Little Pieces (Essays)

I Don't Believe You

2008-02-16T19:11:00.003-05:00

When I first heard Bob Dylan's music as a child, I remember having no problem appreciating the genius of his sentiment and lyrics, but there is no question I was confused by his delivery. Blowin' in the Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin' are unquestionable American masterpieces, but his nasal, stoccato vocals are not an easy approach to understand, particularly for a child. I accepted his talent and importance because it seemed universal, but I was more interested in Paul Simon and Billy Joel, two tastes somewhat easier to acquire.

In college, I became exposed to the music Dylan made shortly before his notorious motorcycle accident in 1966, a run of creativity that included the landmark albums, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde On Blonde, three spectacular collections known primarily for Dylan's transition to a more impressionistic style of songwriting and his first use of electric instruments. He was booed visciously through out this period, primarily during a 1966 tour of England. His performances on that tour are universally brilliant and it occurs to me that invention and genius are so often greeted with similar contempt because we mock what we cannot understand.

D.A. Pennebaker's documentary of the 1965 tour, Don't Look Back, and, more recently, Martin Scorcese's informative No Direction Home, document this phenomenon in vivid detail. It is nothing short of startling to see the vitriol hurled at Dylan by his supposed fans after presenting masterworks, such as Like a Rolling Stone, Ballad Of A Thin Man, Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat and Subterranean Homesick Blues. What is most ironic about these performances is Dylan's complete and total destruction and deconstruction of these critics with the very words at which they were hissing. Dylan's voice and delivery are central to that accomplishment.

To hear so many people talk about how they can't appreciate Dylan because of his voice is disturbing. His voice is essential to his genius. The words are timeless and the melodies memorable, but the delivery is what makes them special. Hearing someone else play a Dylan song is like hearing a cover of a Thelonious Monk tune; a certain central authenticity is lacking. The power is diminished greatly.

I encourage anyone who has yet to discover Dylan to watch these two documentaries and listen to the albums he made during this time. Be patient with them. This is some of the highest art created during the last century and to miss out on it is to miss out on a fundamental pleasure and one of the minor amazements of this life. Embrace his voice and hear his words as he intended you to hear them, with an accusatory, ironic and nasal twist.

Just when you thought...

2006-01-24T12:41:00.000-05:00

celebrities couldn't get any more self-obsessed, irresponsible, and infantile, Hollywood has given us Harry Belafonte. His apologizers will portray him as a well-spoken, well-meaning intellectual. He's one of the three. I'll let you guess which one.

In a climate that has not only fostered but rewarded beyond comprehension the absurdity that is Tom Cruise, the pompous, sanctimonious Alec Baldwin, the self-righteous Oprah Winfrey, and borderline psychotics like Barbara Streisand, Larry King, and Bill O'Reilly, we've become so used to insanity that Belafonte's recent comments slid smoothly under the radar. More often than I'd like to admit these days, I find myself muttering, "Is this really happening?" but in this case, I was rendered speechless.

While visiting with and vigorously offering the support of millions of Americans to Venezuelan leader Hugo Chavez, Belafonte called President Bush, "The greatest terrorist in the world." Earlier, he'd compared the Bush Administration to Nazi Germany. He should be ashamed of himself, but he certainly isn't.

Chavez has been one of our most quotable world leaders of late, but he topped even himself when on Christmas Eve he told a television audience that "'minorities, descendants of those who crucified Christ... have grabbed all the wealth of the world for themselves." This was before old Harry dropped by to provide evidence of his own psychiatric disorders (apologies to Tom Cruise for referencing his particular area of expertise without consulting him).

Dissent is one of the foundations upon which this country was built, but our founding fathers imagined informed, intelligent dissent, not angry, paranoid, reactionary vitriol. What Belafonte and his supporters fail to grasp is the self-destructive nature of his own attacks. To compare this administration to the Nazis, to call Bush the world's greatest terrorist, is to diminish the weight of his own agenda. If you agree with his comments, try repeating them to a Holocaust survivor; if you don't feel ashamed, you should have your head audited by a Scientologist. Free citizens of Europe were subjected to open discrimination and abuse followed by a premeditated and systematic genocide over the course of more than a decade. Educate yourself about it if you're interested in the unbelievable details. Maybe you think George Bush is misguided, dangerous, or even criminal. If you do, make an intelligent case and we'll all be better off for it. No one benefits from the hate-inspired, ignorant diatribes unleashed by the guy who brought us the Banana Boat Song.

Harry Belafonte has made little music of consequence in his career. His acting has been largely ignored and for good reason. Instead of holing up in the Hollywood Hills and reaping the fruits of his incredible luck, he's decided to politically activate, much to our detriment. He is his own worst enemy and one of ours. The rise of neo-conservativism in America is directly linked to the absence of ideas in the liberal think tank and the volume at which that vacuum is broadcast. What we desperately need in this country is an intelligent, bipartisan dialogue with the courage to denounce the most obvious opponents of democracy and intellectual progress.

I'm not asking Harry Belafonte to stop talking. The onus is upon us to deny him an audience and a reason to speak.

Justice For All

2005-11-30T12:46:00.000-05:00

Joseph J. Ellis, who won a Pulitzer Prize for Founding Brothers and a National Book Award for American Sphinx, intended His Excellency George Washington as a broad brush stroke and so it is. Having read not a lick about our first president, I considered it a good place to start and I was right.

At the time I was reading it, I was also engaged in Ken Burns' documentary Thomas Jefferson, which provides the same sweeping depiction of one of the most widely misunderstood personalities of the last millennium.

Both men played an incalculable role in the formation of this country, Washington the deliberate visionary of a strong, unified nation and Jefferson the father of the two-party system, and both would be revolted by what we have become. They understood, Washington more than his eventual rival, that liberty and equality were essentially exclusive (we were not, under any circumstances, all created equal, as Jefferson famously wrote), but they envisioned an America where all men (important distinction there) could live freely in peace, equal, if not in assets, then certainly under the law.

The two-party system (and Washington, as our only nonpartisan president, knew this instinctively, I think) was doomed to failure and has failed, spectacularly. It has failed because we have become a nation of partisans, interested only in ourselves and not in the good of the collective whole. Washington and Hamilton grasped what Jefferson and Madison could not: the best interests of the United States trumped all else.

For example, Democrats want a Pro-Choice Supreme Court, Republicans want a Pro-Life Supreme Court. We choose a side of the fence and throw stones at anyone who chooses to stand in opposition. In reality, we don't choose sides any more than we choose which god (or gods) to worship. Most of us are mediocrities who, as Einstein once said, submit blindly to hereditary prejudices. Understanding this is the first step toward appreciating the importance of respecting those who disagree with us. And when we fall short, it is imperative that we work with our adversaries to forge a better life for us all. My foe is not by nature, as so many of us arrogantly believe, my inferior.

When a Democrat is in office, Republicans welcome and encourage his failures. The same holds true for Democrats when a Republican is in office. Think about that for a second. We root against our own country. Washington would call that treason. I'm inclined to agree.

Washington, who was morally opposed to slavery, nevertheless maintained 300 slaves at Mount Vernon and famously omitted the question of slavery from his timeless farewell address, opting instead to espouse his conviction that isolationism was the only means of survival for a democratic nation. "There can be no greater error," he warned, "than to expect or calculate upon real favors from Nation to Nation." He knew that slavery could not, under any circumstances, survive in this country, but he was also correct in assuming the country, and with it the democratic experiment, would falter if the issue were raised too soon. In other words, he sacrificed his own moral beliefs for the good of the whole. Nearly a century later, Lincoln would do the same, only emancipating the slaves when it became clear that it was the only way to save the Union.

America was not the first experiment in democracy, but it has been the most successful one (so far). It is time to stop taking for granted that it will endure indefinitely as such. Napoleon and Caesar, among others, were seduced by power and personal perspective to the ruin of their people. Washington ably resisted the temptations of despotism, even as his own countrymen accused him of monarchical ambitions. He was a man of fierce convictions. The America of today would induce projectile vomiting in its founder.

The age of noble and benevolent politicians is sadly long over, replaced by the machinery of empty rhetoric. The responsibility is on our own shoulders now. We, the people, must welcome anew the ideas upon which this country was founded. We must accept that what is best for us may not be what is best for all of us. We must embrace our sworn enemies, abandon our substantial individual egos, and move forward. Otherwise, we are all lost.

Men Without Hats Ate My 80s

2005-11-03T12:53:00.000-05:00

I grew up in the 80s. I'm really not sure what, if anything, that says about me, but it seems important.

We know, for example, that on more than one occasion I wore black parachute pants and a leather piano tie. I listened almost exclusively to Journey and Prince. I played Colecovision. I had friends who wore Capezio shoes. Good friends.

Is any of that important? I dunno, but I certainly never expected to look back fondly upon it. We, the children of the 80s, were tragic comedy back then. Oppressed by a decade of vapid, insultingly juvenile, goofy music presented by bands with names like Vixen and Duran Duran and Bananarama, we'd been forced into cultural warfare. We wore leather ties with absurd designs. We wore brightly colored mesh t-shirts, idolized Michael Jackson and George Michael.

Think about that for a second.

We were so desperate, we canonized Grunge before we even knew what it was. Overrated, if you ask me. We invented the Seattle Invasion as an excuse to stop listening to Howard Jones. I'm telling you. We were more than happy to put it all behind us.

But then something funny happened. A few years back, people became interested in the 80s again. We were back for more. Is there any more ubiquitous format right now? We have 80s radio stations and an assortment of nostalgia shows on MTV and VH1. We have 80s clubs like New York's Culture Club in which we dress up and dance like epileptic fools.

Is this our natural reaction to Republican White Houses?

Regardless, I have to admit I'm developing a taste for the music again. The videos, too. An afternoon with VH1 Classic is an afternoon well spent, let me tell you. At any given moment you could find yourself face to face with Genesis' Land of Confusion or Journey's Send Her My Love. Not exactly Shakespeare, but plenty interesting and amusing to the ear.

The truth is we had some brilliant music in the 80s. Consider:

U2 elevated themselves to legends with songs like Pride (in the Name of Love), Bad, Where the Streets Have No Name, I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, and With Or Without You. Before The Joshua Tree, U2 had been a fringe, alternative band, revered only by the kids who wore all black and painted their hair blue. But once we all got wind of With Or Without You, we knew they were special. Say what you want about them, but there's no denying they were a thing of beauty for a good while there.

R.E.M. single-handedly yanked mainstream music left of center with a string of albums in the late 80s. They'd already made great albums, but Document and Green made them world leaders pretend and set the stage for Out of Time and Automatic For the People. They haven't been the same since.

The Police became the best band in the world with a steady flow of nifty albums culminating in 1983's classic Synchronicity. Bruce Springsteen made the leap from cult hero/poet to national icon with The River and Born in the U.S.A.

When all else failed, we had Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Prince for comic relief (and some great music).

All in all, we did okay.

A few things I've noticed while fighting my addiction to VH1 Classic:

The Traveling Wilburys were a lot better than people realize (and than I remember). That whole Jeff Lynne sound, the one applied so effectively on Tom Petty's Full Moon Fever, really peaked with the Wilburys. And in case you've already forgotten, George Harrison was the real deal. I wish more people understood how good he was. He makes Paul look like a clown (which is not all that difficult, come to think of it).

That Roy Orbison was one weird dude.

Why doesn't anyone seem to remember Paul McCartney's theme song for Spies Like Us? Can we really all act as though this never happened? Has anyone else ever survived after mailing it in to that extent?

The other day, I was rendered catatonic by Hall and Oates' live video for Sara Smile. As far as I'm concerned, the existence of John Oates alone justifies the decade. But the 80s also gave us Johnny Cougar aka John Cougar aka John Cougar Mellencamp aka John Mellencamp. There's no denying the greatness of Pink Houses, Small Town, and Jack and Diane. There's also no denying that they're all the same song. I'm kidding, but I'm not. In the end, he's probably an important artist, always good for a laugh anyway.

On VH1c, you're guaranteed a gem or two every hour. Just this minute, I'm watching Elvis Costello performing Alison on Storytellers. Elvis is maybe the most overlooked artist since Mozart. Just a brilliant songwriter.

What I'm trying to say is that watching VH1 Classic is whole lot like watching MTV used to be. And I like it.

Sue me.

Extraordinary Machine

2005-10-15T12:58:00.000-04:00

When Fiona Apple's debut album, Tidal, was released in 1996, I was living on Marlborough Street in Boston and circulating with some local musicians. The first single, Shadowboxer, was enough to motivate me to purchase the album and I quickly became obsessed. I had month-long affairs with every song on the CD.

I'd given up songwriting in 1987 after hearing Suzanne Vega's Solitude Standing, intimidated, overmatched, and awed. I think Tidal distracted a lot of musicians in the same way with its striking maturity and soulfulness. It just seemed so fully realized. My musician friends and I marvelled at it in private for nearly a year before Criminal finally made Fiona Apple a star.

Trouble was, she seemed, by all accounts, to be a pouty, pretentious, self-absorbed twit. She flaked out famously in 1997 with a spectacularly self-conscious acceptance speech that had the press branding her brilliant and brainless. I was confused enough to almost entirely disregard her terrific second album, which featured a 90-word title. The fundamental paradox of her work: an album of beautiful and poetic music with an impossible to swallow title. I hated her. I wanted her to grow up.

She has.

The story of Apple's struggle to release her third album, Extraordinary Machine, is already the stuff of legend. Whether Sony shelved it for being too obtuse (read: uncommercial) or she delayed it herself to smudge some of Jon Brion's fingerprints, the wait has been justified and then some.

The songs document her breakup with wonderkind writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) three years ago. The most famous breakup album is probably Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, which chronicled not one but two breakups (Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham and John and Christine McVie) and became the top-selling album of all-time. Extraordinary Machine should be in that category. Let me put it this way: her singing has blossomed to the extent that comparisons with Sarah Vaughn are not unreasonable. Her lateral songwriting would interest and inspire Thelonious Monk. There are at least three songs I already count among the best ever written.

Okay?

Alicia Keys gets a lot of attention for her artistic integrity, but as great as she is, there's something contrived about her image and her music. Fiona Apple is pure artistic mastery. She's the real thing.

The last week has tried my patience and resolve and reminded me that life is fleeting and fragile. It is also surely finite and we should fill it to spilling with beautiful things. Extraordinary Machine is a beautiful thing.

In Praise of Elvis (the Other Elvis)

2005-08-20T13:07:00.000-04:00

The campus of Lehigh University is beautiful, which is more than can be said for Bethlehem itself. The mostly deserted steel mills still dominate the landscape and there isn't much to lure the students off their peaceful, booze-drenched mountain. But on my first visit to Lehigh, in the fall of my senior year of high school, I discovered Play It Again Records, a small, independent record store on a quiet block of West 4th Street. It's the kind of place that seemed indigenous to the West Village in New York City at the time, but I'd struck gold in the middle of nowhere.

It is an understatement to say that my friends and I frequented Play It Again. I purchased the bulk of my Grateful Dead albums there, in the days when I first took the stage with a band and expanded my musical frontiers wildly by the week. I first heard Nirvana's Nevermind while browsing at Play It Again. I bought my first Beatles album from the skinhead who owned the store during my freshman year. But my first purchase on that first visit with my parents in 1988 was Elvis Costello's 1977 debut album My Aim Is True. I'd seen the video for his new single, Veronica, and it piqued my interest. We listened to My Aim Is True in the car on the way back home, and I was hooked from the first notes.

There are reasons why Elvis Costello isn't more popular. His voice, while powerful and true, can be a bit rich at times. He has a penchant for quirky arrangements, often burying observant, heartfelt lyrics beneath goofy keyboards and strings (I can still recall learning to play Hoover Factory on my acoustic guitar in my freshman dorm room and marveling at how lovely it was once freed from the offbeat sound of Costello's band, the Attractions). His lyrics are intelligent and original, which can represent the kiss of death to fans of pop music, for whom escapism does not always reconcile with thought.

I still bought cassettes in those days, and I filled out my Elvis collection over the years with This Year's Model, Armed Forces, Trust, and King of America, all procured from Play It Again. My band began performing a version of Mystery Dance, and I would ultimately add several Elvis songs to my repertoire, including Alison, New Amsterdam, and Radio, Radio.

I worked for EMI Records briefly after graduation, and in 1993 we were promoting a singer named Tasmin Archer, whose single Sleeping Satellite was a minor hit. For reasons that have never been clear to me, her second album was an EP of Elvis Costello covers. Far be it for me to criticize the decision, but Elvis Costello himself struggles to sell records, so the artistic extra credit seemed a waste in the face of the commercial ramifications. Be that as it may, the CD was lovely, with straight-ahead, decidedly un-quirky versions of Shipbuilding, Deep Dark Truthful Mirror, All Grown Up, and New Amsterdam. If you have a hard time with Costello's own recordings, Archer's EP is a good place to start appreciating his music.

Elvis is nothing if not prolific, so he's something of an expensive habit, but his oeuvre is a can't-miss musical grab bag. Dive in.

Three Dead Girls

2005-08-03T13:10:00.000-04:00

It isn’t often that stories this compelling slip by under the radar. In the case of Deborah Gardner, the stealth was intentional.

It all started with a series of 30-year-old photographs.

I’d been browsing the Barnes and Noble website for interesting reads when I came upon Philip Weiss’ American Taboo. The story seemed impossible. In 1976, a 23-year-old Peace Corps volunteer was murdered in cold blood on the tiny Pacific island nation of Tonga, stabbed 22 times by a fellow volunteer in a jealous, premeditated rage. Despite the testimony of several eyewitnesses, the killer was found innocent by reason of insanity. Several days after being returned to the United States, a psychiatrist found him eminently sane and he was set free. He resides in Brooklyn at this very moment.

His acquittal, it seems, and the subsequent 30-year media silence were facilitated by the Peace Corps in an effort to avoid negative press during a difficult time for the organization. But it was the photographs, taken by her ex-boyfriend only months before the murder, that left such an indelible mark on me. Deborah Gardner was in possession of the purest beauty. She was, I gather from her image and the recollections of her friends, the epitome of youthful exuberance. It is both tragic and poetic that she will remain so forever.

Fifteen years later in Missouri, two teenage sisters, Julie and Robin Kerry, were raped and brutalized by four delinquents on the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge while their 20-year-old cousin Tom Cummins listened in horror yards away. They’d sneaked out in the middle of the night to visit the deserted bridge where one of Julie’s poems was spray-painted on the asphalt. All three were forced to leap off the bridge into the ferocious current. Only Tom survived.

It is not just Julie’s effortless, mature poetry that carries the sting of this nightmare, nor is it the fact that Tom was, almost impossibly, bullied by the police for 36 hours into a weak and false confession (the real killers were eventually caught, thanks to his courage and cooperation). The story was told by Tom’s sister Jeanine, who, inspired by her cousin’s talent, has blossomed into a writer of uncommon grace and skill. Her book, A Rip in Heaven, reads like the most fantastical fiction and had me gasping into the wee hours of the morning. No Hollywood blockbuster or mass market paperback could ever hope to be as gripping or heartfelt.

I sometimes take A Rip in Heaven off the shelf to read some of Julie Kerry’s poetry. I have photographs of Deborah Gardner on my hard drive. They serve as reminders that even in the darkest hours of the darkest days, it is hard to deny that this world is full of beautiful things, be they the measured words of a long-gone teenager or the wistful flirtations of a young woman in the early prime of her life.

Deborah Gardner would be in her 50s now, and she’d still speak fondly of her days as a volunteer in the Peace Corps. Julie Kerry, I am certain, would be an accomplished poet. I imagine her teaching at some small college in the Midwest. Their futures were denied them. Their legacies are safe.

8 Crime

2005-07-05T13:16:00.000-04:00

The announcer at the London Live 8 concert called it, “The greatest rock show in the history of the world.” XM Satellite Radio said it was “the single most important concert ever.” Coldplay singer Chris Martin couldn’t help but point out that Live 8 was "the greatest thing that's ever been organized probably in the history of the world."

And I had no idea!

I watched bits and pieces of Live 8, but there just didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about it. The coverage on VH1/MTV was appalling (the only way to take things in respectably was on AOL), but I don’t get the feeling I missed much. I’m not sure why the music was so disappointing—there’s a real wealth of great new music out there—but there just wasn’t anything of real substance, aside from Pink Floyd’s four-song set, which dwarfed everything else.

I’ve always felt that artists have an obligation to be genuine. Art that is not pure is irrelevant, at least to me. Chris Martin’s rock star persona seems disingenuous. Just about everything I saw seemed disingenuous. Popular music is well represented these days by artists like Bjork, Rufus Wainwright, and The Shins. If you want to hear someone pouring herself into music, listen to Martha Wainwright’s Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole. “I will not pretend, I will not put on a smile, I will not say I'm all right for you when all I wanted was to be good, to do everything in truth.” Even Rufus’ little sister gets it. The “artists” at Live 8 did not.

I’m a musician. I know that music can change the world. So does Bob Dylan, and he didn’t show up for Live 8. Where’s was Bruce Springsteen, one of the most outspoken of all pop stars? If it was so important, where was Peter Gabriel?

It’s time we get up off our sanctimonious, self-absorbed asses and stop behaving like a bunch of pretentious brats. We idolize Bono and Tom Cruise and Opra while dismissing people who have dedicated themselves to public service and medicine and teaching as ignorant, greedy, and manipulative. Any idea how far Bono, Tom Cruise, and Opra could personally go toward ending the starvation in Africa?

I guess the main problem I had with Live 8, aside from the perfectly boring performances, is that it seemed too much about Geldof and Bono and Coldplay and not enough about music. A multi-continent rock concert with inspiring music and cross-cultural connections makes the world a better place. A preachy, self-righteous self-celebration only makes our fundamental flaw more obvious. We’re obsessed with appearances, so much so that we’ve sacrificed even the tiniest semblance of substance.

What a shame.

Floridians, Part 3: Terror at 200 Feet

2005-07-05T00:33:00.000-04:00

Cousin Julie was twitching, which I supposed meant she was nervous. I was nervous, too, but my anxiety was overwhelmed by a boyish, careless excitement. We were on line (New Yorkers are always on line, even in Florida) for Aerosmith’s Rock 'n’ Roller Coaster, but the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror loomed in the distance, tempering the edges of her smile with an uncertainly that bordered on frank horror.

Cousin Julie is, in fact, my friend Bill’s Cousin Julie, not mine. She’d driven in from Tampa to keep me company in Orlando. Having met me on several occasions in New York, she’d obviously found me charming enough to spring for some gas and mosey on over. She even brought a bathing suit.

We ate at a crab place, but neither of us had crab. On second thought, maybe there was a crab legs appetizer in there somewhere. I seem to recall making a mess of something with that nutcracker thing and requiring assistance from Cousin Julie. I’m not good with food you have to work for; my mother used to cut my meat.

We split a bottle of wine and buzzed on it in the hot tub, which we had to share with some tattooed Floridians I thought for sure were going to kill us. They didn’t, and we lived to ride the Rock 'n’ Roller Coaster. Zero to 60 so fast you can feel your heart slam into your spine, but after the initial shock I was having a blast. And then I turned to look at Julie. She wanted out. Bloodcurdling screams. I’m not exaggerating. My blood actually curdled. She could barely turn her head enough to look me in the eye, but when she did, I could see that she was in mortal terror. And we were about to ride something called the Tower of Terror. Not good.

She was still screaming as we made our way to the exit, when the chubby kid whose own fears we’d ameliorated only moments before on line bounced past us. “That was a sissy ride,” he said, turning back to look for Cousin Julie’s reaction. I privately wished for a water balloon.

Again we lived, long enough to sit on the curb moments later and discuss the pros and cons of riding the Tower. We actually hashed it all out. Neither of us was eager, but we felt obligated, as adults, to get on the thing and smile doing it. Not as easy as it sounds. Just thinking about Great Adventure’s Free Fall makes me woozy, but at least on Free Fall, the drop is preceded by a loud buzzer so you have time to prepare yourself. The Tower of Terror features multiple drops and many different ride sequences. In other words, you never know what’s coming, no matter how many times you ride.

Added to all that, I’d just witnessed a full-fledged freak out on the roller coaster, courtesy of Cousin Julie. Who knew what would happen this time?

Still, we had our pride. There were little kids riding this thing, for goodness sake!

We waited on a long, serpentine line with a family of three, the youngest of which was an 8-year-old girl with pigtails. She was a little anxious, almost as anxious as Julie and I, and her father was easing her worries and encouraging us to downplay our own fears with carefully placed winks.

“It’s nothing,” I said, struggling to keep the blood vessels in my face from bursting. “It’s going to be awesome!”

Liar!

The closer we got to the front of the line, the more seriously we talked about running for our lives. Now the little girl’s father was consoling us.

“You guys are going to love it,” he said. “It’s the best ride in Disneyworld!”

We entered the basement of the “hotel” and were split up from the family of three. Without our surrogate father, we were borderline psychotic.

“Get me out of here,” I whispered to Julie.

“Do you want to get off,” she said.

I considered it. But there were too many children around. I had my dignity.

“No,” I said. “You?”

“Uh-uh.”

As we entered the elevator, the kid next to me looked me in the eye and shouted, “Woohoo!” at the top of his lungs. I smiled and re-swallowed my lunch.

We sat in the back row, buckled ourselves in. The elevator operator said, “Enjoy your stay,” and the doors began to close. That’s when Julie finally lost it.

“Lemme off,” she said. The doors reopened and it seemed she accomplished this by sheer willpower. “I need to get off. Now.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt and disappeared, muttering something about meeting me at the exit. And just like that, I was alone. Oh dear god.

"Anyone else?” the operator asked smugly before again closing the doors. I turned to the woman next to me but couldn’t speak. “Here we go,” she said. “Just scream and you’ll be okay.”

I screamed.

“Not now,” she said reassuringly. “When the ride starts.”

Oh dear god, I thought.

Floridians, Part 2: Only Kids Run Up Stairs

2005-01-12T00:28:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned earlier, the Radisson Inn Lake Buena Vista has a pool with a slide. I didn’t know this information when I chose the Radisson Inn Lake Buena Vista for my home base in Orlando. I don’t know that it would’ve influenced my decision one way or the other, but for what it’s worth, I didn’t once make use of the slide. Everyone else seemed to like it.

The first night (or maybe it was the second), I decided to have a go at the pool after test driving the hot tub. The water was warm. I leaned my neck against the wall opposite the slide and let my head fall backward to look at the stars. I closed my eyes, brought my head back level, opened my eyes.

There was a girl on the slide.

When it comes to women, I like all kinds but I’m too easily satisfied. I have a penchant for settling. In the most unappealing women, I look for things to admire. I've been known to invent things to admire. In self defense, I learned to approach women as I do paintings: so many of them are most comfortably appreciated from afar. Distance blurs the blemishes.

In this case, the girl I was admiring from afar was squeezed into a blue bikini and enjoying the twice aformentioned slide like a little girl. Each time she would come splashing into the water, I’d wait for her to come up and greet her with a smile, after which she’d swim, laughing, to the ladder at the edge of the pool, climb up and wring her hair out over her right shoulder, and run wildly up the concrete stairs on either side of the slide. She disappeared from view for a bit each time she reached the top of the steps, and I wouldn’t see her again until she came crashing back into the water, feet-first, head-first, sideways. And each time she came up for air, she’d hold my gaze a drop longer before disappearing up the steps again.

Finally, she swam over to me. (I’d like to point out here that I didn’t once think of the pool scene from Garden State while all of this was going on; it only occurs to me now.)

She took her time floating over on her back, pausing every few feet to turn her head enough to make sure she wasn’t about to run into me. And the closer she got, the younger she looked. “Have you tried the slide?” she said.

“Not yet.” She couldn’t have been older than 15. I nearly puked on her face. Sincerely.

“Why not?” She spit some water at me. (I made that last part up to make her seem more like Lolita.)

“Just got here.”

“You should try it. It’s fun.”

I can’t remember the last time I did something solely for fun.

“I will... In a little while.” She was already annoying me. World record time for getting on my impermeable nerves. (I made that last phrase up to make it seem as though very few people get on my nerves. That isn’t necessarily the case. I don’t know why I lie.)

“Okay, but go head first. If you go feet first you get water up your nose.”

The next day, I had breakfast sent to my room because my back was acting up. I decided to hit Epcot after lunch as opposed to first thing, and I spent the morning in bed. By the time I got back from Chili’s, where I’d made good use of a two-for-one drink special over lunch, my back was fully out. The day was a wash. I took two muscle relaxants and slept the rest of it away. Slept past dinner, in fact.

But there were still a few hours before the pool closed, so I put on my trunks and headed for the hot tub, stopping first to buy a Bud Light in the empty but noisy poolside bar. The hot tub did wonders for my back, and before long I had my eyes closed and my head back again. When I finally took a peek a few minutes later, six college-age girls in bikinis were getting ready to jump in with me.

This I’m not making up.

Oblivious to their suspicious glances (I can just picture them talking about me later - "and, oh my god, how creepy was that guy in the pool?"), I went ahead and tried to turn on the charm.

“Did you all shower first?” They looked confused until I directed them to the Rules of the Hot Tub, one of which was, “All bathers must shower before entering the hot tub.”

“It’s a joke,” I said, smirking. “I’m actually breaking at least three of those rules myself; I’m drinking alcohol, I’m under 14, and I’m pregnant.” (Those last two are, I’m ashamed to say, lies. It’s true that I said them, but they weren’t and still aren’t true. I lied to the college girls to make them laugh. It didn’t work.)

“Oh,” said a pretty one.

“When are you going to go on the slide?” This frustrated appeal came from my immediate right, courtesy of the little girl in the blue bikini. She’d slithered into the hot tub while I was busy with the college girls. The college girls, incidentally, were already removing themselves from our company en masse and would spend the next ten minutes taking pictures of themselves and daisy-chaining down the slide.

“I will!” The two words had a whiny quality to them and it struck me that I was regressing.

I closed my eyes again until I was sure she’d gone. And I kept them closed for a good while after that.

Floridians, Part 1: Nine Fools in a Van

2005-01-12T00:24:00.000-05:00

The man sitting across from me on the shuttle was a radiologist; the rest were nurses. Six of them in all, not including the driver, who was busy chatting up the youngest of the bunch in the front seat. My right leg and arm were tangled up with the luggage, which I’d been asked to keep from tumbling. First stop, the Radisson Inn Lake Buena Vista (their pool has a slide).

I’d last been to Orlando in the winter of 1990 with a friend from high school (we were sophomores in college at the time). We jumped into his Acura with a girl he hardly knew (and I didn’t know at all) and ran headlong into a blizzard outside Washington. I knew that first night that I was apt to throttle her if she stuck around for the long haul, but we were able to ditch her in Orlando. We hit The Magic Kingdom, Epcot, Universal Studios, and Pleasure Island (though we couldn’t enjoy any of the bars because my friend had no fake ID—it's hard to believe there was once a time when fake IDs were the center of my universe). That was an emotional trip for me, a journey into the past to relive two family vacations in Florida. Fourteen years later and it’s a distant journey into the distant past, but it never fails to seem like yesterday.

I think I chose to spend some time in Florida for my two-week vacation this December because I needed to reconnect with those moments in a way; the breathtaking innocence of childhood and that first nostalgic look back in college. I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share of cesuras, so to speak, pauses in the chaos. In the Spring of 2002, I loitered in Paris for eight lovely, lonely days. The summer before that, I sold my car, flew to Las Vegas, and played Johnny Cash out West for six weeks in a tent and a rented car. A Toyota Camry, as it was, and so it would be again in Orlando, though this model of utility was silver, not white. But that’s later. Back to the shuttle and the radiologist and the nurses…

As it happens, I’m an aspiring radiologist. And as it so happens, I’m also living this year as a medical intern. My life is alternately in the hands of radiologists and nurses, nurses and radiologists. Ten minutes off the plane and I’m right back where I started. Within miles of my hotel, people from all over the country were gathering at one resort for a nursing conference and another for a radiology conference. I couldn’t help but laugh. And the nurses liked my joke about my being available.

I took a stroll that first night, across the street to the mall, which boasted a Hooters and a deserted little place called The Lower East Side ("Orlando’s finest Glatt kosher restaurant"). I savored the thick, warm air and the palm trees and the manicured gardens. I almost forgot my troubles. Almost was enough.

The next morning I was on another shuttle (Orlando is nothing if not the center of the shuttle universe), this one bound for The Magic Kingdom. I was giddy enough to briefly notice that I was the oldest “kid” on the bus, but the illusion faded when I realized I was older than many of the parents as well. I decided that it isn’t stupid to want to fill your life with as many trouble-free moments as you possibly can. And it’s hard to worry about the rent when you’re on Space Mountain.

And really that’s what I was there for, to ride Space Mountain. Disneyworld’s indoor roller coaster was the first I’d ever braved, back when the park (and I—Disneyworld and I were born the same year) was only a few years old. It had scared the breath out of me, and it was years before I developed a taste for thrill rides. I still remember my older brother’s face, straining and pleading as he dragged my reluctant father back for a second run. I envied him his courage. My dad, too.

Space Mountain was closed for renovations in 1990 (the nostalgic look back), and I remember feeling defeated all over again. This time, I made sure there were no “modernizations” scheduled. I planned to make a bee-line for SM the minute they opened the gates.
To get to The Magic Kingdom, you can choose to ride the ferry or the monorail. For me, the monorail is the ultimate symbol of Florida. When we were kids, my brothers and I would guess what color the stripe on the next train would be. They still smell like manure inside, but that didn’t even come close to ruining the moment for me. I was on the monorail to Disneyworld, for cryin’ out loud!

I arrived at 20 to nine, and the area just outside the gate was already filling up with kids so excited they were vibrating. Disney, of course, always puts on a good show, and by the time Mickey Mouse and Co. rode in on a real steam train, the kids were in a frenzy. A little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders caught my attention when, as Mickey led the countdown from ten, she marked each number by slapping on her father’s head just a shade too hard for his comfort. Her face was pure joy; his was twisted into a pained grimace. For some reason, it brought tears to my eyes. It seemed to symbolize so much.

They told us not to run, and I didn’t. I made it into one of the first cars anyway. I remembered only flashes from that first ride nearly 30 years ago, but once we were hurtled into the darkness, the old rush came back. Only this time it was exhilarating. Space Mountain is not a very scary roller coaster, but for me, it is as thrilling as a trip through time, if not to a better place, then certainly to a place with a much-needed measure of clarity.

I made all the rounds that day: Pirates of the Caribbean, Splash Mountain, The Indy 500 Speedway. It’s a Small World was closed for remodeling, and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea are gone, but it hardly mattered. I was in Disneyworld, and I let my cares fade away.

I bought a Mickey Mouse shirt on the way out. Old school, of course.

Floridians: An Introduction

2005-01-12T00:16:00.000-05:00

It seems to me I’ve always traveled with a guitar, but the truth is I’ve only been doing it for a decade or so, ever since I confiscated my brother’s Yamaha from a junk heap in our parents’ basement. I’d been through a lifetime’s worth of guitars by then—a nylon-stringed Yamaha; two Celebrity Ovations with rounded, plastic backs, one of them a twelve-string; a black, lacquered Kramer; a Fender Stratocaster—but it wasn’t until I dug that old, rusty steel-string out of its cellar graveyard that I first fell in love with one.

When I took the strings off to change them, the heads (or tuning knobs) fell off. They’d rusted through to the point where the only things holding them on were the strings. I had new heads (fancy shmancy German heads, in fact) put on at the local music shop, tuned it up, and took it for a spin. It was perfect.

I started playing standing up with a strap around my neck, which is something I’d never really done before. I started performing on a regular basis. I started writing with more clarity. It had to be the guitar.

I took her to Mexico and wrote on the beach; I took her to California and played by the Hollywood sign; I took her to Utah and serenaded coyotes by rust-colored hoodoos and to Colorado where I excitedly plucked out John Denver’s Starwood in Aspen by a dancing campfire.

I wrote Up There in a hotel room on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles and White Horse in a car in upstate New York. I wrote the first verse of La Linea on a picnic table in Theodore Roosevelt National Park and the second in a motel room in Bowman, North Dakota. But more often than not, I leaned her against the wall in the closet in the hotel and left her there, untouched, for days. That’s how it was on my most recent trip to Florida this past December. Inspiration was AWOL.

But on my first night in Orlando, riding the shuttle from the airport to my hotel, I was consumed by the urge to write and I berated myself internally for deciding, after much deliberation, not to pack my laptop. For the next seven days, I poked and prodded my ideas, eventually molding them into a bona fide theme, and sometime during my five days in South Beach, I wrote down chapter titles on a piece of hotel stationary.

When I got home, I was still consumed, but I wasn’t ready to start writing until two weeks later, when I finally sat down at my desk and began to type out these pages. On these rare occasions when inspiration strikes, I become so absorbed, I’ll often leave food that’s just been delivered sitting out for hours while I follow the bouncing ball. There’s a Jackson Hole cheeseburger sitting on my coffee table as I type this very sentence. That’s how it is with muses—they stop by at their convenience, which is why I always travel with my guitar.

I finally procured my dream guitar last year—a Taylor 614CE with a maple top—but when I'm on the road, I still take that old, trusty Yamaha. First loves are binding.

I’m going to be posting these pieces as I write them, and I’ll make additions, subtractions, alterations, and title changes as they occur to me. These things often develop from the inside out and only gradually evolve into cohesive, relevant themes, if they ever do at all. It is true that they sometimes arrive whole, gifts, so to speak, from the muse. (Snapdragon was done in twenty minutes, for instance.) Most days, though, it’s more like a wrestling match. And I don’t always win.

So here, for better or worse, are riffs on a few moments that struck me during my recent vacation. Let’s start with the shuttle...

Make Mine Music

2004-03-12T00:07:00.000-05:00

I’ve always been a big fan of The Lord of the Rings, and I was compelled, even at an early age, by Tolkein’s strange and fantastic retelling of history. But it was more than a curious child’s first foray into literature. Tolkein’s world comes into being only when the gods begin to make beautiful music. They literally sing the Earth into existence.

For some people, life is a song and the world is ignited by music. There is music in the hum of the city, in the clicking of stiletto heels, in the rumble of the underground trains and the beating of the hearts of strangers.

The world is not full of music, it is music. For me, all of us are music indefinable.

Thanks mostly to MTV, modern music consists primarily of lip-synching strippers who are famous for songs they didn’t write, performed on instruments they cannot play. I don’t see anything inherently wrong with this (I am, after all, a man), but when I hear these entertainers described as artists, my stomach turns. It is true that the airwaves are dominated by ear candy, and what we call “pop music” certainly has its place. But in the fringes and, in some cases, even in the spotlight, real artists are delivering valiant, original music on a regular basis. For anyone interested and willing to invest the effort that is a part of nearly every worthwhile endeavor in this world, bliss is only a click of the mouse away.

Here are just a few of the gifted musicians who are decorating our lives one song at a time.

I own many more DVDs than I have any right to. Five of these are live performances by Björk. The other night, I popped in her Royal Albert Hall concert from 2001. One of the things that is so wonderful about her music is its ability to sound fresh with each listen. The song structures are just obscure enough to elude complete understanding. They are brilliant in their ability to comfort and confound, to mesmerize and to flatly awe. I adore her music for its commitment to honesty, but most of all its beauty, its soaring, nearly incomprehensible loveliness. My own music is a way of acknowledging that I aim to follow in her footsteps, to bring beauty to the world without reducing the dialogue to a few pretty notes. I am almost a complete failure in this regard, but I won’t always be.

When Beck released his album Sea Change in 2002, it was hailed as a masterpiece by critics. Beck Hanson’s music has always been a rich, diverse fusion of rock, country, and electronic influences. But nothing emotional was at stake until he stripped away the bells and whistles, revealing a crushing frankness and a bittersweet wit. If it isn’t quite as honest as Björk’s best music, it is only more fascinating as a result.

Before he was America’s John McEnroe for the new millennium, Ryan Adams was the driving force behind alt-country’s Whiskeytown, whose 2001 album Pneumonia may be the purest expression of the form by a band not named The Jayhawks. Alt-country takes country music’s impeccable taste and leaves behind its corny lyrics. Pneumonia features Adams’ most consistent and satisfying songwriting, and the arrangements are characteristically expert. No road trip should be deprived of this soundtrack.

I could go on forever, filling more volumes than Gibbon did when he wrote all that stuff about Rome. But let’s not talk about music. Let’s listen to it.

At the Blue Note and the Village Vanguard, where you can still rub shoulders with Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter. The masters of Jazz, one of our most magnificent art forms, are dying. See them while you still can. Let them bring you music.

At the Met, where Hei-Kyung Hong, a soprano with a voice as strong and as lilting as any I can imagine, sings several roles each season. Go see her before opera passes you by forever. Let her bring you music.

At Bowery Ballroom and Irving Plaza and Hammerstein, where the “next big thing” will only cost you a sawbuck or two. Catch them before someone else does. Let them bring you music. And beer.

At Carnegie Hall and Avery Fisher Hall, where the gigantic torch of classical music burns as brightly as ever. Let well-dressed, immaculately groomed violinists bring you music. Let them bring it to you and change your life.

There is enough music out there for all of us. The best songs, across all genres and eras, are the ones that sound awkward at first listen, with their strange chords and shifting tempos, but inevitably find the deepest corners of your soul. The best songs reflect versions of ourselves we didn’t even know existed. That can be intimidating. And exhilarating. And frustrating.

That’s music. Pass it on.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Spring 2004

Taking Him Out to the Ballgame

2003-11-11T23:49:00.000-05:00

It was the worst day of my life.

My family had gathered en masse at a local restaurant to celebrate my father’s 65th birthday, and my nearly-five-year-old nephew Zachary, shy and coached by my younger brother Jon, approached and stood, staring, at my side. “Go ahead,” said my brother. “Tell Uncle Michael what you told me.”

“I like the Mets,” said Zachary, an evil smirk crossing his face.

I shared a stunned, exasperated look with Jon.

“How did this happen?” I asked, half expecting to wake up, screaming and sticky with sweat, from this nightmare. “Who would do this to a child?”

We decided that Zachary had been poisoned by a friend at camp or school, some other lemming led blindly into the abyss of broken-hearted fandom. We wanted better for our nephew. He had a photo of the 1998 Yankees, the best baseball team I’ve ever seen in the flesh, hanging above his bed. He’d been born into the promise of greatness, endless World Championships at his fingertips. We‘d envisioned a navy blue and white clad Zachary, posters of Derek Jeter and Jorge Posada papering his bedroom walls, driving down to the Canyon of Heroes with his friends to watch the latest version of the Yankees parade through the streets of lower Manhattan. We’d dreamed of him playing baseball for his high school team, the number “2” ironed to his back in tribute to his Yankee hero. We’d even had the audacity to picture him in pinstripes, patrolling the outfield at Yankee Stadium or, God help us, taking over at shortstop.

And now this.

If he’d said, “Uncle Michael, I like the Red Sox,” I’d have hurt less. The Mets were unacceptable. If he liked the Red Sox, at least we could laugh at him. With the Mets, all we’d have is pity.

We decided to take drastic action. It was time for Zachary’s first ball game. We were going to the Bronx.

And so it was that my older brother David, his wife Melissa, Zachary, his younger sister Emily, Jon and I ended up on 161st Street and River Avenue to watch the Yankees play the Devil Rays on a Saturday afternoon. Why the Devil Rays? We needed a win for this to work.

We put on the full court press: caps at the Yankee store, genuine ballpark hot dogs, cotton candy, jumbo pretzels, and of course, peanuts and Cracker Jacks.

After we put on his new Yankee cap, I pretended to mistake him for Jeter. “Holy cow,” I shouted, “It’s Derek Jeter!”

“No, it’s not, Uncle Michael,” he said, removing the cap to spoil the illusion. “It’s Zachary!” We were off to a smashing start.

Jon and I patiently explained the ins and outs of Yankeeland to him: the Bleacher Creatures and Roll Call, the unique call and response between the players and fans; the rousing, 5th-inning “YMCA” led by the grounds crew; the 7th-inning stretch, complete with “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and Cotton Eye Joe.

Sometime in the middle innings (I was too delirious to remember which inning precisely), Zachary asked, “Are we winning?” We, not they. I was beside myself with glee.

When, apropos of nothing, he turned to me a short while later and said, “The Mets strike out,” I nearly had a stroke. It was working. There was hope.

As for the game, we couldn’t have asked for anything more: not one, but two Bernie Williams home runs to mark his 35th birthday, a dramatic, late-inning Yankee victory, and Mariano Rivera jogging in from the bullpen in the ninth to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.”

I sang along with Frank Sinatra as we walked, exhausted, through the tunnels of the Stadium and into the cool, late summer air. “Start spreading the news,” I sang, oblivious to the sneering onlookers. “I’m leaving today…”

Zachary was trudging along, holding his father’s hand, hat pulled down over his eyes, shoulders slumped. He wasn’t even paying attention to the show his uncle was putting on for his benefit. Right then, he was just a tired little boy with a whole mess of new sensations to sort out: the sounds and smells of the ballpark, the rules of the game, the attempted brainwashing. It was obvious he needed to sleep on all of this.

As we said goodbye in the shadow of a building in which Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle had played baseball, I took off his hat and mussed his hair. “So, that’s baseball,” I said. “What do you think?”

“I’m tired,” he said. “Are you coming home with us in our car?”

I milled around for a little while after they left. The subway platform is always mobbed after games anyway, and I had some things to sort out myself. Maybe baseball isn’t our national pastime anymore, but no one’s sitting around planning the perfect trip to Madison Square Garden or Giants Stadium. There’s something different about baseball, something that makes us want to take more care of it than other diversions. Do we speak of basketball with the same reverence? Do we worry about the way our football players “carry themselves” on the field? Baseball’s just different.

Maybe it won’t be the same for Zachary’s generation, the way it just hasn’t been the same for us as it was for our parents. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to pass on the joy of the Game. If he can’t appreciate the nuances until he’s older, and even if he never grabs hold of it the way I did, at least he’ll have that day, when his parents and his uncles took him to the ballpark to see the Yankees. The day Bernie hit two home runs on his birthday. The day he got his Yankee cap. The day he saw Derek Jeter for the first time.

Mission accomplished.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Nov/Dec 2003

We're Not Special

2003-08-11T23:45:00.000-04:00

Listen up. This is important.

We're not special.

I know this may be difficult for you to hear, given that your specialaciousness seems so sparkling and pervasive to you, but I think it's about time you heard the truth. Unless you can bend spoons, you are almost certainly not all that. Someone had to say it.

Here's where we're at: you have at your disposal hundreds, maybe even thousands, of puny details about the human digestive system. You can expound poetically on the wonders of neuroendocrine tumors. In any given room, you are the authority on perirectal abscesses and anal fistuli. Congratulations. You're a star!

Glamorous as it may seem to be the resident know-it-all, an unfortunate consequence of being medical students is that we haven't looked up from our books all that much. In the words of Ferris Bueller, "Life moves pretty fast—if you don't stop to look around once in a while, you could miss it."

One of the many perils of a life in medicine results from exposure to a gaggle of nosocomial infections that can threaten the very fabric of your character. The most serious of these ailments are the IRS (I'm Really Something) virus and hyperplasia of the ego, both of which can prove fatal to humility and general good will and can, even in their mildest forms, eliminate you from my inner circle. That should bother you.

The thing is we're medical students. We're supposed to know things about medicine. If you're reading as much as you say you are and you don't know a thing or two, well, maybe you need glasses. Having access to minutiae doesn’t make us special. It’s true that you could win millions on Medical Jeopardy, but you think I care?

"But we are responsible for human lives," you say. "We lay our hands on people." If those things made a person special, then airline pilots and masseuses would be revered as movie stars. Talk about happy endings!

Oh, and Alec Baldwin? He’s special.

What I'm trying to say is simple: in this day and age, honesty and integrity are just about the only things that can set a person apart from your average Joe. Sure, genius can make a fellow interesting, but I have yet to meet a genius in the flesh. When I do, you'll be the first to know.

Auto mechanics can replace your carburetor and change your oil. Plumbers can fish the hairballs out of your pipes. Doctors can perform splenectomies and prescribe the appropriate antibiotics for your staph infection. Big whoop! I can pat my head and rub my belly at the same time.

A physician at one of Mount Sinai's gleaming affiliates once told me that intelligence can actually hamper a good physician. A strong work ethic, he said, is prerequisite, but intelligence can be the kiss of death. If you don't agree, ask yourself this: would any intelligent person sign up for this?

Now, some of you may be thinking, “I’m special! I really, really am!” Well, maybe that’s true, but it probably isn’t because you’re in Medicine. Too many of us use this career (and it is a career, just like accounting) as a get-out-of-jail-free card. We volunteer to help the homeless, we donate blood, we dedicate ourselves to caring for the underprivileged. Our chests expand with self-satisfaction and our egos swell like floats at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but do you really think we’re so different from everyone else? Doctors sometimes cheat on their taxes. Doctors lie from time to time. Some even pay cash money to see Sandra Bullock movies. We’re not special. You’ll be a better doctor if you just accept it.

So, if our school has chosen appropriately, we are the hardest working, most diligent bunch they could dig up on short notice. I'm impressed, as much with myself as with you.

There are millions of similarly gifted individuals out there waiting to take our places. We are not an endangered species. We’re not special. Say it with me.

Be generous. Be sincere. Be compassionate. We may not be special, but that’s no reason to stop trying.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Aug/Sep 2003

This Business of And

2003-03-11T23:42:00.000-05:00

I have a piece of paper at home, a very expensive piece of paper, which was given to me by a man who’s probably never seen Star Wars. Peter Likins was the president of Lehigh University in 1993, the year I graduated from college with a degree in Journalism and a distinction in Spending Time with my Girlfriend. That piece of paper is all I have to show for my collegiate efforts, which were less than substantial.

I sat through hours upon hours of lectures and seminars (you may know them as small group discussions) whose sole purpose was to assassinate adjectives and strangle, once and for all, the run-on sentence. Far be it for me to challenge the rules of Journalism, which have worked so well for so many, steamrolling the art of description in newspapers and periodicals the world over and governing the literary lives of commas, parentheses, quotation marks, hyphens, colons, semicolons, apostrophes, and that bastard child of all punctuation, the ellipsis, but the run-on sentence, as far as I’m concerned, deserves better. And don’t get me started on the sentence-opening and or but. Or or, for that matter.

One day in the 19th Century, Charles Dickens wrote this sentence: “There are chords in the human heart — strange, varying strings — which are only struck by accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual touch.”

His editor took one look at the monitor, and with a few clicks of his mouse, whittled Chuck’s sentence down to the following literary pearl:“I was looking for love in all the wrong places.”

I have a theory, but I’m warning you, it’s pretty out there. Punctuation should be used to punctuate prose. I am a notorious abuser of commas. I insert them here and there haphazardly, with little regard for form or precedent. But it isn’t really haphazard. When I use a comma, I expect the reader (that’s you) to pause for effect, to rest awhile before soldiering on into the void that is my imagination. Grammatical dictators, or benevolent bullies of the English language as they are known to some, would have you believe that I’m a heretic for suggesting you ignore the rule of law. And before you go Henry Hyde-ing me, obese, inebriated congressman do not have a monopoly on cliché.

I say, “Bunk!” Stick out your chest, straighten your back, and tell your English teachers to take a flying leap. If you’re stuck for eloquent barbs, try this one: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” Keep in mind, this is coming from a man who keeps an AP Stylebook with him at all times and has been known to spell check his e-mails.

It’s all about communication, ya hear? James Joyce wasn’t exactly sleeping with the rulebook under his pillow when he wrote Ulysses, if you know what I mean. Bad example, says you. My drift, you catch. Heart. Yes and yes and yes.

So go nuts! Be generous with your commas! Go ahead and open that sentence with an and like you’ve always wanted to. Run on and on and on for all I care. I won’t correct you.

You might even win a Pulitzer. Just ask Annie Proulx. Or don’t. Either way.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: March/April 2003

The Argonath

2003-01-11T23:36:00.000-05:00

This evening, I found myself trudging deliberately through the snow-covered streets of my old neighborhood in a rented Buick, hail disrupting the beams of my headlights and drumming angrily against my windshield. I was risking life and limb for three men I’ve never met, John McPhee, Ian Frazier, and Joseph Mitchell, and it was all Susan Orlean’s fault.

I received an e-mail from her this afternoon, in which she recommended, at my request, several writers I might find interesting. I was on my way to the local bookstore to check out some of their work.

Susan Orlean is a writer for the New Yorker, whose book, The Orchid Thief, is the basis for Spike Jonze’s new movie Adaptation. Meryl Streep’s character in the film is called Susan Orlean, but she bears about as much resemblance to the real Susan Orlean as I do to Pamela Anderson. Screenwriter Charlie Kaufman dressed her up a bit, so to speak, shackling her with some rather unattractive character flaws in the name of Art. Hooray for Art!

The real Susan Orlean, if I may judge by her stories, is a talented writer with a fascinating life, but, and I say this will all due respect, she could’ve killed me. The roads were that bad.

The risk of bodily harm aside, the ride was quite nostalgic for me. It was not the first time I’d driven through a hailstorm in a rented car. I was once trapped in what I can only call a hail holocaust in the mountains outside Cortez, Colorado. It was the summer of 2001, and I was on my way to Mesa Verde National Park, one of 20 national parks I visited that July and August.

For some people, the Road never calls. For me, she rose up with a siren song in the summer between my first and second years of medical school. When the Road comes for you, it’s best to buckle up and let her take you where she pleases. She took me out West, to California and Joshua Tree, to Arizona and the Painted Desert, to Capitol Reef, to Cortez. I traveled alone. I was Jack freaking Kerouac, minus the sanctimonious beatnik gibberish.

I’m amazed at how much I’ve changed since then relative to my life. Upon my return, I was swept almost immediately back into the daily routine of medical school, its ebbs and flows as regular as a metronome. But in the midst of the familiar, I discovered a delicious secret: the road never stops her hypnotic song, and her gifts are sewn into the fabric of each day.

I listened almost exclusively to Rufus Wainwright’s Poses on my journey, along with what would turn out to be Aaliyah’s last album. Any time I hear that music, I am transported back to the Pacific Coast Highway with its shifting shoulders and gut-wrenching drops to the sea, to the quilted farmlands on the fringes of Los Angeles. The very mention of Curt Schilling returns me to Bank One Ballpark in Phoenix, where I watched him pitch against the Pirates the year the Diamondbacks won the World Series. At least once a day, I revisit that magical summer through some arbitrary sensory signal, like the metallic dance of hail on the roof of my car.

Toward the end of August, I took a flight out of Las Vegas to Newark Airport. As the plane taxied to the gate, I traced the skyline of Manhattan south to the Twin Towers and smiled. They had so often presided over the end of a journey for me, and finding them always helped settle my bones. I did not regard them as fleeting. They would persevere to keep watch over my grandchildren, to mark the ends of journeys not yet imagined.

Of course, they were gone less than a month later, consumed by the darkest and weakest aspects of human nature, and I feel now like a boat set adrift against the tide. My homecomings will now be punctuated by the absence of giants, not the stately glimmer of old friends.

My memories of that summer are forever linked to that horrible day in September when the world caught up with us. The images are no less therapeutic in my mind’s eye, but each snapshot is haunted by a shadow of the future. The Road, once so pure and enchanting, is littered with ghosts.

Meryl Streep plays Susan Orlean as Courtney Love. Hail baptizes a white Toyota in the western mountains. Skyscrapers vanish and reappear in photographs taken months and miles away.

Life is a whimsical architect.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Jan/Feb 2003

It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes Six Police Officers Waking You up at 5:30 in the Morning To Cry

2002-11-11T23:29:00.000-05:00

In 1936, Edward VIII, eldest son of King George V and brother of the future King George VI, abdicated the throne of England. He had no ideological or philosophical differences with his government. He bore his people no ill or malignant will. In no way did he intend to bring shame to his family or tarnish his father’s name. He was in love, and the object of his affection was an American named Wallis Simpson. His love, virtuous though it was, sparked one of those proverbial “constitutional crises” that send all those guys with powdered wigs into convulsions. Mrs. Simpson, it turned out, was divorced, twice divorced if we’re going to be completely honest, but it hardly mattered. Once would’ve done the trick.

Rather than subject his country to all that vitriol, he elected to surrender the monarchy to his younger brother, George. Pretty noble guy, if you ask me, especially if you overlook all that silly stuff about sympathizing with the Nazis. He was created Duke of Windsor, which is neat.

Why am I telling you this?

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about parting with my beloved New York City, and whenever I do that, I spend at least a moment or two waxing rhapsodic about Edward, who once turned his back on the crown.

This just in: I’m not normal.

I once wrote a piece for the Columbia Updater titled Autumn in New York. At the time, I was convinced that autumn was my favorite time of year in New York City. As October fades into November though, and it fades, don’t let anyone tell you differently, I find myself looking forward to December and the day they put that bow on the Cartier building, that gigantic red ribbon that seems to wrap this whole city in a tidy, stocking-sized package.

It turns out winter, not autumn, is my favorite time of year in Manhattan.

Bundle up and take a stroll down Fifth Avenue past the Plaza Hotel. Mingle with the families on line in front of FAO Schwartz, a line that can trail off for blocks as Christmas approaches. Smell the roasted chestnuts in the air and buy a bag to nibble on while you walk. Ride the elevator up to the observation deck at the Empire State Building. Wear mittens. Rent Hannah and Her Sisters. Run with scissors.

If you aren’t aware that you live in one of the greatest cities since Troy, then you are failing in your quest to be alive. Don’t forget why you’re really here. If I have to tell you, you probably can’t be helped.

I’ve lived here almost my entire life, which is really saying something. I’m 217 dog years old. In all that time, I’ve never felt as though I knew what would happen on any given day. New York surprises me, and she almost always does it in style. A few months ago, she had six of her police officers wake me up at 5:30 in the morning by banging ferociously on my bedroom door. Evidently they were acting on an anonymous tip from Oklahoma alleging that children were being beaten and abused in our lavish Aron Hall digs. I’m not making this up.

Now isn’t that a wonderful surprise?

Manhattan is very much a feline. She’ll purr like a motorboat if you stroke her right, but she’s not averse to whipping out her claws if you take her for granted. And if you’re not careful, you’re liable to find a dead mouse in your slipper.

Needless to say, I remain a loyal fool when it comes to my island, and I have no real intention of leaving anytime soon. I will always feel the pull of Charing Cross Road in London and Paris’ Left Bank. I have an unexplainable attraction to Chicago and even a bizarre, romantic notion that I will someday have a life near Los Angeles. That’s in California.

For the time being, those loves will remain unrequited. My heart belongs to another, and I forsake all others for my sweetheart on the Hudson. We may not always get along, but we’re in this thing together, for better or for worse. Something tells me the Duke would understand.

(Author’s note: Under no circumstances should you run with scissors. It’s dangerous and it looks weird.)

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Nov/Dec 2002

Existential Attorneys

2000-10-11T23:24:00.000-04:00

There’s a man in England who has read all of Charles Dickens’ novels, excepting Our Mutual Friend. He claims he always wants the great Victorian writer’s last completed work on his shelf for a rainy day, that the weight of the world would be too much to bear without John Harmon and Lizzie Hexam to look forward to. Boloney! He’s a masochist.

That’s what I would have told you three years ago, but I’ve changed. I’m a new man. It seems I’ve kept a few things in my back pocket as well. I’ve never been to Roosevelt Island, for example. I have yet to see a movie in Bryant Park. And I’ve been here 29 years!

I just feel there’s a time and a place for everything, and the circumstances just haven’t been right for the Staten Island Ferry. The appropriate girl hasn’t presented herself either, for that matter.

I have, however, seen quite a few things in my time and place, many of them during my tour of duty at Columbia.

While waiting for a bus on 79th Street and 3rd Avenue, I was once attacked by a giant cellular phone. As it turns out, it was actually a person disguised as a phone (a sales gimmick, I’m told), but I was still offended. I punched him in the mute button.

Know what I mean?

I can’t promise that Manhattan will provide the same excitement for you, but if you play your cards right, you can have yourself a time, and maybe leave a chip or two in the old vault, so to speak. For example:

You can spend New Year’s Eve with 10,000 strangers on a 5K run through Central Park. The fireworks are on me.

You can see an opera at the Met. Here’s how: Buy orchestra standing room tickets for $16 apiece on Saturday for a weeknight opera. Stand for two acts, then wait at the exit and ask the deserters for their stubs. For your summer Puccini fix, grab a blanket and some champagne for one of the June performances in Central Park. Damn the mosquitoes.

You can kill time expertly at the Met (the other Met). Admission is free with a CUID.

By all means, catch a jazz show at the Village Vanguard or any one of New York’s other world-renowned clubs. What’s stopping you?

For setting your bones, there is no finer refuge than Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Midtown. Remove your hat, please.

Speaking of cathedrals, take the 4 train to Yankee Stadium and give my regards to Yogi. Remember: 90% of Chemistry is physical, the other half’s mental.

I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life.

Here’s how you should live your life: Study a little. Pay attention a lot. You’re a postbacc, not a machine.

Did I mention the attorney? There’s a man who often rides the M79 crosstown bus. He carries a framed photograph with him of a young man in uniform. “I’m an attorney,” he tells his fellow travelers. “I was a handsome man.” He’s right. And I’d bet my boots he’s had himself a time, even if he’s never been to Roosevelt Island.

Columbia University Updater: Volume 6, Issue 1, Fall 2000

Reasonable Insanity

2000-05-11T23:14:00.000-04:00

Jacob Aron Tumblety walked into the room whistling, "Maybe," the tune from Annie. The room was his sixth grade homeroom, and the date was January 30th, 2174.

Jacob had green hair and red eyes. He walked with a limp. To hide it, he improvised a wild tic, thrashing his head from side to side as he moved. The limp was barely noticeable.

He took a seat in the back of the room and rested his elbows on the desk. His elbows were purple, and they complimented the orange skin of his arms beautifully. Purple elbows were a symbol of great wealth and power in those days. Can you imagine?

Jacob's shoes were fashioned from cotton candy. The blue kind. This was not a sign of great wealth and power. Jacob just liked the way they looked.

His belt was an uncommonly long string of peppermint licorice.

The bell rang. When I say the bell rang, I mean, of course, that a two-foot-tall architect stood in the doorway and screamed, "Okay," at the top of his lungs. The architect's name was Fred.

The teacher taught. The children learned. And so on and so on...

By noon, Jacob was thirsty. I mean really thirsty. Lunch wasn't for another hour. He raised his hand.

"Yes, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly. Jacob stood like a good boy.

"I'm thirsty," said Jacob.

"And?" said Miss Billingsly.

"And I'd like a drink of water, please," said Jacob.

"And what color are the walls, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly.

"Um," said Jacob. The walls were green. Jacob knew this. No one else seemed to.

"What color are the walls, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly, her lips trembling.

"Green, Miss Billingsly," mumbled Jacob. The class gasped. Jacob's shoulders sank. Miss Billingsly frowned.

"Jacob Aron Tumblety, I will not tolerate this nonsense any longer!" said Miss Billingsly. "Sit back down and remain quiet until the lunch bell." By the lunch bell, Miss Billingsly meant Fred.

Can anyone help Jacob answer the question correctly?"

Janet Maslin raised her hand. She was not related to the famous movie critic.

"Yes, Janet," said Miss Billingsly kindly.

"The walls are white," said Janet.

"Thank you, Janet," said Miss Billingsly. "I'll be sure to mention this to your parents when we next meet."

Janet returned to her seat. She was gloating with her face.

The teacher taught. The children learned. And so on and so on...

By noon the next day, Jacob was thirsty. He was thirsty around noon every day.

He raised his hand. The class sighed.

"Yes, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly. Jacob stood like a good boy.

"I'm thirsty," said Jacob.

"And?" said Miss Billingsly.

"And I'd like a drink of water, please," said Jacob.

"And what color are the walls, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly.
"Um," said Jacob. The walls were green. Jacob knew this.

"What color are the walls, Jacob?" said Miss Billingsly, her lips trembling.

"The walls are white," said Jacob. The class gasped. Jacob's shoulders sank. Miss Billingsly looked confused. "Um," she said.

"May I have a drink of water, please," said Jacob.

"You certainly may," said Miss Billingsly, swelling with pride. She disappeared into the hall. Jacob's classmates turned to stare at him.

"Way to go," said his friend Roger Ebert. He was not related to the famous movie critic.

Miss Billingsly returned with a glass full of blue liquid and placed it on Jacob's desk.

"You've earned this," said Miss Billingsly. Everyone was watching.

"What is this, Miss Billingsly?" said Jacob. It smelled like Windex.

"Why, it's water," said Miss Billingsly, a confused look in her eyes.

"But..." said Jacob.

"But what?" said Miss Billingsly. "I thought you were thirsty, Jacob."

"I am, but..." said Jacob.

"That's enough, Jacob," said Miss Billingsly. "Drink up. We mustn't waste class time."

Jacob looked around the room at his friends. They were still staring. He gulped down the Windex. It was awful.

"That hit the spot," said Jacob.

Dedicated to everyone who never doubted that the walls were green.

Columbia University Updater: Volume 5, Issue 3, Late Spring, 2000

Notes From the Whistle-Stop Tour

2000-04-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

The Germans were poised at the border between Belgium and France. Von Kluck's army would anchor the massive right wing assault designed to envelop the overmatched French troops in the late summer of 1914. The Great War was a puzzled child, but the smell of doom was everywhere. In a moment, the world would disintegrate into madness. Yippee!

I'm reading Barbara Tuchman's The Guns of August in the cheap seats. I gather we're somewhere over Ohio. I have no cookies. They have champagne in First Class.

I am a medical school applicant. Pleased to meet you. My name is Michael. I'm a genius, but I guess you already know that from my file. Lean in a bit closer. I'll tell you a secret. I'm a humanitarian, an altruist. No kidding. I really care about people. I'm swelling with empathy.

In New Orleans, I was asked whether or not I've had a hair transplant. That was my first interview. Though I don't know it yet, I will be asked to define creativity in approximately 24 hours. Right now I'm pretending to be asleep for the benefit of the gentleman to my right. Evidently, he feels close to me.

I've been around. Here's the skinny:

Pay attention to your clothes. You'll be surprised at all the tan and purple and powder blue. Do not wear white shoes. Be neat. Wash behind your ears. Be kind to your fellow applicants. Tell yourself a joke in the conference room. Sit in the seat nearest the admissions representative. Prepare intelligent questions. Don't forget to ask them. Keep a handkerchief handy for your brow. Tell an interesting or amusing story during your interview. Bring a great book and a good book. Read the great one on the plane. Read the good one if you can't sleep. Pass this onto your web browser: www.interviewfeedback.com. Bring an umbrella (I can't stress this one enough). Stay long enough to explore the city. Talk to the students. Sit up straight. Eat your vegetables.

Tell the truth, even if you’re afraid it will hurt you. Honesty is prerequisite for real life. You can quote me.

Relax. It’s a piece of cake, and you’re a knockout.

Columbia University Updater: Spring 2000

Autumn in New York

1999-10-11T23:06:00.000-04:00

How I wish that somewhere there existed an island for those who are wise and of good will."

- Albert Einstein

A famous playwright once suggested that the only thing missing from the Statue of Liberty is Dante’s inscription from the gates of hell: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Can you believe that?! What nerve! I‘m not going to diminish myself by launching into a defensive tirade, and I won’t even dignify the author by naming him publicly. I will begin and end my rebuttal thusly: Pygmalion was a pile of offensive, smoldering refuse until Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn got their hands on it.

I feel better.

Evidently, George Bernard Shaw never visited New York City in the Fall.

Autumn in New York means opening night at the Met, where no fewer than three complete Ring cycles will be staged this season. It marks the end of SummerStage and Shakespeare in the Park, but the beginning of a new season of the Ballet and the Philharmonic.

Autumn in New York means George the Monkey will help Professor Budick demonstrate the wonders of projectile motion to a new battalion of postbaccs, and a new film by Woody Allen will magically appear. (Note: Soon-Yi’s husband has been unusually productive of late. Following the release of Sweet and Lowdown, his 1999 fall project, he will star in Picking Up the Pieces and Company Man before directing Small Time Crooks, set for release in the spring of 2000.)

And for those of you raised outside the tri-state area, we have this little thing in October called the World Series.

What once was cotton and silk and tangerine is now copper and plaid. The city is draped in corduroy, painted in rust and wool, and the soundtrack is John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, and Helen Merrill. The streets are rolling with ghosts.

New York is more than crowded subway cars and stuffy classrooms, swarming masses and car alarms. Until you’ve seen Central Park in Fall, you haven’t seen it in its glory. The air is crisp, the leaves are ablaze with color, and the Soup Nazi is open for business.

Columbia University Updater: Volume 5, Issue 1, Fall 1999

Pathology

1999-04-11T23:03:00.000-04:00

On this, the 75th anniversary of our great nation, I feel it is my duty to set pen to paper in tribute to His Glory, the Omnipotent Pathologist Howard Smythe. On this date in the year 2134, He bravely instigated the First Great Leap Forward by abolishing public speaking on grounds that it constituted noise pollution.

Only the oldest among us had the misfortune to live in the days before the Spontaneous Rhetorical Revolution (initiated by the aforementioned proclamation), when words were passed thoughtlessly between men and veiled the air like filthy snowflakes. In those days, simply walking the streets was an act of supreme courage, whereby one risked exposure to incidental verbal oppression at the hands of passing pedestrians. It was not uncommon, for example, to overhear venomous expressions like youthful indiscretion, new age music, and
Leonardo DiCaprio.

In the latter part of the 20th Century, American society was the canvass for the first of many failed attempts to fashion another Eden, the mythical garden depicted in the first book of the Old Holy Bible (this classic novel is worth the search). Known as the Age of Political Correctness, it was a chaotic chapter in the history of that failed community, an era that saw the manipulation of language in the name of appearances.

Nearly 150 years would pass before His Fantasticness rose to prominence as a member of the fledging Pathologist Party under a slogan enthusiastically provided by the estate of former American President Abraham Lincoln: "Better to be thought of as a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

During his campaign for the position of Supreme Being, he introduced a controversial platform that included a plan to end theft by requiring all citizens to surrender their desirable property. He convinced all within earshot that the Utopian dream could be realized only through the leadership of a benevolent despot. We are grateful for his efforts and flattered by his interest. Amen.

Since His emergence, we have all reveled in the sheer perfectness of it all and basked in the warmth of our own amazingness, always, it should be noted, in precious, uninterrupted silence.

I close on this day of worship with the words of 19th Century British writer George Eliot (aka Mary Ann Evans): "Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact."

Columbia University Updater: Volume 4, Issue 2, Spring 1999

I Am Early

1997-11-11T22:55:00.000-05:00

I am early, and I take an inconspicuous seat somewhere in the middle of the hall. My classmates begin to file in, unevenly at first, but before long the room is in the full sweep of a storm. It is a siege of huge, confused eyes and Columbia tee-shirts and lead pencils and high-top sneakers. I catch bits and pieces of conversations, and stifle a smile on words like Dorm and Roommate and Alannis. I am trying to hide behind my own face.

I find myself thinking about my first class in college. Dan Quayle was Vice President. Miles Davis was still alive. Kurt Cobain was not only alive, but anonymous. I hadn't really read Dickens, yet. Or Nabakov. Or Vonnegut. Jerry Garcia was still thin. Okay, it wasn't that long ago.

After some time, the professor joins us, fumbles with his microphone, introduces himself. He is going over the syllabus. I look for an extra pencil for the girl in front of me. She has pimples. I had pimples once, back when Johnny Carson was hosting the Tonight Show. I never thought I'd miss them.

I'm feeling particularly out of place, and I'm wondering if I really made the right decision in coming back to school. My only consolation is that the professor seems to be relating to me somehow, always seeking me out to mark his points. I am horrified when I realize he is not making eye contact, but seems rather interested in my hairline. I am acutely aware that he and I share the same one.

I wonder if I stand out as much as I think I do. I get my answer when the kid next to me addresses me as, "Sir," when he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

After fielding what seems like a thousand questions from the floor, the professor releases us to the beautiful September day.

I wait a while, until nearly everyone has gone. My back aches. Outside in the sunlight, my head clears, stops spinning. I make my way past the Chemistry building, the Mathematics building, Lewisohn Hall. Someone asks me if I know where to find the Computing Center. I shake my head and smile. I'm bathing in warmth and certainty. The future is everywhere. My hands are on the wheel.

I descend into the subway and lean against the walls of the city. My train will be here any minute. I am right where I belong.

Columbia University Updater: Volume 3, Issue 2, November 1997