THANK YOU JUANES FOR HAVANA PEACE CONCERT

It’s been ten long years since my visit to Cuba.

At that time, I wrote about the recording studio, Abdala, for EQ Magazine and fully expected to return soon to continue my love affair with the island, the music, and the people, but historical events botched my plans; in particular, the selection the following year of Bush and friends in D.C. and their allies in South Florida. Couple this with the strangle-hold Castro & friends have on free speech on the island and what is left is an escalation of anger and embargo policies.

These different factions closed all doors leading in and out of Cuba for citizens of the United States. Imagine. My passport does not let me go everywhere anymore—at least not without incurring the wrath of my government. Depressing. And sounds a lot like a communist country. The irony. An island a mere 90 miles from my house in South Florida is off limits.

But today, I see a ray of hope, and once again music leads the way. I watched John Denver open up closed doors in Russia in 1984 and in Havana, Cuba earlier today, Juanes, an award winning fusion rock singer/songwriter orchestrated a Paz Sin Fronteras Concert, in spite of threats from the usual suspects in South Florida—Cuban Americans who think only of revenge and retribution—not the way forward in any relationship I’ve been in.

In Che’s Revolution Square, where I stood practically alone with my daughter a decade ago, a sea of people (over 700,000) congregated to watch Juanes and friends.

And from the live feed on NBC, I could feel the joy of the long suffering people of Cuba as they exploded into song. May this be another stepping stone on the path to reconciliation between the U.S. and Cuba. I know so many Cubans on the island and in Miami that want this.

As an outsider looking in, it feels like the anger of this Cuban Civil War should have been diffused a long time ago. My own U.S. Civil War still rages on in some ways, so maybe I’m just a Pollyana. But it seems to me that if the Cubans in Miami had truly wanted to get rid of Castro they would have kept the dialogue and the doors open. Culture and human nature would have taken care of him.

But the Miami group that desires revenge and retribution on an entire island of people, who mostly had nothing to do with any of this disaster, except for their accident of birth, perpetuates a failed policy that has led to the misery of 11 million people who in many ways endure their suffering as a badge of martyrdom: the “Us Against the World” type of martyrdom.

I will never forget the college-educated Cuban girl I interviewed for my article who candidly told me off-tape in a resolute tone that she foresaw “no hope” for things ever changing for the better in Cuba. Heartbreaking. At the time, I believed her wrong, but thus far, she has been right. And things got a lot worse soon after.

I don’t presume to know how it feels to lose your home and your loved one, only to watch the villains of this crime (Castro & friends) go unpunished, and continue to survive and somewhat thrive. It must be miserable beyond words. But how does punishing an entire nation of mostly innocents fix any of this pain? Embargoes don’t work. Pain begets pain. La paz genera paz.

Thank you Juanes and friends for this concert—so nice to see Los Van Van once again. In 1999, angry Miami Cubans pelted me with cans as I entered a theatre to hear a Los Van Van Concert. As a musician, I refuse to let any one group tell me what music I can listen to. In my life, music trumps politics, especially failed politics.

Time will tell if things can really change, but maybe through new efforts and new policies, especially those of our new President Obama, one day I will get to return to Cuba and resume my quest to explore the island in the flesh, instead of in my mind.

Bill Moyers on Health Care

Yes, Bill, you are correct. Our country needs a General Washington to kick out the mercenaries and the Hessians .

THE VIEW FROM A WHEELCHAIR

It’s been five weeks since I fell and a crafty surgeon implanted a titanium plate and six screws into my ankle to hold it together. The incident happened on the first day of my vacation visiting relatives in California. Not being in my home has been a huge discomfort, but the shocking, pain-riddled event coupled with my dire daily needs has forced a previously hidden landscape into my view–one that can only be seen by living in a wheelchair.

The following thoughts are some of my observations and lessons learned about this experience of living in a wheelchair. Especially this: I will never look at people in wheelchairs the same, nor will I forget the sights, sounds, impressions, or smells from the perspective of being in a wheelchair.

For one, the smells from the ground are closer to my nose, and in downtown Los Angeles this is no small problem. Thousands of homeless live in the crevices and underpasses of this urban downtown, and with the economic crunch taking big chunks out of the city’s budget, public toilets are most likely last on the mayor’s to-do list. Most homeless are camped out on the ground, so I get an eye level view of their pitiful state.

Things could be worse. At least I have a roof over my head.

Cupboards, closets, bookcases—especially the top shelves—are all out of reach, and since this wheelchair business was sudden and unexpected, I don’t have gadgets like Billy May’s Grabber.  Frustrating to need the filter for the coffee pot or ice pack or pill bottle, just a couple more inches…

Plan ahead. For example: if I’m washing my hair, I need to grab the shampoo AND the towel before heading to the sink to avoid dripping water all over myself and the wheelchair and the floor…and stairs are my sworn enemy. All forays into the outside world must include ramps and handicapped bathrooms. Thanks Teddy!

Watch out for corners. If corner protectors are not applied, the paint will get chipped: guaranteed. It’s not so much a matter of aim, but knowing which way my wheels are pointed at all times, and in some tight turnarounds, the wheels are not pointing the way I’m going and voilá—wheels crash into a corner. Also, judging the distance of a narrow hallway is tricky in the rush of a 3am run to the loo.

And why am I invisible? If only that were true in its entirety, I could have a lot of fun, like Harry Potter does with his invisible blanket. But it’s not so much that my ensemble of body and rolling chair are invisible, it’s just that people don’t look me in the eye right away, like I’m used to. They look at the person I’m with first and then look around me when I speak.

Maybe it has something to do with not wanting to acknowledge a person with an injury because of an irrational fear that by gazing into the eyes of this injured person (me) in a wheelchair, somehow bad luck may jump into them? Could it be people are embarrassed? For me, or for themselves for having to look at me? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that I have to speak several times before I’m noticed.

I try not to focus on the reason for being in a wheelchair. At first, I drove myself crazy going over the “incident” in my head. If only I’d paid more attention, if only I’d walked another way, if only I’d worn different shoes, if only that step hadn’t been there, if only la la la la la. I can only imagine the ongoing misery of reliving an event that has permanent repercussions, such as the millions dealing with the loss of limb or worse.

Little things can brighten my mood, like my daughter bringing me a pinkberry and another daughter grabbing that towel I forgot and helping me rinse the soap out of my hair and cooking vegetables, and everyone (family and friends) making sure I have the right stuff to heal: food, homeopath, surgeon, acupuncturist, and currently at the top of the list: PAIN PILLS.

Big things sour my mood, like the loathsome company Sit ‘n Sleep who accepted the check from my insurance for a bed, only to THEN tell me there would be a ten business day hold on this check: a check from a well-known insurance carrier. Are they serious? I give anyone my account number and the money is sucked out immediately. These thieves use my money, as I continue to suffer on a couch–a couch I DID NOT BUY FROM SIT ‘N SLEEP, nor will I ever buy anything from a company I now call SIT ‘N WEEP.

Sometimes the view from a wheelchair reveals the sweet mystery of epiphanic moments. Like the epic relief of an ocean breeze on my cheek after being cooped up in an airless room—thankful for my husband pushing me along the beach walkway—a gift from him because I know he’s tired from fighting L.A. traffic.

And the pigeons…who help me connect with the animal world I miss (specifically my two dogs, my ancient cat, and the wild birds I feed at home). Pigeons somehow found my little chips thrown out into an urban jumble lined with barbwire, concrete, and steel.  As any urban sojourner knows, pigeons can survive anywhere on scrappy food and sheer will; this thought keeps me going when I can’t reach the instant Pad Thai food box.

Through it all, I am reminded of Plato’s Cave. Not so much for the idea of keeping an open mind, but for how different my view of the world is from that of a walking person and how futile these few words may be in describing that endeavor, especially to people who have never had the empathetic opportunity of experiencing the view from a wheelchair.

At least my toes look pretty–hey ho.

Wacko Writer at the Daily Mail

Writers like A. N. Wilson at the Daily Mail use psycho-babble to confuse readers. The smarmy writing with over-kill phrases like “orgy of saccharine” or “artificially whipped-up sentiment” pepper a piece that makes mincemeat out of critical thinking, mainly with the false assumption that large shows of grief must be fake.

Says who: a writer who compares a beloved pop star to a crafty politician and a beautiful princess? The only thing these people have in common is this writer trying to connect their memorials with crazy dots.

The reality is this: millions truly mourn Michael Jackson (not fake mourn).

Although managers and promoters can be cagey and ruthless at times, even talented Frank Dileo and (Euro) AEG execs can’t invent heartfelt grief. Get real.

The cheapest shot by Wilson is mentioning Michael as “possibly” a child molester. Gossip-mongers like Wilson propagate slander and innuendo in an attempt to appear all-knowing, and in this case, pretend to know more than a jury of non-fans who carefully deliberated over the facts and found Michael innocent.

But I guess since Wilson, the expert on “gentlemen,” has also “possibly” studied the facts and feels justified to malign the memory of a star—a star that suffered as much by his own gloved hand as by the hand of any hack writer at the Daily Mail.

So, for those of you who don’t care about the passing of an iconic performer–so what? Don’t watch and don’t participate. The millions of us who do mourn Michael will not miss you.

Death of a Pig

1 thing leads 2 another. At 1st, I was turned off by E. B. White’s title, Death of a Pig, & was determined not to read it. Sometimes I can’t take much gore. But, I couldn’t help myself, I read White’s story.

I thought it was going to be about slaughtering a pig, but instead, it was about caring for a pig that White was going to slaughter, but ended up not, because the pig got sick & died. Poor pig. White agreed.

And then White said,  “I noticed that although he weighed far less than the pig, he was harder to drag, being possessed of that vital spark.” So much is in this one thought. White’s talking about his irascible ten-pound Dachshund, a mini might, who he had to haul away from the hundred pound pig’s grave. Life is vital & willful.

I can only dream to write with such humble force. White led me to Montaigne’s The Essayist. I’m not that familiar with Montaigne, but somehow White led me to him. Montaigne is writing over 400
 years ago in a style that I can now see informed many writers I love…

Voltaire being one.

Montaigne’s warning in On Books gives me pause: “Mistakes often escape our eyes, but it is the sign of a poor judgment if we are unable to see them when shown to us by another.” I struggle daily to find my own voice in word or song, & lines like that drive me crazy.

Shouldn’t it matter who is pointing out your mistakes? Am I even seeing all the criticism lobbed my way? Do I ever question the critic? What is a mistake? Turning right on red when the sign says, “Don’t turn on red” is a mistake. Using sentence fragments & calling it poetry, or numbers for letters as a techie innovation that seems to be leading us back to hieroglyphics, might be called a mistake by writers who stick to so-called rules, but is it?

Is having an abortion a mistake or poor judgment, or a logical choice on a planet where thousands of unwanted children die every day? I guess, Montaigne was speaking in the woo-woo Land of the Hypothetical. In Montaigne’s The Commerce of Books I found this jewel: “In books I only look for the pleasure of honest entertainment: or if I study, the only learning I look for is that which tells me how to know myself, and teaches me how to die well and to live well.”

That takes the pressure off—just read what entertains me. I never really cared about learning useless facts that add no pleasure to my life, anyway, such as there are more pigs than humans in Denmark, almost 5:1. Learning that 5.4 million Danes are subjected to the smelly poo of 25 million pigs informs me of nothing about myself or offers any clues as to how I should live or die. Most likely in this, Montaigne & White would agree.

Some days, I wish I could be White’s beloved pig instead of a worrisome middle-aged writer on the verge of something or another.

Oh to be immortalized in print by such an excellent wordsmith. The pig didn’t worry about deadlines or paying bills…or analyzing personal & professional mistakes. He did suffer a couple days at the end, but he didn’t go through the indignity of being eaten. Yes,  he was dead & who cares, but how do we know?

No swell way to die/ this flesh-eating frenzy/ whether pig, man, or writer.

Dead or alive, I fear I will always feel every rejection letter, every no thanks, & no way—another bit of flesh off the bone. And who has time to learn how to die well? Living occupies my every waking moment.

Other days, I’m not so worrisome (like today), & chow down on a ham & cheese—honey ham for me.  After all, there is no such thing as swine flu–it’s really the H1N1 virus.

I tug & pull at my leash, a regular feisty Dachshund. Let’s go this way!

Like White says, once you’ve given a pig an enema, there’s no turning back. Strip away all the trappings & just rite [sic].

John & Connie on The Tonight Show

This clip is circa 1990…

DO WE CARRY POCKETBOOKS IN THE NEW WORLD ORDER?

Hellooo! I’m tired of doom and gloom. What I want to know is will we still have pocketbooks in the New World Order, and will they be called pocketbooks? Pocketbook is what my mother called hers. As an English descendant of Mayflower ancestry, my mother harbored English ways albeit filtered down through 300 years of ancestry in the New Colonies, calling strangers “mum” and never going anywhere without her “pocketbook,” just like the Queen. And we ate lots of peas….

The New World Order is off to a bloody good start. Apparently, the Queen thoroughly enjoyed her visit with the Obamas. Royal-watchers took careful note of the positioning of the Queen’s purse. “It’s always with her, and, when pointed at certain angles, it’s said to signal to her attendants that she can’t wait to escape from the frightful bores in her company. The purse rested in the crook of the Queen’s left arm, which means that she’s happy and relaxed with her guests.”

Michelle Obama notably lacks a pocketbook of any size or shape. Our excellent First Lady must signal her minions with her long eye lashes and since she towers over all in the room, I feel sure they will catch her signal.

Does this mean the future will be pocketbook free? Maybe. But if the formidable Queen has her way, the pocketbook will survive the New World Order. The Queen knows. Women will always need their signals, and their lipstick and their powder and their iPods. And that’s the good news.

G20 It’s a Riot

April Fools Day G20 Riot

G20 Blog on The Telegraph

Back Jack And Do It Again, Again

Tent City here I come!

Everywhere I look, people are down-scaling as fast as they can to hang on to their pictures, books, laptop, piano, oboe, mp3s, and a 25-year-old bottle of Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux…at least in that order for me.

My doomsday Cassandra-box just keeps getting bigger and spreading to others—a universe of debt created from the big bang aka greed, a universe exponentially expanding into the far reaches of uncharted uber-space.  Über Sucks.

The treachery of the World Trade Center destruction on 9-11-01, and subsequent spurious acts, some global, some by people and companies I knew and trusted, combined to leech all the liquidity out of my bank and money market accounts. I always hope for the best, but my preparations for the worst were still not enough to stop the sucking sound of my loot disappearing down a drain—lost income, lost retirement, lost hours worrying about over-draft fees, bogus contracts, compounded interest, and confounded drones calling my phone.

“If this is not blankety-blank, then please hang up the phone…”

“Ms. Drone, this is blankety-blank, where is my cash?”

Drones don’t answer, they only relay bad news. I only know the answer I’ve been told by talking heads with forked tongues. My expectations of a cushy, altruistic retirement are lost somewhere in a bubble that popped. Pop goes the weasel.

These days when I hear the phrase, “history repeats itself,” bile rises to my throat. Vietnam, the invasion of Iraq I & II—skipping a generation or two might have made more sense, but some of the same people or their philosophical and biological children (McNamara, Rumsfeld, Cheney, Bush, and friends) orchestrated these disasters, and my government backed them—ludicrous sums of money—this business of war.

War, money, money, war; blood, greed, greed, blood. The words are interchangeable. The insidious reflection of one reveals the other.

Of course, the U.S. is not the only country to start wars for financial gain with no regard for human suffering; it’s just the one I know the most about. And as a 12th generation U.S. patriot, I can complain, unless someone shuts me down by invoking the Patriot Act, a newer, shinier version of the Sedition Act of 1798.

And now the banking fiasco….

Does the (Phil) Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, a bill passed by the Republican Congress before it slid across the desk of Bill Clinton in 1999, jerk your chain? This act repealed the Glass Steagall Act, banking restrictions that were put in place after the global financial catastrophe of the 1930s. Team Obama will need the strength of Titans (the gods, not the football team) to mop up this mess.

Meanwhile, the bile rises, as I frantically search through my packing boxes for antacid and waterproof fabric for my tent, a tent getting bigger by the minute as the economy shrinks, I may be entertaining tent galas–the new deal.

Why can’t we just play nice? Not enough people seem interested in talking about the gene ties we all share on this planet, the fact that all humans are closely related by blood, narrowed down to a tribe of about 10,000 individuals who spread out from Africa some 60,000 years ago, as well as a collective world heritage of literature, art, and music. Why not embrace our shared, precarious existence on a colorful rock flying through black space?

Why not look each other in the eye and see our commonalities for a change, instead of only our differences, instead of screwing, killing, schnooking, lying, cheating, and sticking-it to each other. We’ve tried the war-greed model ad nauseum. Let’s try a new model: communication-sharing.

Something good might come from my losing a sense of security that never really existed. After all, if I default on my home loan the mortgage company will be out the exorbitant interest I would have gladly paid had the income continued. My current financial disaster was jump-started by “Royal Scam” rock stars wiggling out of paying royalties and promised salaries, while they were “reeling in” huge checks—a situation no different than Enron-AIG-Madoff executive-types squirreling off with all their stockholders’ money.

But like Nietzsche, I believe “a good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends.”

(I wonder if Nietzsche’s friends ever said, “Dude, the mustache is too friggin’ big for your lip.”)

In the spirit of friendship, again, why do humans generate the intense suffering rendered by a perpetual motion machine of war fueled by greed and ideologue?

And the song says, we go “Back Jack and Do It Again,” and so it seems, until we explode or sicken ourselves into extinction.

Exibit A: Donald Fagen

At least a bomb hasn’t dropped on my head…yet.

Maybe forget the tent. Cave City, here we come!

Yes, I moved my blog…

Welcome to my new old blogspot on wordpress. Let’s just say I was “pressed” into making this move. So far…so what.