Week One with the Youngers of Zion

AKA "Tis Sweet to work with Friends, ” July 26 through August 1st, 2007.

I caught the Block and Hexter shuttle bus out in front of the 92nd Street Y, which I guess is some kind of Jewish Community Center which puzzles me, as “YMCA” back home stands for Young Men’s Christian Association. New York really is Jew-ville after all, so Y means whatever they like up there. I waltz past the metal detectors (what the Fxxx??) and seek out a place to stach my gear. In no time flat, a stern matron kicked me out of the "community room," which had killer fast Wi-Fi and free bad coffee, so I relocated my bass, tuba and packpack to the the front steps of the place. In a town famed for its slice, I find a Israeli run kosher pizza joint and had possibly the worst slice of pizza I’ve ever had in my whole life. This will be an omen of things to come as it turns out.

Dance teacher-martini maker extraordinaire Steven Weintraub has wrangled a gig for the new “Klez Kamp Roadshow” concept at the Block and Hexter Center. They pulled it off a version of this gig last year without me, but this they budgeted enough to make it worth my while to head up there and I look forward to any opportunity to hang out with my Youngers of Zion band mates, no matter what the circumstances. After this week in the Pocono’s we’ll head up to East Hampton NY to glom onto a speaking gig that Henry booked and then subsequently got them to book the whole KK Roadshow experience for a weekend. That’s two whole weeks and I’m not sure my buds can take so much me in such a high dosage.

The week of instruction at Block and Hexter was a new skill set for me. We were essentially to be the live music for Steve’s dance classes and then provide entertainment at night, as well as give the odd lecture on differing topics associated with Jewish and Yiddish Culture. Kind of like a cruise ship gig when I think about it. Only this cruise liner has a median age of 80, keeps glatt kosher kitchen and runs on a fuel procured from incessant complaining. Don’t get me wrong, I dig old people. Just not in these sorts of high concentrations and especially not cranky old Yankees, frumme Jews to top it off. The complaints began even before the bus got to the campsite when the AC unit went kaput some 100 miles away from NYC. Gevault, indeed.

Ok, I’m not going to harp on any of the typical things that you can say about a summer camp arrangement. Anyone who has ever done time at a kosher Jewish Summer camp knows the drill. The food was exactly what one would expect to serve an elderly Jewish couple. That is to say cooked within an inch of its life and utterly devoid of any discernible flavor. But to speak to the positives, I had a clean room with an AC unit, Wi-Fi on demand, a lovely pool and an even lovelier pond which was well stocked with canoes and other water craft all of which I availed myself to. It was generally pleasant and run by decent, mostly happy people. In other words, it wasn’t anything like Circle Lodge.

There was a genuine wild card present however in the person of the camps staff entertainment director, a burly Israeli dame named Esther. Teaching folk dance and programming the evenings shows were her purview all summer and one got the feeling right quick that we were in her house and only just barely tolerated at that. She was all right and everything, but she was a force there when we got there and she’s still there now that we’re gone. Watching her lead dancing was truly a sight to behold, a mixture of enthusiastic prodding and borderline physical abuse. We reckoned she had become entirely immune to the cries of complaint from her elderly charges and had learned to simply manhandle them into submission and quiet, fearful subservience. (When one old lady came to her to tell her AC wasn’t working, Esther’s response was a loud “Are you threatening me!?”) Steve however has experienced working with her many times over the years and has developed his own system of coping mechanisms, which served him well all week.

The only controversy that occurred during our time there was on our very first evenings entertainment. We scheduled a staff concert of sorts where each of the guest lecturer-musicians performed a little something to give the attendees a taste of what to expect from our programming. Susan Leviton, our Yiddish vocalist and visual artist, was well received with her wonderful, unaffected singing. (She’s a real gem actually and was glad to have a whole week to hang out with her and her hubby Jerry.) Youngers played a tune or two and then Michael Wex got up and told a story from one of his books. It was damn funny too, something about having his first nocturnal emission make a stain in the shape of the Israeli flag, or something along those lines. Typically hilarious Wex material.

Funny to me maybe, but incredibly insulting to not but a few of the old frumme couples (not folks who had signed up for the Road Show I am quick to point out, but liggers left over from the week before) who stormed out in a public huff. Most of these people all turned up the next day at his lecture, hectoring him mercilessly with silly questions, and asking loudly I’m not making this up, ‘Why do you hate the Jewish People?” and “How did they let an Anti-Semite like you here?” It got even worse after his lecture when these nut jobs button holed him, screaming at him in English and then talking to one another in front of him in Yiddish AS IF HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE SAYING. When he responded to them in his native tongue they quickly switched to Hebrew, to which he again retorted to in kind. Ironical, as they say in my native Oklahoma. With this sort of crowd, Wex kept a low profile for the rest of the week and had lots of great material for his next article in the Jewish Week.

As the food there at the job site was a no go, we made several trips out into the countryside to find good burgers and booze. We were told of a particular joint called the Beacon Bar & Grill and after our first experience there, we came back again and again. Actually, I ate too much. No really, way too much. This whole being away from home and my regular surroundings and Mexican food and stuff, it was all catching up with me in this TV-less, shomer-shabbat rustic retreat. When I wasn’t working, I was writing this damn blog or eating and that was about it. The Beacon provided comfort food in every respect. We ended up there 3 nights in a row and with my taking pictures of everything ordered, I do believe the staff thought I was a food critic or something. It was midway into the signature Beacon burger, a massive meat fest made to resemble the Beacon's logo of a lighthouse, that I realized that I have as very deeply twisted relationship with food and it’s gonna screw me up if I don’t get a handle on it eventually. That said, here's what we ate:

The Beacon Burger, the house's signature dish, served with a side of chili cheese fries. "Angina on a platter." Seriously, I had a hard time downing this mammoth tower of meat.

Cookie contemplates the desert plate.

Hank goes for the Peanut Butter Pie, naturally...

Before...

and after....

Henry and Wex discuss the joys apple sauce and rare steak.

It wasn't on the menu, but I was craving a Patty Melt, which the chef made for me special. Again with the chili cheese fries....

Really, the Beacon was just that, a Lighthouse of well prepared meals in a vast sea of institutional kitchens. I'd drive 100 miles out of my way to eat there again.

We play every day for Steve’s dance class, we host lecture-talks on various subjects, including a lively talk about playing Jewish music in Eastern Europe and looking out to see mostly Holocaust survivors in the audience, and basically keep to ourselves. Cookie and I, Midwesterners by birth, avail ourselves of the private ponds many watercraft, including a hilarious attempt at a paddle boat. I redeemed myself later by taking a canoe out solo for a good long trip. The cool of the dark waters of the pond where a welcome respite to the heat of the mosquito-laden airs around the camp.

One evening after our labors, Steve shows up with a DVD collection of a 1950's era cartoon that I had never heard before. We loaded up on snack foods and liquor, moved a TV set into a unused conference room and the proceeded to watch episode after episode of Colonel Bleep. Evidently it was the very first color cartoon for TV, which is mighty odd when you consider less than 10% of the viewing public had a color TV to watch it on. Hank remembers seeing it as a young child, but in black and white. The episodes are in a word, pretty damn weird, with a mix of outrageous scripts interspersed with pointless "educational" content ("Today we go to the Belgian Congo....") Crude, bizarre and amazingly compelling. Especially if you are really, really high. Look it up on You Tube or some such and check it out for yourself, as could go on for hours about it.

Here's some stills that I took in a much addled state:





By the end of the week, we had won the campers over completely, even amongst the frum who gave us static at the beginning.The final concert went great, and even Wex's bit got laughs. Afterwards we experience the "let me tell you a story" session so prevalent at these sort of gigs.

Soon it was off to Henry's cabin in upstate NY to chill out and eat cooked meat for a few days and then we all regroup in East Hampton to do it all over again.

But for now, presented for your edification, Block and Hexter Camper Talent Night featuring Leon on the Accordion.

Manifesto for a New Year, 5768

As we’re fast approaching the Jewish New Year and as is our custom, it’s time to take stock of the follow year’s events and then see how we can learn from our mistakes and hopefully better ourselves and relations to those around us in the upcoming new year.

Miscommunication seems to me my biggest personal foible of the last year. And when my agenda runs contrary to those I work with regularly, feelings tend to get hurt and no good can come of that. (My own selfishness and insensitivity rank up there high on that list as well, and these are all issues I have to deal with as well.)

With that in mind, here’s a window into my thought processes, so that everybody around me will better understand my decision making process, in regards to music making locally here in Austin.

If you see my onstage in my own hometown, then you are looking at someone practicing for a gig somewhere else. I have established a working reputation as a first call tuba player and string bassist, so I need to keep my performance chops up and sharp as I will be playing nationally and internationally with some pretty heavy cats on a regular basis. Austin is a great town to be from, but it’s not where a professional plys his trade. The places where my labors are rewarded are very far from here in fact. “A prophet is without honor in his own hometown” to paraphrase the Christian bible. The famed Taraf de Haidouks, having toured the world for nearly a decade, played their very first concert in their native Romania only last year. My own Bad Livers were a headlining draw in Toronto and Chicago before we got our first press clipping in the Austin Chronicle. Ultimately, being from Austin has far more value than being in Austin, as any touring musician can attest.

Ridgetop Syncopators

If you see me with anything other than a bass or a tuba in my hands, then you are looking at someone basically pursuing a hobby. I will share with you a little secret that I've never told anyone. Many years ago, when I was touring with Bad Livers as a duo, my partner Danny Barnes become unable to sing. Up to that point I had learned how to sing back up and how to talk to an audience, but I didn’t have the skills to lead a show by myself. I was deeply humiliated by the experience, which had happened on more than one occasion and in different musical settings. I vowed that I would never be in that position again, and set about to start my own ban which eventually became the Ridgetop Syncopators. Here it is years later and all my stated goals have been achieved. I can front any gig that comes my way playing a variety of instruments. I’ve since been hired to front other peoples bands, play banjo in Veracruz, and most surprising of all, take the Syncopators to the Kennedy Center, and the Calgary and Winnepeg Folk Festivals. Pretty darn amazing achievements given the original context of the project. For the record, as its mission as been accomplished, I have literally no plans that group. I am taking the dates as they come to me however.

Any gig out of town beats any gig in Austin. This should be obvious. Not getting a crowd in town? That’s because this market is over saturated. I’d rather play a gig in Houston, Dallas, San Antonio, or hell even La Grange, than at any of the “hip” Austin venues as it creates actual traction and gets your project down the road. Additionally, if someone doesn’t want to tour, they are telling you essentially that they are not interested in music making as a career, which is fine for someone who just wants to kick around town playing music as way to blow off steam and have a little fun. Austin is filled to brim with these people in fact. However you’d do well to avoid them if you wish to prosper in music making. Truth is, there’s more than one bandleader I know who pays great money and is coming up on the industry radar simply by never playing in Austin, and concentrating only playing where people actually pay money for music.

All bets are off when it comes to friends. There’s a maxim among the jazz musicians I work with in NYC use when deciding if they’ll take a gig or not. They call it the Gig Triangle. (It was even written about in Bass Player magazine recently.) On any date offered you have three major factors: the quality of the music being made, the amount of money being paid and then what we call the “hang;” best described as the joy one has with being around one’s friends. The theory is that you got to have at least 2 factors in the positive to do any gig. Therefore, if the music is inspiring and the folks are great but the pay is light, that’s just fine. But no amount of money will get me onstage playing crappy tunes with people I have no respect for.

All bets are off when it comes to culture. Music is a vital aspect of many cultures, some I’ve even a member of. When a member of my community calls me up to ask if I can play a simcha, I’ll do everything I can to make the date. Not for free mind you, as your own people should be made to understand the real value of your service. But if you wish to count yourself as a member of your own community, you really should work to fulfill the role in which your music was meant to be played. This is also why you’ll see me singing Czech polkas at the Kolach Festival in Caldwell, or playing Polish dances at the Wiesczonski’s anniversary party in Tomball as well.


And when I tell you “Your band sucks.” I mean it with love. Seriously, I wouldn’t have told you anything if I didn’t admire you and think highly of you. I just don’t posses a gentle, or even diplomatic, nature try though I might.

Hopefully with my intentions displayed as transparently as I can, my actions will not be misunderstood or misconstrued in any way. That is my humble prayer.

As humans, we’ve all been designed as incredibly complex creatures capable of both the greatest goods as well as the foulest of evils and I’m as capable of both ends of that spectrum as any other. Hopefully with the kindness of my friends, my family and the charitable nature of my compatriots and co workers, we will all enter into a New Year filled with only happiness and prosperity, baruch Hashem.

Essay for Bass Player

On Stands now:

Some damn fine meals...

Whenever I sit down to a great plate of vittles, I snap a pic and send it on to my foodie pals. As I am cleaning out the hard drive, I reckoned I'd share a mess with you all.

Chicken Fried Steak, a Texas classic, at Hoover's Cooking, Austin TX, $7.99

Mixed Beef & Chicken Fajita Platter, Enchilada's y Mas, Austin TX, $9.99 House motto: "Never trust a skinny cook."

Arugula & Prosciutto pizza, Mandola's Market, Austin TX, $8.50

Beef Steak Milanesa, La Jaliensence, Austin TX, $4.99 lunch special.
(Note nuclear green hot sauce, a local favorite.)

Queso Flameado w/ chorizo, Mariachi Bar, San Antonio TX, $6.95

The best beef ribs in the whole world, Buz and Ned's Real BBQ, Richmond VA, on the house.

The greatest example ever of a Texas staple. Cheese Enchilada platter w/ meat sauce, no rice and perfect beans. Casita Jorge's, Austin TX, $7.49

Sarmale cu Mamaliga (cabbage rolls w/ polenta,) homemade pickled veggies and fries, Restaurant Drauka, Austin TX, $11.99.

Hungry?

More on so called "Black Jews"

Like since when did skin tone have anything to do with religion anyway?

Looks an sounds like my shul. See my thoughts on playing with "Kosher Gospel" singer Joshua Nelson last year.

More pictures from Pohoda Festival

Great pictures of Frank London's Klezmer Brass All Stars set with Boban and Marko Markovic's Orkestar at the Pohoda Festival in Trencin Slovakia, 7/12/07

I'm in this picture, but hiding.


Dontcha just love those monster projection screens?


Frank London

Boban and Marko Markovic with Frank London


Marko rocking out.
Note western style piston trumpet and Merlin Shepherd and Matt Dariau eyes locked on him.

Triumphal bowing.

The Amazing Yiddish World of Michael Wex

Here's Mr. Wex in performance at the KlezKamp Roadshow at Block & Hexter Center on July 31st. He's reciting an excerpt from his soon to be released book "Just Say Nu." I think he's speaking on the Yiddish phrase "hoch a chanuk:"






I really was trying to get a good picture of him, but you just can't hit a moving target. Like the old sorry joke: How do you get a Jew to shut up? Make him sit on his hands......

Wex is piss-your-pants-funny every time I hear him. He writes a monthly newsletter which you should go ahead and sign up for. And buy the damn book when it comes out. And you should really find his first book "Schlepping the Exile" which I still like most of all.

Pohoda Festival, Trencin Slovakia

After a week of rehearsing, gigging, drinking and enjoying the hospitality of Frank and Louie London it's off to Trencin Slovakia to perform at the Pohoda Music Festival with Frank's Klezmer Brass All Stars and Boban Markovic's Okestar. There's a lot to tell about this trip, but I'm not certain I can share it all. (Earlier in the week Frank laid a copy of Absursbistan on me and I must give it a hearty recommendation.)

Today I'm flying Czech Airways which means I'm assured to fly in a plane that Delta Airlines deemed unfit to fly many, many years ago. The only possible positive is that they still hand out free booze on board and I ask for a Becherovka and a Pivo. Only too late I remember that I hate that crap and coupled with a probably gamey tuna salad sandwich I am reduced to clutching the handy air sickness bag within a few hours. The only other event to report was the little old Czech-American lady who was so unhappy to be sitting next to a tattooed fat guy that she literally cried until they found her someplace else to sit. Fine by me as now I get an open seat for the 9 hour flight. I arrive at the Bratislava airport just in time to get in line behind the folks who came off an Air Kuwait flight. It's all turbans and burkhas and fat Okie in the passport line, which takes nearly 40 minutes to be processed by the surliest looking border cops I've even seen. After finding my horn has in fact arrived safely, I spy a friendly gal and a taciturn gent holding a sign with my name on it as finally get through the Nothing to Declare line and into the very hot airport.

Europe is experiencing a genuine killer heatwave this week and it's well over 40 degrees Celsius, which it pretty damn unbearably hot. Now, I'm from a place where it gets real hot too, but we are a Freon based society in Texas and you are never far from an AC unit. Not so much here, in fact, Slovakia has no AC period. As a fold up in the back of the Mercedes S Class cab, I make mental note to find a table fan somewhere. Additionally, I had assumed that I was to be staying in Bratislava for the night and had made plans to hook up for a hang with my old buddy Samo Alexander of the Pressburger Klezmer Band. I awake from my cab ride to find myself in Trencin, some 2 hours and in many respects, an entire world away. There is no phone at the hotel, nor is there one anywhere near there. And Internet connection? Yeah right. I have no way to signal my whereabouts to anyone, nor do I know when and where I need to be. In other words, I am right back in Eastern Europe. For me, it's the only vacation I ever get.

For reasons only my travel agent will be able to explain, I am here 2 days ahead of the event and will be departing a day after it's over. The plane (and bus as it turns out) tickets were the most expensive I've seen to date, and bear in mind I am traveling from NYC and not Texas this time. A lot of things happened while I was there. I played and hung out with trombonist Noah Bless and drummer Richie Barshay for the first time, as they were on this date and not familiar with the Brotherhood of Brass show. I got to stroll around quite a bit with Merlin Shepherd whose entertaining company I have missed a great deal. And I had my mind completely blown by a series of events that I am, for now, choosing not to share here. Rather I will simply give a quick photo play of the positives. Like food, which was uniformly trayf and wonderful.

Like many E. European hotels, it has a cafe attached and this trip food was on the Festival, so lunch and dinner were had quite handily.

Here's the house Garlic Soup, which has a chicken broth base rather than the creamier version I am used to. Big honking croutons and goat cheese to top it off. Followed by,

Chicken cutlets, lightly pan fried, covered in cheese and served on a bed of cucumber and tomato salad. It was listed as an appetiser, so I sprung for the french fries on the side. It was quite enough by itself however.

What you learn quickly when you travel over here is that the staples of the local diet, meats and vegetables, are just so much better than what you find back home. Here they are don't mess around with fancy antibiotics for the cattle, genetically altered grains or heavy pesticides. It's mostly "organic" by default. And people, here the simple flavor of a diced tomato just blows up in your mouth, and I mean that in a good way.

On to lunch the next day,

Evidently the locals like to stuff chicken breasts with all manner of things and then fry them. At the all night bar and grill down the road I treated clarinetist Matt Dariau (dude, you owe me) to a few rounds of Pilsner Urquell and a breaded, pan fried, chicken breast stuffed with cheese and sausage served with the ubiquitous cucumbers and tomatoes. Today back at the hotel I opt for a similar dish, this time stuffed with cheese and a pear. Not appetising on paper maybe but quite delicious I assure you.

Merlin went for the "Pork Parts Platter" as we called it.

This is indeed a Swine based food culture.

Random photo play:

On of several Slovakian youth seen adjusting their "Nigger" costume in anticipation of a set from the Wu Tang Clan. Please note actual black face.

There is so much more I could share about this sight and many others. I have in fact written it all down, but I'm not sure that I'm comfortable airing those experiences in a public forum. You may contact me offline should you wish to inquire further. Let's just say I'm not adding Slovakia to my travel plans again anytime soon.

Note please a damn decent Kolache served in the backstage area. This is the first kolache I've been presented with in it's native land and I must say the mix of cream cheese, poppy seed and cherry (the 3 customary fillings) all together in one serving was mighty fine indeed. Take note you bakers in Caldwell Texas for next years Kolache Festival.

Here I am meeting Mustapha, Boban's new bass man. My mentor Sasa Alisanovic has disappeared as if into the ether, and in an almost Mafia like silence no one will dare share with me the details. (Word on the street is that he has since returned to play for a rival group so that he can tour with his son, but it's all hearsay at this point.) The new kid is like every Serbian Rroma tuba player I've encountered, stunningly talented and funkier that the funkiest bass player you ever heard. He's nimble and facile, but he lacks the power and authority that Sascha threw down. I'm sad, but I'll give Mustapha a break as he's stepping into a giant's shadow.


Here's Marko Markovic jamming out with Nelle backstage. Yes, Matt, that's your clarinet, no he didn't ask your permission and that's what you get when you leave things laying about backstage at a Boban gig. BTW: Marko can kick ass on clarinet which is astounding when you realize what an incredible trumpeter he is.

Some pre-gig jamming backstage with Noah getting his first taste of the Boban i Marko throwdown.

Here's Richie with the giant projection screen behind him. The big round thing is Mustapha's Helicon bell which will be in my right ear all night. Did I mention they had smoke machine for the gig?
Here's what Richie had to contend with the whole gig long. He's in there, I promise, I could hear him....

Here's some of the estimated 20,000 folks who saw the show.

So we get a day to walk around the Festival, where I do eventually find Samo and spend an evening surveying the immense old Soviet era air force base that the festival is held on. (Samo is sweet kid and leads a great band. He's getting married soon as well. I wish I wasn't so out of it, but I did enjoy his company very much.) There are literally thousands of people set up in a huge tent village and as anyone who's been to Banaroo or some such will tell you, these people have to shit someplace. I blow my last Slovak Crowns on a Klobasa and Fries, check out Konono No. 1's amazing set and find a driver to take me back to the hotel.

We are to be picked up at said hotel at 5am so we be driven across the border into the Czech Republic to catch a Czech Airways Bus from Brno to Prague. No problem really, except for the wedding party that is going on across the Vaha River from our hotel. It's a traditional Slovak affair complete with I'd reckon a 15 piece brass band. They are pumping polkas and waltzes, all sing a longs evidently, until 4:45 am I shit you not. Now, I personally would have gone over and joined in the festivities, but the only bridge to cross the river was nearly 2 miles away and they would have wrapped up before I even got there, I imagined. So, I stay up and meet the driver.

Along with Noah and Richie, we pile into the Mercedes and peel out into the Slovak countryside which is in a word breathtaking. A short stop at the border and we're off to Brno at what looks to be just in time to comfortably make the bus. Our driver pulls into the Brno Civic bus station at precisely 7:15 am, helps us take our stuff out and bid farewell as he must do this all over again for someone else.

Something tells me that we're not at the right place, so I rush over to the ticket counter. Nobody speaks English, but when I wave my ticket at them they say "City Zetrum, Hotel Grand, that way" pointing north. Oh crap. We have but 15 minutes to find the City Center and the the Hotel Grand. I hassle a cabbie in my worst German and he says it's about 10 minutes walk, head north. If I had either Slovak Crown or Euro I would have employed him. But no, we sprint as fast as our luggage (I'm hauling a tuba remember) will allow. I tell Richie, the smallest and most fit of our party to haul ass ahead. Through combined effort we suss out both the City Center and then the Hotel Grand, across from which we see a whole other bus stop and one with a gleaming new Czech Airways bus idling. We rush up to the open door just in time to hear the last call, stuff our gear into the overstuffed compartments, give our tickets to the stewardess (yes, on a bus, she served us drinks and a snack as well) and collapse into the last 3 open seats. The stops on the way out of town and drops off the stewardess and we're off to the Prague Airport. I fall asleep, for the first time on a moving vehicle in a long time.

I awake to find us at the Airport, but arriving right at the time we should be boarding. Another series of combined sprinting and hauling and we find ourselves at the ticket counter. Richie is cool and get's checked in. I have no hassle. But Noah's ticket isn't there. In the confusion of being late, the bus stewardess has taken Noah's Flight Coupon rather than his bus ticket! Most places this is a no-brainer, as all his info in in the computer and it's a non-problem. But here is Former Sovietistan, 13 years after the wall falls and they still can't move or even think without consulting a supervisor. This too wouldn't be an issue, except OUR PLANE IS BOARDING. Long, upsetting story short, he's issued a boarding pass and we're all on the plane. Again, for the first time in my life, I fall soundly asleep on the plane. This time passing on the crappy local booze and the tuna salad.

When I return to JFK I realize I had not made any arrangements to crash with anybody and I can't get anybody on the phone. As hot and tired as I was I make the decision to simply hit a hotel near the airport, loathe though I am to afford such. I negotiate a price with a Best Western, check in, set the AC to "stun," called out for a pizza and slept 18 hours. Recharged and refreshed, I set out to the Workman's Circle building to stash my horn at the Living Traditions basement office and seek out something to do before I headed off to Block and Hexter for the KlezKamp Roadshow.

I headed off to Brooklyn, a place I didn't know so well, even having played for it's celebration of late.I am grateful to the Sokolov-Gottesman's for putting me up in Brooklyn and for a pleasant dinner with Joey Weisenberg. And to Matt Moran who took me out for a drink and live music even after attending the memorial of his good friend. On Tuesday, I observed Tish B'Av by reading magazines at the Barnes and Noble and then seeing "Live Free or Die Harder" at the neighborhood cinema.

It's a good time as any to reflect that the things we may have around us pale in the comparison of the friends and relationships we form. Away from Texas and my relatively comfortable surroundings I note that it is only through my friends that I have been able to experience the things I have. Those experiences and those friends made along the way are more dear to me than any thing I could possibly posses.

May I also share with you this little secret. If I should, heaven forbid, pass from this Earth for any reason anytime soon, I want anybody reading this to know well that I have had a wonderful time and it's all OK. No, really, it's been a solid blast. I may be broke without a pot to piss in, but screw it, the saddest folks I know have plenty of money. My version of a mid-life crisis now is that I need new goals, as all of my goals up to now have been attained. And that, friends, are the words of a very, very lucky man.