The Taxman Winneth

Generic city hall council chambers - nicer than ours, I think

For an hour or so last night, I got to see democracy in action – or more accurately, republicanism in action. The elected representatives in my beloved new home, West Haven, met to discuss what has become a contentious issue in town: Should the current tax collector’s position move from being largely ceremonial, with a salary of $7,600, to a full-time position with a salary over $50,000.

As in everything political here, Democratic Party infighting infused the debate. The current collector, an elected official,  is a partisan of the faction loosely tied to the old mayor and united in its opposition to the current one, John Picard. Not surprisingly, Picard and his supporters opposed the creation of a full-time slot and called for a professional tax manager to run the office, as the council had approved more than two years ago. Since then, however, the tax collector and Picard could not agree on a candidate or even who had the ultimate power to fill the manager’s position.

I know, this all sounds a little trivial, and surely irrelevant to anyone outside of West Haven. Hell, a lot of people who do live here probably don’t care, as long as the taxes are collected and nobody screws up their payments. But that was a large part of the debate: The incumbent collector had not rectified past problems in the office, and some people at the meeting suggested things had gotten worse.

NOT our tax collector, and NOT a medical courier

I was fascinated as the evening unfolded. A few citizens and council members spoke eloquently. Others talked like they were getting ready to turn a boozy bar-room argument into an out-and-out brawl, perhaps highlighted by the woman who called the tax collector an idiot. In his defense, the gent said he was a “go-to guy” during his 32 years at Sears, and a “pit bull” when given a task. Commendable, and perhaps proof he is not an idiot, but also maybe not an argument that he is qualified for the full-time position, as the Picard partisans repeatedly denied.

(Fran, the tax man, also took umbrage at newspaper reports that called him a “medical courier.” He is an independent subcontractor, he asserted, a businessman. Whose business happens to be shuttling around medical reports and test samples. You know, kinda like a medical courier does… I also loved it when one council member asked if he was prepared to work full-time hours for his proposed full-time salary, as opposed to, say, conducting his like-a-medical-courier-yet-not business. Absolutely, he said, and I was ready for him to punctuate it with “Cross my heart and hope to die.”)

Along with the name-calling, there were multiple rude comments from the audience, some sotto voce, some less sotto. Two council members seemed to impugn each other’s character a bit, and one guy burst into a singing birthday greeting to another council member. At one point, I wrote in my notes, “Is this Mayberry?” and I wondered if all local government is reduced to these moments of tomfoolery, or if my new hometown is unique.

The other thing that hit me: The bad blood and backbiting were between members of the same party! It’s no wonder the ideological divide in Washington between conservatives and those-who-are-not-conservatives leads to the dirty politics and gridlock we’ve seen the last 15 years. Then again, maybe the familiarity found in what is basically a small town, no matter what the Census figures say, breeds its own kind of political contempt.

I vowed, before the big move back East, to get involved in local politics wherever we ended up. Maybe even run for office. I think last night soured me pretty well on the latter. Even without the acrimony, there is this fact, brought up last night: After doing a day job, local elected officials put in long hours to keep the town running, with only a meager stipend to compensate them for their time. They obviously are not in it for the money. But the local intraparty bickering shows some of them are in it for the power, real or perceived, and at times the chance to reward their friends. (Though some of the council members who supported the tax collector said cronyism had nothing to do with their votes. Most, however, said nothing.)

So, did republican democracy work? Hard to say. During the time I was there, everyone who spoke opposed making the position full time. The final vote was 7-6 in favor of making it full time. But some of the council members’ arguments for that stance were stronger than I had thought going in, when I had largely taken the Picard faction’s position. So, mob rule was thwarted, perhaps for the good. Our representatives, at times, do look at a bigger picture we might not see. Or else the anti-Picard forces just had the simple advantage of numbers, as they will again when the new council is sworn in next week.

I might go to future meetings, just to see if last night’s was an aberration. I hope so. Of course, the average citizen is not privy to what goes on in the back rooms, where it seems – at least here – many deals are made. Maybe the public comments are just a formality (one almost undermined last night by a last-minute switch in the starting time from 6 pm to 5). Even so, I will be less inclined to bad-mouth local pols, as I have in the past, unless they do really stupid/harmful things. Most of them do seem to care about the town. Some of them might be in over their head, but at least they’re trying. You might want to go to a meeting where you live some time, just to see your officials in action. Or run for office yourself, if you think you can do a better job. But please, keep it civil out there, willya?

Galileo’s Finger, and Other Plays

You want a play featuring an excerpt of Oedipus Rex as written by David Mamet?

Mamet and Sophocles, together on the same stage! Sort of...

Got it.

What is the mystery of Galileo's finger?

Or maybe one about Galileo’s finger? Two plays with kiss in the title? Various slightly warped Christmas plays?

Got it, got ‘em, and got ‘em.

I have been somewhat prolific of late, writing the plays others tell me to. Well, that’s not quite right. No one puts a gun to my head. But as part of the ever-expanding trend of theaters doing an evening of one-act plays, many of the troupes are requesting plays on very specific themes or in specific settings.

Over the past few years, I’ve written plays set in a funeral home, an attic, a coffee shop, and on a brown couch. There have been plays about addiction, Valentine’s Day, anything relating to Rochester, New York, or foster homes (though not in the same play, thankfully), shoes, and the various senses. During December alone, if I choose, I can write about the 1920s, eating, a Shakespearean sonnet, any activity on the Staten Island ferry, and peace. And coming up in March, one of my favorites: A theater wants plays that have something to do with J. Edgar Hoover (the not-so-subtle suggestion is that characters in drag would be great, but aren’t required).

I understand, I guess, why theaters go this route. They like to see how different playwrights will treat the same theme. And when the theme is tied to local geography/history or a holiday, it gives the company a built-in marketing hook. But at times, when I see a call for scripts and there is a detailed suggestion about what I should be writing about, I balk a bit.

Thalia, my muse honey, was it something I said?

We playwrights are the creators, damnit. Let us go where the muse takes us. On the other hand…sometimes she’s a cold, distant bitch who won’t return our calls or even open our emails. In those bleak moments, having the prod of a chosen theme is a plus. And if nothing else, taking on the varied themes, no matter how foreign (what do I know from Rochester?) is the chance to learn something new or take a “here goes nothing” approach to experiments in form. The plays become exercises that keep me writing, not a small feat when tackling a full-length my play, my ultimate goal as a playwright, seems so daunting. Still. More than two years after I finished my last one, the ill-fated and almost-litigated solo show (the lawyers should be almost done with that agreement…).

What’s funny to me is how often I write one of these thematic shorts for one theater or competition and it’s rejected, but I can get it into a festival that doesn’t set the theme, or else rework it a bit to fit somebody else’s requirements. The attic play has been produced several times; ditto the addiction play, which explores our inability to let go of stuff, the commodities that sometimes define our existence. The requirement to write about anything relating to Galileo led to a work ripped from the headlines, as they say: two fingers and a tooth stolen from the scientist’s dead body more than 250 years ago were recently recovered. Oh, what fun you can have with grave robbing and the confrontation between the secular and the religious! (No word yet, though if that one has been selected.)

Of course, some of the themes are so obscure, if my plays don’t make the cut the first time, they never see the light of day. Case in point: an updating of the proto-Surrealist classic Ubu Roi, set during the 2008 presidential campaign. But even though it didn’t get chosen, it was such fun to portray Bush II as the dim, profane Dub-U Roy. The Oedipus-cum-Mamet snippet was for a Mamet festival in Chicago. Although rejected there, I was able to send it to a NY company seeing theatrical “smash-ups.” They told me they want to stage it – yea! But that was more than a year ago. Still waiting… (I offer it here for the curious).

I’ve learned I have to pick and choose when a spate of contests come out, all with different themes. Writing something about food for the December contest seems doable; the Shakespearean sonnet less so (unless I can combine them, which I’ve been known to do before). There’s one on the sense of touch and another on “perfect10n” (that’s how they spell it), both due January 1. Perhaps another twofer is in the offing. Or I can recycle something old. But the real goal for the now not-too-distant New Year – choose one of the many ideas I’ve been kicking around for a full-length and start writing it. Just to see if I still know how to do it. I’ll keep you posted.

For Pet’s Sake

They’re cute. They’re eye-catching. They’re relatively rare, adding to their cachet. They’re French bulldogs, the new “it” pet in Astoria, Queens.

They cost up to $5,000.

Why not "freedom bulldogs," hmm?

The price tag made my jaw drop as I read an article about the breed in the New York Times. Now, I’m not above spending money on my pets once they’re part of the family. My last three cats have had various maladies that led to some serious vet bills. But I do think paying for a cat or dog is a waste, regardless of the fee. And a little questionable from a moral stance. The extreme ridiculousness of the cost of the Frenchies just stirred a little extra pique.

PAWS Chicago, the shelter where we got our cat Callie, and which now has one of the nicest no-kill shelters in the country.

Yes, I understand some people like the particular traits of a particular breed. The bulldogs are prized because they’re small and they don’t bark, perfect for apartment dwellers. If the coos and curiosity of strangers only bolster their appeal, well,  bonus. But every time I read about some new breed of dog or cat sweeping into the public eye, fueling sales, I can only shake my head. A trip to the pound or a shelter will give you an animal just as loving as any high-priced breed, at almost no cost, and you’ll have saved a life. The demand for pedigree pets just leads to puppy mills (not to say all breeders/sellers are disreputable, of course) and, at times, genetic issues. If you must have a purebred, odds are good you can find one at a shelter, especially one for a specific breed.

And the cat herself (devil eyes not the norm)

I suppose the ethical aspect of my veganism informs some of my concern for the strays and pound pets of the world. And a distaste for unbridled consumerism, which turns sentient beings into another craved commodity that, in some cases, is later tossed aside. I’m not usually outspoken on the issue, though I’m glad some people are. (While realizing that maybe some folks do go slightly overboard, like my friend/ex who briefly took to dognapping abused pets to get them out of their hellish predicament. Noble sentiment, but one as likely to get you beat up/shot/arrested as to liberate a pooch.) I don’t say anything when friends or acquaintances beam about their new purebred pet. But I think a lot. And now I’m writing this, asking that you take a trip to the nearest shelter when you’re looking for a pet. I suppose in a year or two, you might even find one of those cute French bulldogs, for free, and in need of a loving home.

For more information on getting a shelter pet, check out the links here, here, and here.

Speak to Me

For an hour or so last night, the words of Harlan Ellison and Ursula K. Le Guin filled a small New Haven coffee shop. No, the noted science-fiction writers weren’t there, but a short story by each was, brought to life by two local actors. The readings were part of an ongoing series called Listen Here!, a joint venture of the New Haven Review, New Haven Theater Company, and the Arts Council of Greater New Haven.

From an earlier reading, as featured in the Times

The series started earlier this fall, but this was the first one I could make. And though not “theater” in the traditional sense, it reminded me of why I like theater so much — real people speaking meaningful words in front of a rapt audience (coffee drinkers and chatterers in the room behind us excepted). I’m always struck by the excitement I feel with each new performance I see, unless it’s truly awful; the spectacle, the magic of live theater never fades. Neither does the amazement that so many people never go to the theater or hear any kind of spoken-word performance.

Certainly there’s been an explosion of opportunities over the past two decades. The economics of producing full-scale live theater and the drive for something new have led to such things as poetry slams, open-mic readings, solo shows (ahem…), and events such as last night’s. Every city seems to have some sort of spoken-word operation, with the most famous probably New York’s The Moth (which now has a Chicago spin-off at one of my old neighborhood haunts). Whether it’s people telling their own stories or reading others’, the events fill a primal need. We crave literary narrative, which mirrors the arc of own lives, and getting that fix in a live setting, surrounded by others, probably dates from when humans first learned how to talk (once they came up with a few adjectives and adverbs).

And for the actor/reader/speaker, the electricity of having an audience respond to your words, your emotions — heady stuff. I got just a taste when I was developing the solo show and read a selection at a “salon” at my instructor’s house. Extreme cottonmouth aside, hearing the laughter, knowing the small crowd was attentive, made me realize the power of the spoken word for both audience and performer.

Couldn't have said it better myself...

Unfortunately, the literary curmudgeon in me says films and TV and now the Internet have hacked away at live theater, and the new spoken-word alternatives play to painfully small audiences, when you think about the millions at any moment plopped down in front of inane reality shows or their Xboxes. For whatever reason, people have drifted away from coming together as a group and focusing on real people in front of them telling a story. So maybe the need isn’t so primal. Or getting the narrative through other forms suffices.

The remains of the theater of Dionysus, in Athens

I sometimes wonder: Have people lost their ability to pay attention to something so “boring” as people speaking? Has the new technology made it harder for us to focus? What do students do, to survive hour-long college lectures? Is there still such a beast? But as I realized a few years ago, when I went back to church for the first time in ages, millions of people hear the spoken word every week. A sermon or homily may not be a narrative, but it does bring people together for a shared verbal experience. (Assuming you stay awake, something my father used to have trouble doing… ) And of course theater’s roots go back to the religious festivals of the Greeks, concrete expressions of the revelry associated with Dionysus. Attending a performance of spoken word, dance, or song, wherever it’s held, still provides a divine presence.

I should accept Listen Here! and the Moth and the open-mic storytelling as good things. People do still care about words and will venture out to hear them. Hopefully, each new generation will produce enough writers and actors and storytellers, because I can’t imagine that impulse for the communal sharing of narrative and ideas going away. But if kids don’t get introduced to theater when they’re young, as I did, and we as a society consider drama and literature a frill, are we doomed to ever-more iterations of “Help, I’m An American Idol’s Worst Parent” as our pathway to self-exploration and the divine?

Not a happy thought.

Writing is Easy – Honest

Ah, the solitude of writing...

Writing is a solitary endeavor, but most writers take the chance to reach out to their fellow wordsmiths, and I’m no exception. While it’s taken me a while to feel comfortable sharing new work — my plays, that is — in a class, workshop, or writers’ group, I have benefitted from the experience. I’m still less relaxed about offering my own comments; I feel so unsure about my own writing, what can I say that will help someone else? And given how slowly my brain functions at times, others have usually expressed what I was thinking – and in a more effective way than I ever could.

[An aside — my unease received a boost at the playwriting workshop I attended a few weeks ago. I shared my little piece and got some good feedback from our group of five writers. After another writer read, the rest of the group made comments that reflected what I thought; I pretty much didn’t say anything. When we were done, the writer/reader turned to me and said, “Thanks a lot, you bitch, for not saying anything after I gave you so much feedback.” Maybe that’s why I don’t really like this give-and-take among writers…]

Since the workshops and classes are fairly anonymous,  it’s easy to blow off comments you don’t like,  not worry about any lasting effects from opinions shared. But what happens when someone you know well asks for your opinion? How do walk that fine line between your desire to be supportive of and kind about anything they write – and their desire to hear constructive feedback, and perhaps praise – and the need to be honest? How much honesty is too much honesty? And not just in the criticism; even in the writing itself.

This scenario, as you might have guessed, emerged recently. Someone I know, a relative of a good friend, asked for comments on an essay she was thinking about trying to publish. My first reaction was, “Good lord, woman, I can’t help myself; what makes you think I can help you?” But I wanted to be supportive, and share whatever meager expertise I have. I think, in the end, I was able to do both. But the tricky part was, the essay was personal. The content made it hard for me to judge the form. And she admitted that the emotional rawness of the subject matter posed a challenge: How much of herself should she include, was bringing in her feelings obscuring the people and events she wrote about?

Wrong person to ask, ma’am. C?WC? and the solo show that proceeded it should be evidence enough that I am without barriers, messily so. Finding that line between “honest enough to impact others” and “Oh my god I didn’t need to know that” is not my strong suit. But I’ll share with you what I shared with her, an anecdote from the early days of my writing career, long before the Crisis:

Sophomore comp class in high school. The assignment: I no longer have a clue. My essay: a humorous, if exaggerated, look at the rituals my friends and I indulged in before the burning of a certain contraband substance. Now I admit, the key here, as teachers of non-fiction writing often say, was “know your audience.” This comp teacher was barely out of college, seemed hip, and not likely to report me to the authorities. Though he did say I should probably avoid writing about such things in the future. And he really liked the piece.

So what did I learn? Yes, know your audience. But more importantly, this: Open yourself to make an impact. The forbidden, the negative, the painful – if you can relate them to others in an honest way, you will be on the road to good writing. Of course some knowledge of grammar and such never hurts. And of words – which one should go where. The rhythm they create in that proper order. But when you take that open look into your soul, then hold up what you see; something magical can happen. Or something self-indulgent. Ah, another fine line.

I told my friend this story about my literary past, then said this: “Honesty strikes a chord. Even when it’s ‘too personal,’ too extreme. That’s what writers do. They explore the parts of their lives, of human existence, that everyone experiences but maybe feels reluctant to share.” But each writer has to answer for herself what she can share. Everyone has to find for themselves how honest they can be. With themselves and the world.

It ain’t always easy, in writing, or in life. Ideally, no one calls you a bitch for what you do or don’t share. And ideally, honest writing stirs something in the author and audience both.

Theater Fears and Failings

Confront your demons, face your fears, isn’t that what people always say? Well, I’m not the confrontational type, and my fears have a way of staring me down. But last week, damnit, I had a small victory.

The scene was a playwriting workshop in New York at Theater Resources Unlimited, which I joined after returning to CT. I’d worried about being cut off from other theater folks, especially writers, after making the move back east. Despite the presence of the Yale School of Drama, New Haven does not seem to have much a theater community outside the ivied walls. Certainly not like what I found in Chicago, where I was just starting to feel I was making good connections, and friendships, in the theater world. Obviously, New York is the place to go around here to build those ties, but taking the train into the city is not like bopping on the L from one part of the North Side to the other. Joining TRU, I figured, would give me the opportunity to take classes and attend talks, as well motivate me to make the trip into New York.

Our instructor

The workshop I took was on writing for the commercial theater. I don’t think most of us there had any delusions of Broadway grandeur; getting any kind of professional NYC production would be a coup. Everyone seemed to have some previous theatrical success, even if only on my level of the occasional community-theater production. One woman had some impressive credits, including a recent reading that featured a Tony-winning actor. Our instructor, Diana Amsterdam, had her own substantial theater resume; she was an effective teacher and personable to boot.

One key to getting commercially produced, of course, is to write a good play, and Diana spent some time going over structure: having a series of events, choices and decisions and dilemmas, that drive the narrative forward. We all know these things, intuitively, when we read a good book or watch a gripping film. We don’t sit there thinking, “There’s an event. There’s another. The action is humming now.” Some playwrights can build the events into their narrative without even thinking. Some of us – me – struggle to structure our plays so they have that forward momentum as well as all the other elements of a successful play.

Creating events, structure, is the craft of playwriting. It can be taught and practiced, like learning scales on an instrument. But as with music, the true artists know how to improvise in ways that dazzle. The best playwrights nail the structure and then take flight with metaphor and poetic passages and deep themes.

I do not. I create marginally interesting characters who sometimes say something a little witty, or profess a semi-profundity that rises above cliche. But don’t hold your breath from one to the next. I guess if nothing else, I can see my own flaws, while acknowledging I can write, sporadically, plays that audiences seem to enjoy. But I don’t practice the craft aspect hard enough, or don’t have the talent to transcend the basics of it and really shine. Which discourages me. Given that, it was good to get that refresher on structure, so when (if?) I tackle that next full-length play, the craft aspect will be in the fore and maybe guide me a bit.

The rest of the workshop was about getting that play in front of audiences, which of course is the rub for anyone not named Mamet or Parks or Kushner, along with a few others. Producing plays, at the highest levels, is a business. Your play, Amsterdam said, is a product. You have to sell it to producers and directors if you hope an audience will ever see it.

What’s the trick? Well, see above – write a good play. But then you have to market yourself and the work. It helps to write a marketable play, which means small casts, simple staging requirements, maybe a built-in audience for some aspect of the play. One workshop participant has a play about NASCAR racers, which would certainly have appeal to NASCAR fans, assuming they go to the theater much. But before you get too calculating in the marketing aspect, I think, you have to write a play you care about it, with characters you and others relate too.

Other marketing steps: Learn how to write a good query letter. Perfect a pitch in case you ever get the chance to meet with a producer. Make connections and schmooze. All the things I don’t do very well.

The last part of the workshop is where the fears and demons came in. I didn’t understand this when I signed up for the class, and I tried to deny it once it sank in a few days before, but we weren’t only going to learn how to pitch a play. We were going to pitch one of our plays, to real NYC producers.

Gulp.

Try to talk while you've got one of these little suckers in your mouth...

At one point, Diana said doing the pitch would be optional. Then TRU’s director kinda said it wasn’t. I hate speaking in public. Especially about myself (hard to tell from reading C?WC?, eh?). Or if I’m going to be judged. Even in the practice pitching we did with other students, split into groups of three and four, my mouth dried as if I were sucking one of those little desiccant packs like it were a Lifesaver. My pulse went into overdrive with the flow of my words matching it, severely limiting their comprehensibility.

Then, the producers came in. I asked Diana if I could skip the pitch. Well, she wasn’t going to force me or anyone else to do it. It was, she told the whole group before the pitches began, entirely up to us. But it would be a shame to pass up the opportunity of pitching to real producers and getting their feedback on what was good, what could be improved. The subtext – ah,  there’s always subtext with us theater folks – was “Don’t be a wuss.”

Patrick Blake, an honest-to-God NYC producer with such credits as The Exonerater and Into the Continuum

About halfway through, I raised my hand to go. Diana seemed a little surprised, but welcomed me. The pitch was a little rushed, though not too bad. The producers made good comments. Within minutes, the pulse dropped down to the normal range. I did it! Yea!

Yes, we go for the small victories here at the Crisis. More important than what I or the producers said was taking on that little bit of fear that erupts when forced out of my comfort zone. I should probably do it more often. I will try. Though I doubt I’ll be making any real pitches soon. Not until I write a better play.

Looking for Da Mare

No, that headline is not right. Even though I recently referred to my new hometown of West Haven as the “Little Windy City,” no one will ever confuse any mayor here with Richie Daley. Just as the two burgs will never be misidentified. But West Haven is what it is, and about 125 souls had enough concern for our fair city to come out last night and hear the debate between the three candidates for mayor.

[Bias alert – if you want anything resembling objectivity on the night’s events, check out Abbe Smith’s article in the New Haven Register. And now, back to out post.]

From the left, John Picard, Nancy Rossi, Steven Mullins

I’ve tried to get up to speed on the local politics, and a few things are quickly clear: Republican Steve Mullins does not stand a chance. This is a Democratic town, albeit a divided one. A Better Future Party candidate Nancy Rossi represents the Democratic forces who oppose incumbent John Picard and support his predecessor, John Borer. I assume those folks are one in the same, though  there might be some people who didn’t like Borer and came to dislike Picard on their own. Despite his rah-rah boosterism and can-do persona, the sitting mayor has a few traits that can rub some people the wrong way. In quotes in the local paper and again last night, he’s shown an arrogant streak that is not endearing. At one point during the debate he said, “Maybe I should speak a little slower,” when one of his opponents seemed to miss one of his points. A little snotty, perhaps? Picard exudes a little too much back-slapping testosterone for my liking, but maybe it plays well here.

Rossi, a CPA by training, came across as professional and well prepared, though she was not above her own little digs, noting the mayor’s absence at key meetings and foot-dragging on certain issues. The inaction, she implied, filters through other levels of the government, and both she and Mullins suggest cronyism seems to carry too much of the day (though from everything I’ve gathered, that was also true in the pre-Picard days and seems to be standard operating procedure in the town).

The GOP's sacrificial lamb

Standing outside the Democratic dominance that has brought West Haven where it is – mired in debt, slow to attract new businesses, immobilized by squabbling – Mullins has made changing the status quo his mantra. The town needs new blood, he insists, to get through the political logjams. I just don’t see him as the one giving the transfusion.  He seemed unprepared at times, though his commitment to the city was sincere. And he said something I have often thought as I walked around the town center: downtown is dirty. I can’t imagine how you score points for saying that, but it was honest. I also can’t imagine how you get people to take personal responsibility for changing it, as he proposed. Slogans? Ordinances? Either you’re a slob or you’re not, and unfortunately too many people around these parts are.

But let’s leave aside the impressions. What did the candidates say? Well, they all want more economic development; quelle surprise. Picard insists he has the city moving in the right direction, after the debacle of the Borer years. Rossi says he has not done enough and seems to favor certain businesses or parts of town, a point Mullins echoed. Rossi seems big on reintroducing all-day kindergarten, which, given the debt and high property taxes, doesn’t seem like the top priority to me. Picard points to the coming train station and arrival of a few new businesses as signs of life, Mullins and Rossi want more.

Picard, from what I’ve read, has tried to attack the past problems but has governed with a bit of an authoritarian streak. Last night, he also seemed to beat certain points to death.  Wow, how great is it that A. J. Wright opened a store! Excuse me? That’s the economic panacea? And the store is on a stretch of Route 1 I wouldn’t exactly use to showcase my town’s economic prosperity. I don’t think one budget clothing store is going to turn it around. Picard also harped on the sale of several commercial buildings, and the razing of another, as plusses. Well, if nothing takes those spaces, what have you accomplished?

I don’t want to imply that I would know how to solve the city’s problems, especially in this economic climate. Though I might look at some of Mullins’s suggestions, such as reducing overtime and outsourcing some city functions (assuming the business didn’t go to somebody’s nephew). And West Haven does have things in its favor for the future: the train station, the presence of Yale, a growing University of New Haven, a great waterfront. Real growth, and the lower taxes that might come with it, are possible. But recent history seems to indicate that the city is one with possibilities unfulfilled, either because leaders promise too much, can’t work together, or both.

Hmm, maybe best not to leave these two alone in a room with sharp objects...

And what about the crowd that came out? Polite, largely middle aged, white, and I assume middle class. Most of the younger people seemed to be attending as part of a class assignment. One made me laugh afterward, when she talked about the mud that was slung. Ah, I think it was actually pretty tame, all in all, and given that the three  currently serve together in government, they seemed to be pretty friendly. Or at least civil, Picard and Rossi, though, as the representatives of two wings of a bickering party split more by personality than ideology, might have choice things to say about each other when the mics are off.

All three candidates sound like they truly want the town to improve. Whether lifelong residents or not, they are proud to be “Westies.” I think it’s genuine, though it might be tinged with a slight sense of circle-the-wagons thinking; if outsiders have been prone to scorn you, you gotta put up a good front. So, whom am I voting for? I like Mullins’s message of change; could go for him just as protest vote. Rossi seems sharp, but her association with the Borer folks troubles me. I wasn’t here when he served, but the legacy does not seem a proud one. Why be a part of that? And Picard? I want to believe all the good things he says will come. I don’t know if he’s the only one who could bring them. And I wish he could can the dictatorial streak. For once in my life, I am truly undecided. It might come down to which of them knocks at my door and seeks my vote. Assuming any of them want it.

Hope for Happiness

Is there a “talent for happiness”?

And if there is, does it come from genes? Nurture? Willpower?

I came across the phrase today as I grappled with some of my usual Monday blues. Unfortunately, it was used in the context of describing two of my least favorite presidents, Ronald Reagan and Dubya. Yet, I had to admit – each had a positive disposition that resonated with voters and certainly stood them in good stead during tough times. (Bush, though, I would argue had more of a talent for arrogance that gave him that sunny view. Reagan seemed more sincere in his good vibrations, though Nancy said there was a certain inner wall, erected because of his father’s alcoholism and the family’s frequent moves during the Depression, that even she couldn’t penetrate.)

So, pondering the phrase, I wondered: Why don’t I have a talent for happiness? If it is a genetic trait, then I can blame my parents – again? And ditto if it’s nurture? But maybe it’s actually a choice, as many people have suggested. I came across that thought recently when I read about Michael J. Fox and his struggles with Parkinson’s (though I can’t find the source now), though it’s certainly not a new idea.

So if it’s a choice, why can’t I seem to choose it?

The Crisis has often set me thinking (ironically enough) about my though processes, how I react to life’s occurences both mundane and stressful. Too often, I have found myself wallowing in the negative (though I would argue I’m no pessimist, and I love to laugh and make others laugh). I don’t expect to be smiley-faced, buoyant, and bubbly every single day, but Jesus Christ, as many posts here have shown, I am down way more than I am up. No, that’s not true: I just write about the down more often, trying to figure out where I am at, how I can get to someplace better, and what I have to do to stay there.

I know a lot of this is fueled by the impending milestone birthday. And the frustrations with work, and moving, and not being the prize-winning writer I would like to be. I write, in part, because I want recognition, a pat on the back, whatever. I have gotten some of that, but not enough. I thought today, maybe I should start by giving myself some recognition, realizing all I have done as a writer, husband, friend, son, whatever, that has had some positive impact. I don’t deny there has been some. Just not enough for me to feel I have made a difference with my existence.

Some counsel, “More therapy!” And I appreciate that. I also know that after roughly 25 years of various forms of therapy, I am burnt out. Others suggest meds may be the answer. Maybe. Yet I resist that too, other than my occasional lorazepam. I think about a recent NYT magazine cover article about Jung and his personal journal, now being readied for publication. What I took away (was what I wanted to take away, of course) was that he, and some Jungians after him, don’t necessarily think people should be “cured” of their demons, but just acclimated to live with them, function in spite of them, rather than eradicating them. I like that, even if it’s not ultimately, objectively, “healthy.” Because I worry I might be less of a writer, or like myself less, without those demons. Of course, those with a talent for happiness would argue maybe I’d find just the opposite…

I know some of this is the Monday thing. The week goes on and things get better. Though the next Sunday’s anticipatory gloom for the Monday that will follow seems to come earlier each weekend.  I have to find the things that will make me happy. I have to explore who I really want be as the Crisis meanders on. Do I have a talent for happiness? Maybe, maybe not. But at this stage, a mere penchant for contentment would go a long way in making life a little easier.

Deadly Numbers

We’re number four! We’re number fo -

Wait – number four? Is that really the best we can do? I mean, look at the competition. These are not powerful nations we are talking about. These places are not the good ol’, god-blessed US of A! We have just got to set our minds to doing better.

Oh, I suppose some of you will complain: “We’re in the middle of a recession. We have more important things to worry about than some silly world ranking.” I say to you – And you call yourself a patriot? Look, I’m not saying we have go all the way and try to overtake number one. Even I admit, the execution gap is too high to top China’s 1,718 killings. But with a few more trips to the gas chamber, a few more butts strapped to Ol’ Sparky, we should –

An old Ol' Sparky

[Did he just say “execution gap”? What are we talking about here?]

The Iranians favor a blend of old and new technologies

We are talking about Amnesty International’s report on the number of executions carried out around the world in 2008. (The report was released in May but recently mentioned in a Christian Science Monitor story about last week’s World Day Against the Death Penalty, an event surely marked on the calendars of most Americans.) The United States once again found itself in the stellar company of those other paragons of democracy and free thinking: China, Iran, and Saudi Arabia. And just trailing us are some other fine nations we’ve become well acquainted with the last few years: Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan.

I’ve written before about my stance against the death penalty, and I support the abolitionist position for the United States: no executions, anywhere, for any crime. The AI report says that the 37 in ‘08 for the US is actually down – the lowest number since 2005 – and is part of a trend worldwide to reduce executions. Several dozen countries have the death penalty on their law books but rarely carry it out.

Curtis McCarty - years on Death Row before DNA evidence exonerated him.

I think the work of the Innocence Project and others has shown how often we wrongly convict people, and that has helped raise some doubts about the wisdom of the death penalty. So have the studies about the way it is unfairly applied, leaving the poor, minorities, and the intellectually challenged most likely to be the dead men walking. Although the polls show the popularity of the death penalty, which I’m sure bolsters its support among lawmakers, the arguments against ending it are getting stronger.

Yet I can’t help but feel that a sizable chunk of Americans will always demand their vengeance. A poll taken a few years ago found a majority would even support televising executions, which Guatemala actually did in 2000. That reminded me of a piece I wrote back in college, which combined a game show with public executions (one lucky contestant gets to spin the Wheel of Death to see how inmate 26463 will be killed.) So in almost 30 years, that silly satire seems not too distant from reality.

Now that’s progress.

The Big Three of China, Iran, and Saudia Arabia carried out 91 percent of the world’s known executions in 2008, and I doubt there will be huge ideological/cultural shifts in those places to reduce the number. I try to take some comfort from the AI report, focusing on the 139 countries that have ended executions, either de facto or de jure. And I count on more changes in the United States (even as the governor of my once-again home state rejected a bill that would have ended executions in CT), to reduce the numbers here even more. Maybe we’ll be chanting “We’re Number 23!” Though I’d prefer not to be on the list at all.

CD’s A to Z

I barely remember this movie, or buying this CD. Huh.

When was the last time you played your Blue in the Face soundtrack album? Goodbye Yellow Brick Road? Or one of the obscure Tears for Fears CD’s, after the hits stopped?

Yeah, it’s been awhile for me, too. Which led to my current musical experiment.

During the Chicago years (my god, I already sound like it was eons ago), I kept some of my less-played CD’s in storage back here in CT, along with all my albums. I’ve already written about rediscovering the joys of vinyl, though truth be told, I haven’t played that many. Actually, over the last few years, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend: I just don’t play music much anymore.

From 1975 - OMG I think I had this one...

A painful admission, coming from someone who has defined so much of his life by the music he bought and played, the concerts he saw, the time he spent as a roadie. That lifelong importance of music was one of the conceits of the heralded solo show that, among other things, set off C?WC? I cherish those vivid memories of bopping to my older sister’s 45s in the living room, playing DJ at grade school and in the neighborhood with my little portable phono, scouring Creem and Rolling Stone and Circus for musical tidbits I could include in my first-ever published writing gig, as musical maven for the Glastonbury High School newspaper. (God, what was it called? Something Indian-themed, I assume, since we were the Tomahawks [“on the warpath, ooh, aah,” as the cheerleaders reminded us]. Any alums reading — help me out here, guys!)

EVerybody's favorite mid-70s band, Sparks!

Then there were the early concerts: Three Dog Night at Hartford’s Bushnell Auditorium – a birthday gift for my sister, with our parents by our side; outdoors at Dillon Stadium when I was 12, the first show sans parents, and the first time I think I ever smelled pot (just smelled, mind you…); the efforts to get the best seats possible the day tickets went on sale, which meant precisely timing my mailed check, since there was no Internet and no way my mother was going to let me camp out; Sparks at the Bushnell, with 246 others who actually knew who these crazy guys were; the abysmal failure of trying to produce a bluegrass show while a member of the GHS student council (and yet I still tried to stage the solo show. What the hell was I thinking…). The list could go on and on.

I noticed my personal music dearth in Chicago, especially on the live side. Oh, I saw plenty of great shows, but over five years – and given the amount of good music so close at hand – the average was pretty pathetic. I tried to at least keep up with new artists, buying CD’s strictly based on reviews, but then found myself drifting back to an ever-shrinking selection of the tried and true. Which shaped the little experiment now underway.

With the stored CD’s added back into the collection, I decided I would play them all, once, in order from A to Z. Now, I made some allowances for previous lapses in taste: If a CD really seemed to suck to me now, I’d play just one or two songs and consider that disc done. But what I really hoped was to find some hidden treasures, especially in the genres I tend to neglect: classical, jazz, blues.

I realize this endeavor is not exactly groundbreaking. Not up there with reading every page of the Encyclopedia Britannica or living for a year like an Old Testament Jew (amazingly, or insanely, both done by the same guy). But it’s not a parody of those efforts either. My goal is to reconnect with “lost” gems, and just reintegrate music into my life on a more regular basis. Of course, I know there are dangers; I imagine one day I’ll scream “Oh my god, why did I buy so much Foghat?! Why did I keep it?!” (Actually, the only album I had was on vinyl, and it was purged from the collection ages ago. But you get the idea.)

I am now amidst the B’s, having just completed Bach. I got to hear my favorite piece, the Brandenburg Concerto #3, and some organ music that sounded like it came from a horror-flick soundtrack. The A’s had some delights – I forgot how much I like Laurie Anderson’s Home of the Brave. But I did wonder, apropos of Foghat, why I have so much Asleep at the Wheel. No, that’s not fair – they’re lots of fun live, and their tributes to Bob Wills, especially the first, are killer. But three or four CD’s in a row is a little much. I should have invoked the one-or-two-song rule, but I let them play through. We’ll see if I’m as generous with some of the older Dylan and mediocre Elvis (I gotta lot of Dylan and Costello…).

This effort might lead me to get rid of some things I have outgrown or bought on some inexplicable whim. I hope it leads to more moments like the one with Home of the Brave, or uncovering something cool I had no clue I even owned. We’ll see. At the least, I’ll hear if there’s anything decent on Blue in the Face, which  should be coming up pretty soon. I’ll keep you posted.