “aren’t simple, they’re not six to four. They’re like 27 to 79, or something like that. Numbers that mean they would constantly be falling in different relationships to one another.” In fact, Eno did not measure the lengths precisely, but simply spun off what seemed like a “reasonable” amount of extra tape for each note. “And then I started all the loops running, and let them configure in the way they chose to configure. So sometimes you get dense clusters and fairly long silences, and then you get a sequence of notes that makes a kind of melody.”
Tamm explains that Eno ended up with these lengths: Approximate Duration of Pitch-Cycles in “2/1”

c’ eb’ f ab’ db’ f’ ab

21” 17” 25” 18” 31” 20” 22”

Tamm, like most rock cum classical (or vice versa) music writers, prats on a bit about serialism and Webern. It's all fine and dandy until you overthink it and try to put it into too large a frame.

The bottom line is that Eno created an incredibly beautiful piece of music with his usual flair of happenstance, creativity and his downright exquisite (and "untrained") ear.

Where doth the scribe leadeth us?

The Devil in the Details
Let these ideas roll around your head for years and then finally one day commit yourself to writing a piece using this process. The aim: write an ambient piece using Eno's 2/1 procedures.

I understand.

I did not write anything, but rather sampled a recording of John Cage's Music for Marcel Duchamp. I also sampled Raga 12 from 18 Mictrotonal Ragas. I took seven samples, to follow the Eno model, and I restricted myself to them. The original title, for lack of time to keep sane organization of the endless deluge of tracks that were sure to follow, was "John Cage Meets Brian Eno."

On July 6th, I began work, gathering the seven sounds and finally coming to a reasonable mixdown on the 19th. I would not say that I'm totally happy with the results as I am like a crack squirrel when it comes to finishing a piece and mixdowns. If I'm not careful, I can keep on mixing a piece until there are many versions of the same piece. More on this below.

Then the working title had to be changed. I choose "sound come into its own," from a John Cage quote, but then decided that title was too ponderous for this piece. I have settled on "in the fullness of time."

SIDEBAR: I find titles have the burden of meaning everything and nothing. Listeners can apply great meaning to titles and consequently look a little lost when something is intended to be ironic or tongue-in-cheek. When I was younger, I applied great sounding titles to my little half-baked ditties. The title expressed more than the music did. Now, titles are a means to an end. I would assign untitled 1, 2, 3 ad infinitum if it wouldn't be hellishly confusing.
What does it sound like?

Shit is the quick answer.

Naw, not really.


If the whole ambient thing bores the hell out of you, then this is not for you. I made my friend a CD and he said, "Charles Ives' Unanswered Question." It has an uneasy feeling about it for sure. I did not intend that feeling, it just came out that way. I wanted restful and got the opposite. Go figure.

SIDEBAR: One night, at the Slide Mountain Inn in New York - a place where sleep was often difficult and creepiness was in the air- I put on some early mixes of the piece that I had done. There was my Mac Book, glowing in the corner, playing this odd, shall we dare say, "piano piece"(?) and I had to get up and turn it off. It was like a bad acid trip coming on. Tres creep city, kids.

The link on soundcloud. A short version.


Here's what I learned from it:

1. This piece should move me.

This seems so obvious, but in the fury of embracing what seems to be a new path of composing, it is easy to think more of the process than the end result. Forest for the trees, etc.

2. Regardless of the process or procedure, you should (must?) end up with the piece you intended.

At one point, I had followed the Eno formula exactly, but it wasn't working with the sounds I had chosen. The procedure then has to be flexible and altered a bit.
3. Know when you've gone down the rabbit hole.

Oh God. This should be on every piece of electronic equipment, software or gizmo which promises to revolutionize your sound and/or your playing. That pursuit is indeed going down the rabbit hole. But, in a composing sense, I have learned by many a trip down the proverbial hole that sometimes you are just wasting time and going nowhere with the piece. Do I know this or what? I am discursive by nature and this one rule burns brightly in my mind. In fact, I said this to a colleague Tuesday night. We have both been seduced by technology, software and new ways of writing.

4. Not every "interesting" idea is worth pursuing.

Musicians who feed on finding new ways of expressing themselves often fall in love with every idea that passes through their minds; as if the wandering mind is to be totally trusted. (Diversions of this nature at rehearsals are a great example.) Some ideas greatly benefit the music, others simply waste time. Separating good from bad- there's the rub.

5. Each sound (or chord or melody) must be interesting in and of itself.

Not so easy. The samples I used were dull when subjected to repetition, so I had to go in and either find a better sample or process the sample and make it more complex or "interesting" (there's that no man's land word again).

6. Each sound should be able to bear repetition.

7. Dynamics are ok.

Wait a minute. Am I talking about being in a band here? Maybe, but dynamics are something that seem to be a lost art. Ditto tone color.

8.  Ask yourself, "What have I ended up with?"

9. Know when the piece is finished and when you are writing a new one.

The whole of revisions and mixing can lead to a rabbit hole of rewriting or writing a new piece. Have I wasted time on this before!

10. Restrictions are good.

Restraint, restraint, discipline, taste, balance. Wow, what a dinosaur am I.

And Lunch is Even Better

http://www.kanawhachurch.org/forumnew.htm

September 21 - Ikarus, (Celtic Quartet) Jim Lange, Al & Lisa Peery, David Porter
Menu: Zucchini Basil Soup, Rice Salad with Shrimp, Pecan Pie Muffins, Strawberry Swirl Cream Cheese Pound Cake

program:

Aguinaldo Jibaro..................................................Traditional Puerto Rico, Lange


Cornish Dance - Volta - Scottish Dance.............William Brade / Anon.

Dream at Dawn.......................................................Dick Hensold

Celtic Suite: Absent Minded Woman - Blackberry Blossom - Arkansas Traveler -
Hag with the Money - Daniel of the Sun - Soldier's Joy - Shepherd's Hey..................Traditional

Better to work on pieces in the morning
than to blow off practice all damn day.

What I really like about the players in Ikarus (and the Velvet Nomads) is the feeling of "we'll try anything." It's eclectic without an agenda to be so.

What's crazy is our schedules and getting together to rehearse is not so easy.

What's cool is that we don't make a huge deal of anything.

No loud drums, thundering bass and other soul sucking elements.

There's probably little or no commercial potential either. We won't be appearing at your local bar, hammering out covers and trying to sound relevant or rockin' out. That's a young man's game and I have nothing left for it.

All I ask is that the guitar be represented fairly, creatively and the landscape open to new ideas.

Short Bits

My friend, Ben, is quite possibly the most educated man you are ever likely to meet. It's a delight to slowly sip aged rum and talk away the evening about a variety of subjects; many of which go straight over my head. Besides his huge smarts, I admire his acceptance of the often frustrating and despicable human condition. "We're all hypocrites," he said nonchalantly one evening. That kind of floored me. Sometimes big brained people cannot accept being wrong nor their hypocrisies. He accepts them in himself and others.
Better to know and accept. Absolutely.

***

I watched an elderly woman holding on the stair rail with her left hand as she held her walker in her right (paint that image in your mind) as she struggled to enter the Nazarene church in Kanawha City. From what I know of this faith, they take things very seriously, literally and have lots and lots of rules. At the top was a woman who was watching, but not helping, another woman who was having difficulty getting up the stairs. "Gee," methought, "Ain't you Nazarene believers supposed to be kind and charitable to those who may need a hand getting into the house of God?" I couldn't believe the woman just stood there.
Then again, I just stood and watched.

***

At the drugstore checkout, I noticed the girl staring at my shirt.
"Why are you staring at my shirt?"
"I can't figure it out."
"What's there to figure out?"
"Zero 0 gun quit."
"No. no. That's Ogunquit, a town in Maine."

Seriously, let's not ever let this lass work in the pharmacy.

***

Keep Thy Gigs Relaxed

"Teach us to care and not to care

  Teach us to sit still."

Enter all ye olden money and worship
at the shrine of the ass kiss.

When I decided to re-enter the world of public service in the musical realm, I knew full well what I was getting into. Late night hours, keeping my chops up, making sure equipment is up to par, rehearsals and the endless variety and dull sameness of the gigs afforded the functional professional musician. There was a point when I needed a good reboot and time away from the horror of weddings, wine tastings, and other soul sucking gigs that are the bread and butter of the local musician. I'm cool with all that now. It's all good, baby. Just pay me.

My partner, Li-Li, gets a little tense sometimes. Particularly when she has some relationship or friendship with any of the people contracting us for music. This time, we were to play an hour of background music in honor of the 90th birthday of a wealthy matriarch. This was an intimate affair - family only.

On the phone, I could tell that this gig was already getting to her because she reminded me of a well-known King Crimson song that says, "I repeat myself when under stress, I repeat myself when under stress..." She was talking faster and basically saying the same thing. Hell, I do this, so I know the signs.

Which brings us to a handy rule: Keep Thy Partner Calm.

I have been the victim of nerves under numerous occasions and although I can name all the symptoms, I cannot understand why I still get nervous. What am I afraid of? Failure? Sucking? Losing the respect of my peers? Even if I hit the perfect fuck-up trifecta, I would like to believe that my peers, colleagues and friends would forgive me (Now, if that kept happening, people might smile and tell me nice things, but calls for jobs would dry up). I get nervous because I wonder if I can still pull off the fireworks and honestly, I still care. I want to bring the music to life, not just plow through it with precision with no passion (I could name names of players who do that very thing.). When you play music, you must be aware of everything because it's an all or nothing activity. Even in a pretentious country club.

Even if you have the jitters, if you see the "deer in the headlights" look on your partner's face, better be the calming anchor. Li-Li was so worried and tense because she let the tension of this family get inside her head. We envy the wealthy and rightfully so, but wealth does not happiness make. You can rent it for a while and have lots of pretty things, but family is family regardless of portfolios. Besides, nothing says fucked up like family.

She made it worse by observing the family dynamics as we played. "The women (the wheels of power in any family) doing this and the women doing that"-I ignored all that and concerned myself with chord shapes and bass lines. Most of us having been playing for so long that much of this is automatic, but if your attention is elsewhere, you're asking for the occasional derailment.

I thought the music got better the longer we played, but still she was whispering her observations about what family member did this and "Oh, did you see that?"

I saw a relatively uptight family gathering for the birthday of an aged matriarch who probably was used to ruling the family with an iron hand and a tight control on the undoubted millions scattered around banks and investment firms. Control the moolah, control the adult children. Quite honestly, I didn't give a shit about who sat next to who and all the social power games. I am not concerned.

I am a musician for hire. I will be nice, but ass kissing is not in my job description. You get two hours of music out of me. You also get someone who still cares, but you do not get to rent a room in my head.

You can't afford that.

Your Moment of Zen

Yes, we actually watch PBS. It's not the majority of our viewing pleasures, but when there's something intriguing, it's usually on Masterpiece Mystery.

If Zen appears confused, he's dealing with a lot.
Though oddly he deals with the stress in a cool manner.
He IS Zen, after all.

Lately we've been into ZEN. No, not the school of Buddhism, but Aurelio Zen, a fictional Italian detective by author Michael Dibdin. There's 11 books by my counting and only the first three have been made into feature length episodes. The BBC axed the series. A brilliant move that sounds like another organization I know. Producers are looking elsewhere. I wish them luck because I want more Zen. Dammit.

Rufus Sewell plays the character without all the macho posturing, swagger or cliched alcoholic spiral crap you see in every American series. In fact, not having read the books to compare, but this character is simply hard to pin down all the way around. He's so understated and that's the ringer.

Italian corruption is so common that Zen is used to being set up for failure, or used to protect those with power, money and dirty secrets. He has learned to deftly navigate these hostile waters and even use them for his own advantage. Still, no matter the victories or the compromises, the sticky nature of dealing with the elite and corrupt gets even stickier.

Then all he has to deal with is his lovelife or his homelife.

Yikes!