The Good Old Days....

Tonight I left work and went out to an event where I had to speak in front of a bunch of strangers. On my way there I realized I needed a snack, my blood sugar was starting to call out to me for a little self care. On the way there I stopped into my favorite craptastic bodega to grab some awesome processed food product, preferably the salt flavored Planters almonds, and I mean, REALLY salt flavored. Alas, they were out.

This bodega was run by a Indian cat who usually never said anything to me, he was just a part of my Monday scenery. He always had a good Bollywood movie one or one of those hilarious Indian soap operas. I looked forward to him cause he was quietly funny. Last time I saw him another person was in there offering to buy the place and telling him how much his place was a mess (it was!) and how much he'll have to invest to make it attract business. The buyer guy was kind of a dick. The Indian guy didn't say a word.

I think he sold it.

Tonight I walked in and the place looked just as crappy. The only change was the Bollywood music was gone and my Monday scenery had changed. This old woman was behind the counter. "It's cold out!" she snarled. "Yes it is, but spring is on it's way, it's trying to pop through." I replied.
"When?!" "I don't know, I'm not God but I do have faith spring will arrive."

"That'll be four dollars" she tells me. "Four bucks for these 2 granola bars?" I ask. "They're 2 dollars a piece!" (Previous owner charged the same as the expensive bodega up the street, $1).

She then tells me "It's Williamsburg, the Elite have taken over. It used to be nice here, there were the Italians, the Poles and now it's....."

I was hungry. I paid and said thank you and left and I shall never return. She lost a customer. I am the Elite.....

I ain't gonna lie, I'm an artist. I helped gentrify 2 neighborhoods in Portland (Alberta and Mississippi) choosing to live there when guns went off at night cause I liked the cheaper rent and the freedom to make some noise. I've been through it. I got to feel the resentment when the silicon valley money came to my North Portland neighborhood. I never want to feel that feeling again. I am not guilt free from my role in gentrification and.... I do not feel guilty about it either.

I had a little amp repair shop on Mississippi Avenue. Before I opened my shop I received a nicely wheat pasted flier on the window with a sunny anarchy symbol and a beautiful drawing of the street with a heart torn in half over it and a note saying "don't you feel bad that there are no new businesses represented by people of color or poor white people going in on Mississippi Avenue?" First thought that went through my mind was "I wonder who did this and I wonder if I've fixed their amp before?" Second: Um, my mother is black, I've suffered enough racism from white and black folks to make anyone hate, but I don't bother cause it's a waste of energy, and.... the building owner is half Native American. Neither one of us is rich and, well, this is America.

At one point my shop was visited by a friend who is an activist along with a couple other adults and a group of teenagers. They came to 'interview' me about the changes in the hood. They were looking for a man to lay out a bunch of negative stuff but at this point I started to feel differently. The two men in the group did all the talking (as usual, alpha male bullshit) and they threw out line after line hoping I would say 'yeah this injustice shit sucks kids! Fuck the man!' But.. I just didn't feel like saying that. Instead I said "seems like it's just you two men talking, can I hear from some of the women in the group or maybe some of the young folks here?" The teenagers were awfully quiet, see, they are young and aren't quite cloaked in as much bullshit yet. This is their world unfolding with fresh eyes and fresh hearts. So one young lady asked "What do you miss about the old neighborhood?" I said "I miss some of my neighbors." The men jumped on that: "BAD REAL ESTATE DEALS? SUBPRIME LOANS? FORCED OUT?" "Well," I replied, "the folks I knew were like 'how much is this old house worth?' and sold then moved somewhere else. One cat I knew said 'I always wanted to live in Paris' so he sold his place and bought a condo there." I told them "look, I know there are scumbags, but not every story is a horror story. Some ended quite well." The grownups didn't know what to say.....

See, I had just come back from a neighborhood meeting where I went to "FIGHT THE POWER!" The issue was they were talking about widening the sidewalks. I jumped all over that. "Fuck these yuppies with their stupid double wide strollers and stupid sidewalk cafes with their stupid cappuccinos! What do they think this is? Europe?!" (I happen to actually like good coffee.) I got to feel all that good resentment deep in my core. A self righteous hypocritical man feeling a conflicting orgy of sour feelings! Awesome..... Fun to be around.....meh...

So at this meeting there were the new (developers, all of whom I had talked my hypocritical talk to) and the old (literally old, and I don't mean as in age, I mean living in the past with the dead old). The new: men and women in their 50's mostly, some in their 30's like me, some older, but all in good shape, robust, smiling, confident and never raising a voice. The old: Angry. Liberal Tea Party. Twisted and contorted faces, wanting the "good old days" to come back just like the lady at the top of this story

Reality slapped me in the face. Accept the things I cannot change. If I am to go on being an angry self righteous hypocrite, this is what I shall turn into: an old angry self righteous ugly hypocrite. Courage to change the things I can. I can change my attitude. I'm no good to anyone if I'm an angry self righteous hypocrite, in fact, I'm a liar. I can be of no use to find a middle ground of sanity if I'm a liar. I knew I had my work cut out for me. I had been comfortable as a victim of change for so long, change would most likely not come easy, I just knew I had to change. I want to be healthy and robust when I'm "old". I want to smile. I want to tell younger people life always changes but you will be okay if you smile through it. And thank god life changes! The good old days? They are today. I didn't exist in 1934 when Jazz was fucking amazing. But then again I wouldn't want to. I couldn't be me in those times. Couldn't live my life the way I want to. And I sure love the music I make today!

I came to New York only 2 1/2 years ago and am so glad I wasn't here when there was this awesome scene and all that. Many of my friends look back to those days and I feel for them. The sense of loss of community is heartbreaking. "There's no scene today" I hear. Well, yes there is. It's 20 somethings doing their thing. People move on, have families etc. Maybe that's your scene. I'm glad I didn't witness any 'Heydays' here cause everything is new and fresh to me. I wake up every day and say "damn I'm a lucky man, this city is awesome! This life is awesome!"

And that is the truth.

xojb

Addiction and acceptance

I've lived my adult life with a mean, passive aggressive control streak. It's held me back from truly living. Not fun. I'm the designated driver in almost all occasions. I've been in bands where I owned a great deal of the equipment and even gave a '61 Jazzmaster away mostly because this person saved my sanity and this was how I showed gratitude, but there was a shred of "this guys guitar sucks, sounds like ass and I want to hear this sound instead."

There are solutions to this problem and I'm living them. I can say that I've come a long, long way and my life is reaching a place of bliss. I've never been happier actually. No, I'm not problem free but I can deal with this awesome life one little hour at a time.

But what is the root of all of this behavior? I've been thinking about it. It goes back so far.

My parents had a friend named Charlie. He was a chain smoker. My brother and I were ardently anti cigarette. We used to draw teeny skulls and crossbones on each of his Camels and sometimes we would take his pack of cigarettes and put them behind his car so he would roll over them as be backed out. We thought it was hilarious and he knew the truth. This stuff was killing him and our child actions were out of love for him. Charlie was the coolest cat on earth. Drove and MG Midget, wore leather, had a great handlebar moustache and his wife was the most beautiful of our parents friends.

Charlie passed just a few years ago. Lung Cancer.

At the time when he was in our lives I knew the word addiction, I could see it kinda meant not being able to stop a self destructive behavior, but I had no idea why it happened. That part only experience can tell. Oh, we all cope. Charlie was coping, but an 8 year old doesn't really know what that means. At least when I was 8 I didn't understand, I just knew I loved this man and I wanted him to stop smoking.

I knew about drinking and drugs and knew there was this thing called alcoholics and there were these drug addicts. We went to Mexico city in 1977 and my mother pointed out a heroin addict. It was like 90 degrees and here was this poor fellow with a sweater on, Mexican so his skin was supposed to be brown but he was 10 shades paler than my dad and he was shivering. Looked like a ghost. I vowed to never go near the stuff. But he wasn't a friend. He was just a dude with one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel. I felt no attachment though I do think I felt empathy.

But the first time I ever really felt addiction wasn't drugs or alcohol. It was something more powerful to a child. It was television.

See, I grew up in a rather "anti" television household. So much that when my best friends mother threw her family TV in the garbage cause her kids were arguing over Charlies Angels or Welcome Back Kotter, I silently rejoiced. I knew it was causing harm. It was like my little victory! Jef's Temperance Movement smashing the idiot box. I felt the same satisfaction when cable hit and all of my friends became addicts and some lunatic drove over the cable boxes one early Sunday morning wiping the whole damned thing out for several days. Sweet victory! Carrie Nation back from the grave to smash HBO yo!

But that wasn't it either.

In 1980 my mom, grandma, brother and I took a trip to Disneyworld in Florida with some cousins. My brother and I had to share a room with a cousin. He had these really difficult to be around quirks like chewing an entire pack of Bubble Yum for several days, storing the gum at mealtimes behind his ear and at night on the nightstand. He was overweight and could not stop watching the television. He and I were both about 12 years old and one he didn't want to leave the hotel to check out Disneyworld so he could watch the Jerry Lewis Telethon for the full 24 hours. The TV was on constantly. My brother and I could not take it any longer. So we hid the TV guide.

I've never seen such a scene before. Tears, shakes, tearing the hotel room apart looking for this stupid magazine. It was frightening.  We eventually capitulated "finding" it behind the bed so we could ease the meltdown. The poor kid was out of his mind. I've seen and experienced withdrawal. This was no different.

At the time I didn't have the insight to understand what he was going through. So I made fun of him behind his back so I could discharge all that fear and discomfort. As an adult, it was heartbreaking. Here was a kid being raised by a single mother. His father had his mind taken away by our lovely US Army by secretly dosing him in Project MK Ultra (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_MKUltra) and my cousin had so much pain to deal with on his own. The television eased that pain. Drugs are self medication right?

So the root of that mean passive aggressive streak? Really, it's out of love. I couldn't stand seeing someone in pain and I couldn't stand seeing someone harm themselves. It's taken me years to understand I have no power over anyone Else's choice or compulsive behavior. And that streak is the anger part of grief perhaps. It's natural to get angry, I just got tired of showing that anger and not having it change a damned thing, so I learned to stuff it away.

Today? I know I have a choice. I know I don't have and control over anyone else and that is a huge relief. We all have our paths. It's a choice to put one foot in front of the other and it's a choice to stumble around in circles too. I've never been at peace more than today. And for that I am grateful.

Peace out, JB

A healthy mind is 20 games of Scrabble a week!

Those who know me know I love a good game of Scrabble. I learned from the best (my mother the newspaper editor, the most vicious player alive!) and prefer to play with people who are better than I am. It's natural. You play with better players and you become a better player. You absorb their moves. Same with music, baseball. You play with weaker players your ego only gets satisfied by dominating the board. If your ego gets to freaked out by losing, you give up and never learn.

Living in Los Angeles I played an average of 20 games a week with a crew. For a week we had a cat at the board who was a terrible player. Well, English was his second language so he gets a pass, but anyway, it got to a point where his frustration overcame him at times. He would huff and puff at those 3 point words he lay down. At one point I asked him "man, what makes you think god's gonna give you a 30 point word if you can't appreciate that 3 point word?"

The whole room got quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. Then laughter, lots of it. The truth was really funny.

At the end of the week he beat us. Badly. We were the ones who were upset. We were all better players than him. And he was cool as a cucumber about it.

Yup. It's the truth. Are you stuck? Hate your job? Hate the crap Wednesday night gig at Arlenes Grocery in front of the soundguy and 9 drunk dis-interested patrons? What can you appreciate in that moment? Find that 3 point word and say "aw hellyeah!" and your chances of winning are far greater.

JB