On Fairness

CLEVELAND [July 2, 2005] -- The rhythmic pounding lasted an hour or more – always - drumming up from the identical bedroom below. Neighbors, but not friends, the couple above tried to sleep. This early Sunday morning ritual was constant and a firm, if not passionate reminder that the folks downstairs were serious about sex. There were plenty of nights when the same song rose through the rafters. There were times when the human ticking invaded deep dreams and ratcheted one or both of the people on the second floor from sound sleep.

It was relentless and the assumption was that the two middle-aged people had found the secret to carnal bliss: Machine Man and Lady Insatiable. It's just not fair.

It wasn’t long before another sound accompanied – or replaced - the early morning erotica. The bathroom being the next room over in the matching floor plans, presented a different reality: vomiting, hard, painful and regular vomiting. The upstairs wife recognized this new feature instantly. It was morning sickness. But the downstairs wife was in her forties and the prospect of adding to the family of two girls, one teenaged and one considerably younger, seemed remote. It certainly was not wise while living in a two bedroom duplex. Other things drifted from the apartment as well: the smell of burning bacon and the sounds of intense arguing.

This long ago stop-over in a line of relatively few moves came to mind after hearing – for the hundredth time – that, “it’s just not fair!” In the estimation of some supporters, it is not fair that The Radio Murders are still on the market and have not yet secured a deal. It is as though fairness had any role in the process. It does not. This is a competition, and not just to determine who might be the better story-teller, but there are countless things at play. Leaning these lessons is both painful and encouraging.

Using techniques gleaned in the pursuit of radio ratings, one must play to the diary-keepers. It is a little-known fact that success in media, especially radio and TV depends on relatively few in the audience. They are the ones who agree to participate in the surveys and they are the ones who live in areas where market researchers know that returns are likely. These locations are known as Hot Zips: five little digits that represent the gallery of thumbs. Is it up, or down? Within that set is a subset: First Preference (P1) through Fourth Preference (P4). Anything below that simply does not register.

These areas are also delineated by income and the likelihood of spending those funds. Is it Wal-Mart or Nordstrom’s? Chevy Pick-ups or Lexus? Sizzler or Morton’s? All this information dictates the next move, the next product, the next promotion or the next song.

The same can be true of the next author. Without direct knowledge, one suspects that publishing houses and the small infantry of editors have plans in mind. They know how to spend their money in order to make more money; as much as possible. There are research and anecdote, experience and gut feelings that the next book will be bought by Amber X and she will want to read Y written by Z. It is already decided before you write your first sentence.

Fair? No. But one can beat the system. It is done all the time. It is all a matter of timing and playing to the editor who has a marketing plan. All she needs is the book, or books to fill it. The Radio Murders is designed to fill that need. Six addictive episodes, most stand alone and all lead the reader forward, or back, to the next book. We are not looking for fairness here. Just a good fit.

As for the family downstairs in that distant memory; after awhile the true picture of life crowded out the earlier impression. It was definitely not good sex. Machine Man was a mechanic – ironically enough – with a noticeable scar in his scalp. A metal plate was required to shore up his skull after a severe injury in Vietnam. It also left him with random gaps in reason and perception. His wife – they had only been married a year - was a nurse and worked nights and weekend. Sundays until eleven in the morning.

It was the fourteen-year-old daughter with the morning sickness.

When To Hold 'Em

CLEVELAND [July 5, 2005] -- Success verses failure can be summed up in a simple equation: (Confidence + Persistence) > fear. This message is often conveyed by those who have made their fortune and are looking back; wistfully remembering late rent and crushing dismissal of their contributions. But perhaps it is more convincing when the same attitude is taken by someone who has not quite reach the goal. Could it be that faith has more clarity when money worries are still pressing and validation from the gatekeepers of the publishing world remains elusive?

Who sees the win while still running the race? The winner does. There is knowledge, a basic belief that the next step, the next sentence, the next opportunity to market and promote is the proper course of action. Doubt does enter ones mind – we are human – but it is quickly supplanted by work. Confidence plus persistence means you believe in what you are doing and the only thing stopping you is a little drop into the comfort zone of the consumer. If these two characteristics are greater than fear – the fear of failure, of loss, of humiliation – then the long odds begin to swing in your favor.

There is a common belief that highly successful people have at least seven things in common. Books have been written, seminars have been bought and paid for and countless industries have adopted this principle, radio included. These habits – first articulated by Stephen Covey - range from dogged pursuit of an ideal to motivating others to a willingness to understand the goals of others and incorporate them into your own.

But there is something else that is only discussed as almost an afterthought in these profiles: the constant battle with fear. In terms of the touted Seven Commandments of Success, it is buried in the last Habit and then wrapped in the armor of Courage. All successful men and women appear courageous. The highly unsuccessful are perhaps more courageous when faced with seemingly impossible living conditions and stunted hope. Watch a single mother on the train, struggling with kids and the hours of underpaid work creased in her face. That takes courage. Avoiding the lure of drugs and alcohol when everything seems lined up against you, that deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Yet before there is courage, there is fear: the race against time when talent is tested and the goal seems out of reach. Not just beyond the fingertips, but way, way over the horizon. It is a formidable foe and can turn a good idea into a discarded notion, cast aside for the status quo. That is what we face on this side of the deal.

Perhaps there should be a Habit 8 of Highly Effective People: Vision and Patience. One must know, without a second of doubt, that tomorrow or the next day the rewards of good work will come. Confidence plus persistence; it will happen, so keep working at it.

If this sounds like a writer trying to shore up his willingness to continue the struggle, seeing resources beginning to drain and wondering if there is any possibility of reaching those lofty goals, then you certainly have Habit 5 down. We understand each other.

The House of Books

CLEVELAND [July 7, 2005] -- There is a house on a well-traveled road that seems to beckon. It sits on an ill-kept lot surrounded by ancient trees and abandoned fields. As with many old homes in this area, the front of the property is not very deep, no more than fifteen or twenty feet in some cases. This red-washed farm house is close enough to the road to betray the insides of rooms, even at forty miles an hour. Things are stacked on window sills and even the darkness reveals hideous wall paper and a mustiness that is almost felt as one drives by. If not for the obvious signs of life – an old pick-up, a listless blue tick hound lounging under a silver maple – an observer might believe the place as dead as the uprooted fur lodged into the cut of the weeded rise.

But it is not dead. One imagines that it is very much alive. The things stacked in the windows, and for all anyone can tell deeply into the rooms, are books. Square yards of books, burial mounds of books, furnishings of books. It is a place where reality has lost all meaning, replaced by the universe of words. The driver can see the rooms. Dust drawn by the friction of pages, thick enough to remain suspended in thin strips of migrating sunlight; beds covered by periodicals and trade paperbacks, yielding worn sofas as the only resting place for the saturated mind. Crooked frames housing who knows who, from who knows when behind glass caked with soot from candles and fireplaces; the images nearly hidden from view. It would be a suitable last abode for Poe, but Hawthorne, Hemingway and Hugo are also right at home. Dinesen and Bronte, Dickinson and Eliot are equally treated. John Kennedy Toole tolerates one more day of life and Samuel Beckett spars with Oscar Wilde. Pynchon taunts Eggers on being too self-absorbed, while Bill Faulkner and Zane Grey play Texas hold ’em until dawn.

All these great men and women and their cherished community of odd, evil, good and sometimes quite normal creations live inside these crumbling walls, while the real human…well, this is the great unknown. The driver never sees a breathing soul, only those who breathed long ago – or perhaps within the time of a press run or two – and given life by the writers. The imagination pictures the homeowner growing old, while staying young and carefree on The Shire, or falling in love in Wuthering Heights. But it is the world that is withering. One evening drive-by indicates the flicker of candle light, perhaps kerosene lamps that provide one more chapter before sleep and the literary dreams that come.

A great gulf must have swept through the life inside the House of Books; an untimely death, a promise broken by a mate who spoke of the love of books, only to find the competition with immortal creations too much to bear. One almost sees children fleeing, maddened by inattentiveness. And resources shrinking to nothing, not even enough to light a dim bulb or heat a small room. Her books keep her warm, fed and illuminated.

But not immortal.

The flashing lights glance off the façade of the House of Books on that night. Aurora EMS and police sit precariously tilted on the crude driveway. A stretcher with a navy blue plastic bundle is carried out; the only care exhibited is out of respect for the dead, not a medical imperative.

The driver imagines the books – the Twain and Fitzgerald, the Milton and Chaucer, the Cervantes and Carroll, The Verne, Virgil and Voltaire – dispersed as mange-ridden cats from an overrun house. He wants to stop and offer the trunk of his car to carry away as many of the abandoned volumes as possible. But he does not; he just drives and says a small prayer for the reader who gave her life for the love of books.

Gone and Forgotten

CLEVELAND [July 10, 2005] -- It was not a shocker as much as a disappointment: the gig went to someone else. Radio was a part of this writer’s life for nearly three decades. Now, after a four year absence, it is rendered a dark hole where old girlfriends, old cars and hundreds of thousands of dollars disappear. It is not so much forgotten as it has forgotten. Once described as the ultimate, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately medium, catching up seems nearly impossible.

In the short tradition of this space, on a member page that resembles a resale shop in Wicker Park, hang on for a quick turn to the left and a broader view of an obviously painful and personal experience.

Perhaps one cannot go home. The idea that venturing down a path is more a walking away than a walking toward is one of the most disdainful of human endeavors. No one wants to admit being lost, no one wants to concede defeat and it seems no one can successfully turn back; not without severe consequences. We are All In, whether we sat for the game or not.

There is a close family member who not long ago was faced with a dilemma. This was much different from the voluntary sprint toward publishing now undertaken by this PM member. It was out of necessity. Her job was relocating and though she was underpaid and her ample skills were underappreciated, she had to make a choice. Like many African American women – far too many – this young grandmother was security blanket, moral authority and often primary financial foundation for her daughter and two children. Good men seemed elusive, though she is attractive, smart and pleasant. When a choice in companion was made, it seemed to compound the problems.

The lady is spiritual, sober and reflective, so she took a deep breath, asked trusted family about the decision and packed up for Atlanta. That was five years ago. There was little doubt that her extended family would soon follow. They did and now all are better for it.

During a recent visit she beamed that, though the road was hard and at times too rainy to see, the situation continues to improve. It was her willingness to step forward, not back that made all the difference. In the words of perhaps the most famous poem,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

It has become apparent that the most difficult road is perhaps the road backwards. When things don’t quite go our way we seem to struggle for a safer time and an easier vocation. We wonder where the resources were squandered and wish for a second chance to do it all again; to do it right this time. But it is not the end-game yet. There are accomplishments within that travel that have yet to bear fruit. There is talent that is immutable except to grow stronger.

Like the lady who moved to Atlanta, lost the job that brought her there, and then, in time found a fulfilling career, there is faith.

Have we really come this far just to fall on our faces? No. The only way this road – less traveled by or crowded to critical mass – the only way this leads to ruin is if ruin was the goal from the beginning. We writers are many things, but few, if any, are that stupid.

Letting Down Lightly

CLEVELAND [July 13, 2005] -- “Fascinatingly refreshing…” That was the close to the sentence that capped a kind kiss-off. It came in the form of one of those tiny pica e-mails from the sender’s Blackberry. We all know them when they land in our in-box. One can imagine the person at lunch thumbing out a message, misspellings and dropped copulas ignored, and then crossing that person off a list; straight-setting accomplished. The consequence of the message - a failed attempt to secure the perfect job – has been discussed. There is no need to revisit that bump in the road. But there is room for a small examination of the intent of the predicate. The potential employer was speaking of the programming candidate’s bluntness during the application process. A lack of desperation can lead to a McCainian approach (as in John McCain) to a topic. Never mind the politics, here is the way things really appear. For better or worse, that was the approach taken in explaining the good, the bad and the frightful about the radio station in need of new management. Obviously, a little candor can go a long way. And an impolitic applicant may be refreshing, even fascinatingly so, but still not hired.

Yet an editor who is candid and blunt is perfect for the job. One such professional is a frequently visited member of Publisher’s Marketplace Barbara Ellis is not in the service of this writer, but she did turn an intended two-minute conversation into a twenty-minute seminar on writing and getting published. In the course of this phone call, Ms. Ellis was more than blunt; she was everything just this side of dismissive and led the writer to a new way of thinking about the craft. “You have to know the rules before you can break them,” is perhaps cliché, but it is the most accurate and important piece of advice anyone can give. Coming from an accomplished editor means one had better rethink the approach to making a living in commercial fiction. It is still unknown whether or not that advice and the other avenues suggested will lead to success, but the conversation will always qualify as a turning point.

This early 2004 exchange came to mind while visiting Ms. Ellis’ page and noting a curious qualifier. To quote her directly: “*Please, no titles involving terrorist plots, unless you have a very strong platform to write on such.” In fairness, the story entitled The Murder gods has such a plot acting as sort of book-ends for something perhaps even more insidious. While writing the scenes and piecing together the possibilities for such an event, it became clear that we all have a platform from which to speak on the topic. Perhaps Ms. Ellis is referring to the many military thrillers or non-fiction titles she receives that involve this eschatology. Yet who among us did not feel the sheer panic and desperation felt by those on the London Tubes or the Double Decker as explosions rock a normal commuter morning? Who does not know the tentative existence, living among murderous zealots who are drunk enough with psychotic delusions to destroy innocents while often destroying themselves? It seems plain that in mid-2005 we all have a platform from which to examine the consequence of terrorism; if not intimately, then certainly on some personal level.

The space between people, places and events has diminished to a microscopic membrane. As writers, what was once a trip to the library for an afternoon of research is now a temporary click, control-T and the information is on the screen. The only limits we need place on our work are the true desire to explore the subject and the ability to mold it into an interesting, even marketable story. Yet what we do with the topic and details is still an important part of the craft. Knowing the rules is certainly important, but remaining refreshingly fascinating while executing those rules is the fun part - the hard part - and the difference between success and failure.

Pessimism by Commission

CLEVELAND [July 15, 2005] -- Living in the present is one of the hardest things a modern human can do. Our memories are short. We tend to forget the lessons of the past and fill the future with dire circumstances. Worst of all we choose to live there, in the future, condensing all the awful possibilities into one dark vision.

This is not in celebration of those visions. Rather an argument against the torture of the salesman, or pessimism on commission.

As writers we live and die by the opinion of others, most of whom are strangers. They judge our work anonymously from a safe distance. This is especially true of those who display unfinished work here on Publisher’s Marketplace and in other media. The notion that unaided, people in publishing are seeking new voices and new stories is patently false. They are not. The work of potential candidates fills their mail everyday. Agents are calling with prodigies on a regular basis and the stable of established writers is pumping out material as though on an assembly line.

But this is perhaps a good place to show the publishers something else: an understanding of the industry. This is not to say that we can become editors or marketers tomorrow. To suggest that the competent staff of an amenable imprint is not needed is an invitation to disaster. Authors must remain cognizant of the process and willing to help every step of the way. Writing and rewriting are the first steps. Editing and marketing is the toddler’s waddle and innovative PR and ultimately sales are the sprint.

This brings to mind the salesman; a professional who secures the future by reaching goals and fulfilling quotas. One suspects that few new writers are accustomed to this kind of thinking. Most are so steeped in the creative process that when the future presents itself it is cloaked in self-doubt and apprehension. But the lesson of the salesmen – the most successful people in America – is that skill, talent and hard work will win the day, even if that day is tomorrow. The future does not matter because there is so much to accomplish in the present.

It is the way it has always worked. Why should tomorrow be any different?

That is the lesson of living here, now. It was a post-freak residue from eastern philosophy and a search for meaning. It is the hardest thing for a creative person to do. We are not worthy of the notoriety we seek. How could we possibly count ourselves among the greats and near-greats who cut a narrow swath into worlds created by the written word? They make it look easy. It is not.

Yet they also pondered a dismal fate. Their first drafts were incomprehensible and their work was rejected and ridiculed – in many cases – until long after hope was lost. In some instances the great work upon which they devoted their lives never gained support, while lesser efforts finally achieved the fame and fortune they sought.

We all need a little salesman inside to get through the night. If we have done our work with care and craft, if we have listened to those who have experienced the emotions and images we are trying to convey and adjusted our egos accordingly to make a better story, then tomorrow will take care of itself.

If we place all the truly bad days, even bad moments in a jar, remove the anxiety leading up to those moments, we will see that they amount to very little. And we always bounce back. There are those who court disaster in such a way that there is reason for worry. But for those of us who try to be honest brokers with time, resources and talent, there is no need to live anywhere other than here and now.

The Dumb Old Man

CLEVELAND [July 18, 2005] -- There’s a dumb old man staying at the house. He is just four years short of seeing out a century. There is a rule that seems to apply to most post-octogenarians: a little bigotry is normal. They grew up in a time when calling grown men colored boys and ignoring the fleeing Jews from Europe was just the way it was. They saw the end of ruling kings, tsars and archdukes and the beginning of modern warfare. Many went off to fight fascism and afterward built the American dream; believing in company pensions and the security of the social contract made by their President Roosevelt. Theirs was the generation that saw nuclear annihilation first hand. And they certainly thought that was pretty cool.

This old man counts on the honesty of strangers and the care of family. He counts his money and wouldn’t have a credit card if it were made of real platinum. He took in a ballgame with his son-in-law, trusting him that the trek to the upper deck seats would not strain his old legs, or that the hotdog dinner would not cause gastric distress. He was wrong on both counts. He and his wife never miss Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, even though they can never solve the puzzles. Watching Jeopardy one is convinced he is not even certain of the answer, let alone the question.

He mixes 1940 with 1980 and remembers his ‘47 Essex with as much pride and immediacy as his ‘04 Grand Marquis. He will take the same ninety-minute drive back to the same audiologist, even though he vocally disparages the treatment he receives. The old man is so dumb that he passes two-dozen competent hearing centers just because he’d rather deal with the cheats he knows.

The height of stupidity came when he worked a deal with a bank to handle his substantial nest egg. His only concern was the monthly check he would receive in interest, and asked for the deal in those terms. When the banker gave him a number based on rates – the language of bankers – he was dumb enough to take her at her word. When the check came representing a 3.65 percentage yearly return, not $365 monthly cash, he made a spectacle of himself telling the bank manager how ashamed he should be for taking advantage of an old man.

Getting to the bathroom on time is not a given for someone so limited, and without much demand on his time, all he asks is a hearty meal at noon and something light at night. What mental midget likes Long John Silver over pricey fillet and what thinking person can sit in the sunshine for hours without disturbing even the birds?

No sparkling conversation comes to him, so he sits quietly allowing his son-in-law to work undisturbed.

This week the old guy really showed his lack of intellect. When his eighty-year-old wife fell from the bathtub, breaking her arm in the process, the dumb old man was completely frazzled. His bushy white brows twitched and drooped, while his tiny blue eyes and giant nose would not stop running. He spoke in low tones, worrying over her while her daughter and daughter’s husband bundled up the injured woman and took her to the hospital. While she was being treated he stared into space, mumbling “Istenem, Istenem,” my God, my God in Hungarian, “please help her, please don’t let her suffer. Please don’t take her from me.”

There was not much to say all that evening. He slipped behind his son-in-law’s back to grab another napkin and dab at his eyes. There was not much to say while sipping his chicken soup, except a choking, “thank you,” when he was finished.

He cannot discuss current events or the subtleties of language. Cell phones and computers confound him. But with a small, slow sadness of movement, a look at an empty easy chair and watching Jeopardy without her, he conducts a master class in love, devotion and emotional maturity.

Such a dumb old man.

Three Degrees From Everything

CLEVELAND [July 21, 2005] -- It is all connected. All the platforms have been evacuated. It has been that way for the past three weeks. Crude oil sucked from the ocean floor is safe, for the time being, from ending up in gas tanks around the world. For a few desperate hours the helicopters soared and transport vessels steamed until all but the guardian machines remained. Men and women who were already at risk in an unfriendly environment avoided becoming casualties in the dark when the winds whip to over 100 mph and the sea swells to meet the fury. It must be an inspiring sight, even if it could be one’s last. And the price of petunias goes up twenty percent.

It is all connected. This bit of news did not come from the Weather Channel or the New York Times. It was not widely reported as part of the reason we are paying nearly Canadian prices for gasoline – while the Canadians and Europeans are being correspondently gouged. It came from the owner of the local garden center. His concern was not that his trucks and heaters would run low on fuel. It was because those little black or dark green pots that serve as wombs for our decorative annuals are made from petroleum. Recycle? No such luck. The process makes fine seedling holders, but a little ultra violet rays wreaks ultra violence on the molecular structure and the containers become some future generation’s problem.

It is all connected. On a website called Friendster people who will one day have to deal with such crises link-up, in some cases hook-up and constantly keep up with others across the globe. On the site there is an interesting little stat: “you are X degrees from thirty people. XX degrees from 3,000 people and XXX degrees from 30,000 people!” The variables are decreased contingent upon the level of activity on your particular site. The Friendster this PM member knows best has an oil platform mechanic as one of her special friends. He wanted to visit while on evacuation furlough. She was conveniently out of town.

It is all connected. While taking this Friendster member on a college visit in the late summer of 2000, there was time to explore one of the Twin Cities in which she would reside for at least the next four years. On one Saturday afternoon taking in a coffee in a book store seemed just the right idea. It was not very busy and the parent had just purchased a leather-bound notebook in which word snapshots could be composed. It was, after all, a momentous occasion and both were excited by the prospects. As the conversation lightened, their eyes were drawn to the figure sitting at a card table near one of the aisles marked Mystery/Thrillers. On his table were stacks of books and behind him was a prefabricated poster with the words “Meet The Author” carefully stenciled in an arch along the top. Beneath was a date – that day’s date – and a cutout from a publisher’s promo sheet. Both were clearly temporary. The cover was too small for the rest of the sign and one had to approach the table to see who and what was being promoted by this in-store appearance. A lone man was pursuing a hardcover while the author anxiously looked on. He was glad someone had taken an interest. The fat man in the Eddie Bower sweatshirt mumbled something about the book looking boring, plopped the sample back on the table and walked away without so much as a “good-bye.” The dejected look on the author’s face was almost enough to prompt an observer to toss the newly purchased notebook and forget about the written word.

The visit went well and the young lady graduated from a fine college in St. Paul. The dejected author finally sold enough of those cyber-thrillers to find his true calling: skewering the Catholic Church. The fat man in the Eddie Bauer shirt is probably kicking himself to this day for not getting a signed copy of Digital Fortress: A Thriller.

And the observer did not discard the notebook, rather filled it with thoughts and ideas, mapping a journey that either begins or ends now. It is all connected.

People Who Amaze

Yet there are some who amaze as a matter of course. And it is not just the things they do; it is the skill and compassion with which they do them. Here are three people who amaze on a regular basis. They are not on stage or in the bookstores. They are known only to those who seek them out. They are presented in alphabetical order.

AG: This former boss used to have a picture pinned under his glass desktop. It was a fuzzy snapshot from the early sixties of a little boy in a man’s hat and very baggy pants. This was not a little boy playing dress up. His family was so poor that the six-year-old had to wear hand-me-downs from his father! AG swore he would never be poor again. Another item in the array that he saw everyday was a printed note; two words: NEVER LIE. Not Tell The Truth, or Be Honest; those are inflexible concepts. But if you never lie, you can be quite creative in what you impart to others. AG never lies, but he is blunt and has high expectations from his staff – from nearly everyone. Perhaps the most interesting thing about this super salesman and exceptional manager is that he treats everyone with the same transparent respect. It is his way of slicing through the crap. One gets the sense that he treats his kids the same way he treats a weekender at one of the many radio stations he managed. The weekender feels good about the job and AG’s five kids are crazy about their father. This observer has never known a more straight forward and successful man. He will never be poor, having achieved considerable wealth. What is amazing is that somewhere inside, he is still that little boy in the man’s hat, having the time of his life!

Moving to the B’s, we have BRB: We’ll call her Nana, because like so many African-American women in their fifties and sixties, she is mother and primary provider to at least two generations. This is not hyperbole, nor stereotyping. It is fact. By proportion there are more Black families headed by a grandmother - basically raising her children’s children - than any other group. BRB was faced with more challenges than most along the way. Recovering from addiction nearly eighteen years ago, she has become more selfless with time. She represents a category of amazing people: working everyday and advancing while struggling with the precarious balance of a difficult family dynamic. There are tens of thousands of women just like her, and amazingly enough most find a way to make it work. This observer knows one such woman who not only makes it work, but does so with good cheer and a wealth of spirit.

Finally, the M’s: As with the previous category there are many Americans who must provide for the previous generation. And the number is growing. For many this was a chore undertaken reluctantly, if at all. For MC it there is no question that when someone is needed, especially to care for the elderly, there is no sacrifice too great. MC is now devoting most of her time to her ill mother, while still providing much emotional support to her dying father; a man who some would question deserves such attention. There are many who gladly give to the parents who gave so much to them, but it is the way in which that care is provided that is amazing. MC has no concern for herself; she is there for the ones who need her most. It is not an act. It is truly amazing.

On Being Needed

CLEVELAND [July 28, 2005] -- Perhaps the worst thing about being broke, old or crazy is that no one needs you anymore. In spite of how much we complain or worry over the demands placed upon us by others, without it we are nothing.

Prisons are filled with useless human beings. How they got there or how long they stay is irrelevant. Once in the system these men and women immediately form relationships based on need. Most are illegal, immoral or just plain dangerous. Few, if any sit and do their time in the isolation of their own thoughts. This is not just an observation made from a distance. For a brief time the experience of penitentiary incarceration was real and in a foreign land. It is not something one easily forgets. Afterward it took nearly a week to regain the physical ability to look anyone in the eye. Upon reflection, it was the utter uselessness of the time spent in a little room – not really a cell, being one of Munich’s newer facilities – rather than fear or resentment that made the experience so depressing. No real exchange, no real contribution and no real community; that is the punishment and though there are plenty of crimes and plenty of people deserving such a fate, it is no less crushing.

There are many who never get within ten miles of a prison who are still living the life of an inmate. Setting aside clinical and organic causes, some are truly lonely, others are lost in the climactic disturbance of their own negative outlook and still others are just plain users. Users are probably the unhappiest people on the planet.

Being needed is the primary reason humans reproduce and that is likely the natural impetus for our infesting the planet. Being needed is the foundation for marriage and tyrants, wars and protests, love and murder.

Being needed is the driving force behind nearly all works of fiction: from inception to the word of mouth recommendation. In Michael Chabon’s fine novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, need is taken to new heights while a young man strives to become totally independent. In the opening sequences, Josef Kavalier needs his younger brother to perfect the skills of the escape artist, only to nearly lose his life. The little brother’s visceral reaction points out the two down sides to being needed: failure and addiction. As the story unfolds in a pre-war world, need becomes a commodity, bought and sold as currencies become useless. Joe’s particular skill, the ability to escape tight situations, is better than money and more durable than diamonds.

The need to be needed can also drive abhorrent behavior. In fiction this is a wonderful motivator. In the real world it can fuel crisis. There was a nurse, a psychiatric nurse who was set up as a date for a young man. The lady was attractive enough, despite the tendency for wild-eyed stares and verbal acrobatics that left the listener dizzy and a little frightened. But the two hit it off well enough and some closeness developed. The nurse had this strange need to experiment on her lovers with stolen psychotropic drugs. These were not fun; they were the kind that subdued the voices in a sick mind, yet in the sane provided those same intrusions an arena-sized sound system. The sex became tumbles in Dante’s Inferno: violent and horrible. It is still unclear to the unwitting participant, writing before you now, exactly how violent. But the horror lives to this day. She would wipe droll and scold. When the panic overtook her lover and she was bounced on her butt, she would grab a leg and call for “orderlies!” knowing full well there were only two in the apartment. By morning she was standing over the recovering patient, naked, with restraints, an oven mitt and a row of condoms, “What kind of day are we going to have today, Mr. Collins?”

We weren’t. We aren’t.

The last time the lady was spotted, she had a new playmate. This fellow appeared to be a genuine candidate for the regiment of perception-warping chemicals as she guided his stutter-steps down the crowded street, soaking up the sympathy from all who passed before the two slipped into the narrow door between storefronts. She took need to a new level.

We all need something: a pat on the back; a paycheck; a book deal; or just knowing that one's efforts are appreciated. This lonely penman appreciates your time and interest.

You Fucking Artist!

CLEVELAND [July 30] -- Artists all have one common bond: not only is their excrement fragrant, others should pay to smell it. It is true of musicians and actors, writers and athletes. The latter being artists in the extreme.

There was a fascinating commercial on TV last year. It depicted Payton Manning, the personable star quarterback, cheering on everyday ordinary people doing everyday ordinary things. The product advertised is long forgotten, but the implication was a brilliant piece of philosophy-Americana. We all have this little star in us. To borrow from Lenny Bruce, all performances are nothing more than a little kid yelling, “look at me, mom!” The commercial would not work if Mr. Manning did not have the personality for the role. One could not imagine Michael Vick, the mysterious man in them same job for the Atlanta Falcons, pulling off the same bit of theatre.

Three things come to mind in thinking about the motivation for wanting such attention: Radio, secret drunks and flea bag hotels.

Radio was a great eye-opener for a suburban kid who spent time and travel attempting to discover life and his inner being; only to discover disdain for nine-to-five. Few on the creative/performance side of radio work nine-to-five. And those who do are the ones who on average make less money. When one hears about the Stern-Limbaugh kind of money (tens of millions), one must offset that with the twenty-two year old, just out of college who is making minimum wage while simultaneously feeding nominal talent to four radio stations. Yet the draw is quite real. Part of it is the chance to taste a little fame. Among those who listen, there is a small and vocal group who will make the air personality feel special. They need to make that person feel special. This PM member spent almost no time actually On The Air. But the first night shift actually worked revealed something unforgettable. It came in a phone call from a woman who was clearly drunk. She was so enamored with the voice on the air that she did not realize she was speaking to the same person on the phone. Withering and moaning, her radio was her lover and the voice was whispering praise to her beauty between names of songs and drugstore commercials. There was no convincing the nearly incoherent woman that the voice belonged to a real person and she was talking to him. That would break the spell. She ended the call abruptly with a breathy, “keep talking…please!” (click).

Some drunks were quite opened and celebrated their bad habits. Many might know the name Tom Waits. He was a nearly homeless troubadour with a sound that was original if only because of his heavily abused voice and point of view: from the gutter. In a sane world this man would make a modest living strumming out tunes at the LaSalle El-train platform. But this was the late seventies and some record execs were busy trying to bottle genius. Not the genius of Dylan, but the genius of the man who gave Dylan is first record deal. So they searched the streets and bare-bulb dives and found this man, half-poisoned on fortified wine and nearly crushed under a morbidly obese hooker. This is only a little exaggeration.

But Mr. Waits sang about his experience in the colon of American life. The suburban white kids - the same ones who fill the blues clubs today – loved the grit and irony. The Radio station brought him in to perform once. He was treated like the star the program director at the time believed him to be: a special suite of rooms, the finest buffet and booze and some of Cleveland’s most accomplished hookers. Cleveland had some very fine hookers, probably still does. When Tom Waits saw what was done for him he spat on the carpet – a real lung-urchin veined into the sculpted wool - and said in a grinder-ripped voice, “you stay here. I gotta go.” And he left. Curious, and not wanting the star of the show to ditch the gig, we kept track of his travels. Tom found the Fillmore Gardens, a classic wino hang on Prospect near Ontario. All the money he made playing for enraptured college kids was spent on meatball sandwiches, Wild Irish Rose and Old Forrester, Camels and twenty-dollar-an-hour companions.

Tom was an artist, but if he did not feel it he could not sing about it; could not write about it. Success ruined him, no matter how hard he tried to stay the same. It seems that being an artist, a real addict of self expression capable of chronic delusion, is worse than a paradox. Calling someone an artists just might be real fighting words.

Copyright © 2005, by Charles L. Collins