Jumpin' Jack Flash

Gray and overcast. Cool. Melancholy baby.

I joined a roomful of old friends, and many people I didn't know, at a downtown church this morning in remembrance of another friend, Eric, whose decomposed body was found earlier this month in the Genesee River. Foul play not suspected. It was, quite simply, the tragic end to a very sad life.

Handsome. Adorable. Star athlete. Track team. Ski team. Highly intelligent. Kind and tender soul. Ravaged by schizophrenia and decades of drug abuse.

Those present reminisced about his appreciation of flowers and constant seeking of knowledge: philosophy, science, religion and physiology. Almost all comments returned to his gentle nature and indomitable spirit. To his abundant sense of humor and the sparkle in his eyes. A family friend of his, who arranged the memorial service, shared how he presciently said to her, "Everyone has a future ahead of them; I have only my past." To ease that pain, an older man brought a chrysalis that is expected to hatch this week to remind us of how, like a butterfly, Eric has been released from this life's bondage and transitioned to another state. I take comfort in knowing he's now roaming someplace infinitely more beautiful than here.

My favorite stories were those that reminded me of my time spent with him while growing up in Pittsford village. Stories, with long overdue apologies to his father, about stealing bottles of 1962 Château Lafite Rothschild from their wine cellar which gained the neighborhood moniker "Klein's fine wines." Stories about the various caves and forts he inhabited throughout town. And story after story about his love for music--which seemed to be another shared bind between Eric and many of us.

After some discussion of how he firmly believed he was, in fact, Jumpin' Jack Flash (a song another friend posted on Facebook in remembrance last week), one pony-tailed dude whom I had never met, commented on the notable absence of music today. He then got up and played Mr. Tambourine Man on the piano. And for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I listened to the lyrics while attempting to suppress my sobs.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it

As for me, I have spent years scanning the sidewalks as I drove down East Ave. looking for him -- because that's where I would tend to see him most often. You could find him walking anywhere and everywhere in this city, his long, gray hair flying. He always looked homeless yet strangely content.

Now that he's gone, I know that I will continue to look for him because old habits don't die easily. But now my seeking will be filled with a low grade melancholy feeling. Just like today.

Hey Mr. Tamborine Man, play a song for me. In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Dirty (Construction) Boots

I just downloaded a report from the World Economic Forum on Engineering and Construction: Scenarios to 2020 and subsequently clicked on the accompanying video. I was totally impressed with their choice of background music until I realized I still had my Pandora streaming.

In related news, if I ever highlight "My Girlfriends" on this blog, Kim Gordon will be front and center alongside Chrissie Hynde, Zooey Deschanel, Diane Lane and Natalie Portman.

My Boyfriends

My girlfriend Karen posted pictures of her boyfriends on Facebook last week: Brad Pitt, Jon Bon Jovi and Bret Michaels. Per my request, she later added Richard Grieco because she dated a Booker lookalike during the 21 Jump Street days and I felt it was a noteworthy absence.

I decided to compile my own photo album of boyfriends here in the blogosphere where, due to lack of readership, I wouldn't be subjected to as much public derision. To ensure the list didn't go on forever (and take the better part of my day), I limited it to two men per class (i.e., actors, musicians and athletes) which forced me to nix cute men like Denis Leary and Justin Bateman and focus on the true loves of my life starting, of course, with my main man David Bowie. Given that criteria, I then added an extra musician -- the lead guitar player for Rochester's very own Presstones (circa 1980-something).

What a winsome lot. And for a chick who claims to favor intelligence, the list is very telling. Nary a Stephen Hawking-esque figure in the mix. Ah well, can't have everything.

Little Bird Courage

Instead of a day of inner tubing at the lake, I took the boys, and their friend/neighbor, to Roseland Waterpark yesterday. We all had a blast. Wave pool. Lazy river. Raft rides. Tube rides. Just a whole heck of a lot of fun.

The Cliff, below, was Son #1's favorite.

The boy next door is afraid of heights, however, and as we climbed the stairs to the top of the Mammoth Raft Ride, and we were standing well above the tree line of the forest below, he grew progressively more fearful. At the top, he was crawling with his hands on the steps in front of him and visibly shaking. But he really wanted to go on the ride so he continued. And then he enjoyed it so much, the kids went 3X more. All fears bravely conquered in the name of fun. I give him a lot of credit.

At over $70 to enter, for a family of four with coupons, and then another $25 for crappy lunches where the Italian sausage was the size of my ring finger and completely emasculated in a hot dog bun, this was definitely a summer splurge. Yet it was worth it for the people watching alone.

At a mere 20 pounds overweight, I was still one of the thinnest women in the park -- teenagers included. (I blame the manufacturers and retailers of size 12 bikinis for what's acceptable poolside these days. There should be an extra step, like an additional signature required when purchasing, no?) I was also one of the only adults without a tattoo. Everyone, bar none, is tattooed these days from ex-Marine looking men who are absolutely covered in ink to intrepid suburban moms who probably felt a daring rush of adventure entering the tattoo parlor after one cosmo too many with their perfectly rebellious request, "Could you do something tiny on my shoulder blade or ankle that is highly tasteful but also lets the other housewives know that I'm edgy and cool?" Hmmm. How about a subversive heart/ladybug/clover/flower?

While I was duly impressed by the father who spent the entire day texting while his wife and kids kept passing him and cajoling him to join them (which he never did), there was another family that stole my attention. The grandmother and two daughters were so overweight that their stomachs dropped almost to their knees; however, their little kids ranging from, I'm guessing, ages four to 14 were all thin and wearing expensive, designer swim suits. The strangest part of this family was their high, high, high pitched voices. At first I thought they were deaf but the weren't reading lips or signing. Then I thought they were mentally handicapped but, once I made out what they were saying, I noticed that their vocabulary and syntax was stellar. I now have to believe that they all suffer from a severe speech impediment -- but one that causes all members of an extended family to, literally, squawk like birds before each utterance. If I hadn't seen and heard it, I wouldn't believe it. I just hope the birds kids aren't mercilessly ridiculed at school.

Courage little birds. Courage.

Seventeen Years of Gluttony

The hubby and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary last weekend by dining out at a pricey restaurant (or, in this case, ristorante) and overeating so much that I could have died on the drive home. Or, at the very least, pulled over on the side of the road and hurled my arancini e penne. Thankfully, we decided to forgo anniversary gifts in lieu of buying a case of Slim-Fast at BJ's immediately thereafter.

God help me. 

Rated M for Mature

I originally intended to pepper this f*ing post with f-bombs as a tribute to last night's f*ing awesome Green Day show but I can barely f*ing stomach it thus far. So . . . f* that.

For the longest time, I thought I was the sole American idiot who would take an eight year old boy to Green Day. Little did I know, there are thousands of like families in this region alone. Preppy moms with kids in tow. Rocker parents with a litter of young rockers. Dads holding babies. I was not alone. The little girl boy in the row in front of us, possibly six years old, had hair down to his waist and spent the entire show playing air guitar and making amazing jumps like a tiny Angus Young. (Funny for the first five minutes. Not quite so endearing thereafter.)

Family friendly indeed. It was like spending the night at Disney World but Mickey and Minnie had been replaced with Ren & Stimpy. Come on kids, let's get drunk and have some fun. F* your parents. F* your teachers. (I kept putting my hands over Son #2's ears. Please, for the love of God, don't f* your parents or teachers.)

Not that any of this was surprising. When you've become famous for your angst-riddled, new generation, anti-war, Sex Pistols-like persona, then you didn't sign up to be a Boy Scout role model. I get it. But f* you anyhow, there are children here.

In addition to the families and expected teens, there was a large number of older couples surrounding us. And by "older," I mean in their late sixties/early seventies. The couple in front of us pounded beer after beer and danced the night away like old folks at a wedding. I was hoping there was a defibrillator nearby just in case the ol' ticker gave way. The tea-totaling, straight-faced, American Gothic couple next to us looked like they put their bong down at Woodstock and became organic farmers in the decades since. The most unlikely Green Day fans ever.

Regardless of where you were in the Green Day fan base bimodal distribution, the f* bombs were a bit much. Asking a 12 year old boy if he'd f*ed a woman yet? The poor kid was probably with his mom. Um, awkward. Introducing Mike Dirnt, the bass player, by telling us he has a huge cock? Come on. He probably already gets laid enough. Unnecessary. The dude next to me kept rolling his eyes. I hear ya Gramps. But in all fairness, this is Green Day (not Doris).

With all that behind me, I have to say, Green Day was a fan-f*ing-tastic live show. Just a great, great time like the rock and roll concerts from my childhood where the music, not the theatrics, was front-and-center. Unlike The Pixies and Weezer, these guys played their hearts out -- for three full hours -- throughout which lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong made comments like "We appreciate that you spent your hard-earned money to come to see us and we're going to give you the show of a lifetime" and "It's an honor to play for you tonight." And I honestly think he meant it. Bless his fuzzy, warm heart.

When it comes to audience engagement, they have all other bands beat. They brought everyone from the pit onto the stage to dance, the previously mentioned boy on stage to sing, and later three audience members (i.e., drummer, bass player and chick guitarist) to play a song. It must have been the dream of a lifetime for these kids -- especially when they told the girl keep her guitar. The crowd went insane.

Actually, the crowd went wild all night long. Like Pavlov's dogs, we collectively waved our arms in the air every time Billie Joe shouted, "get your arms up there." Yeah, how anti-establishment are we now? Punk anarchists who follow the rules. Go figure. He also threw out a gazillion crowd-thrilling references to Buffalo apparently not knowing that he was playing in a giant field between our two fair cities. (Somewhat presciently, he knows that the Bill's are going to win the Superbowl this year. Get your wagers ready.) He even gave a shout out to the Canadians in the crowd. Judging by the cheers, and license plates in the parking lot, this comprised maybe a quarter of the audience. But he only gave a few, lame shout outs to us in short, namby pamby "Buffalo and surrounding areas" references. Yea! That's me! Surrounding area! (I've decided that we need a strong Buffalo, Rochester, Canada coin phrase. I just can't determine what it should be. BuffaCanaRoch? Delightful.)

In a bizarre twist, when introducing musician Jason Freese, the crowd cheered like crazy. When Billie Joe followed up to say he used to play with the Goo Goo Dolls, there was an odd silence. Here in the epicenter of the Goo Goo Doll Nation, clearly no one gave a s*^t. This begs the question, are the audiences for both bands that divergent? My answer: who cares. (Or, more appropriately, who gives a f*ing s*&^?)

They played a million of their hits; so many that I cannot even begin to list them here. Songs from their new album interspersed with old school hits from the early '90s. Oh and what else you might ask? Introductory chords from songs like Iron Man, Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, Sweet Child of Mine and Highway to Hell. Great fun. Huge crowd pleasers. We even sang the chorus to Hey Jude. Wasn't expecting that . . .

To add icing on the cake, when the lad and I were leaving the venue, a guy from the Green Day crew stopped us and handed Son #2 Tré Cool's drumstick. OMG, you should have seen his face. It was the perfect ending to an (almost) perfect show. 

So thanks to my little man for taking me to Green Day. I would never, ever, ever have chosen to go to see this band on my own but I'm extremely grateful for the experience. They are true rock n' roll musicians and amazing, crowd-pleasing performers.

Bird By Bird

I was dreamin' when I wrote this
Forgive me if it goes astray

Like a light breeze breaking through midsummer's oppressive heat wave, little topics to blog about keep appearing in my mind's eye and then flutter away. I'm overcome with the vapors and cannot put the proverbial pen to paper.

It's this way at work too. Headhunting. Writing website copy. Conducting secondary research for a host of wide ranging topics including the ever-so-compelling adhesives industry. Creating a sales decisioning process. Generating proposals. Writing a keynote speech, a module on Board governance for a succession planning seminar and training workshops on leadership and change management. Every day starts with a gaze at my overflowing desk and the immediate question: where to begin? (With Facebook, of course.)

The title of Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird is the perfect example of my current frame of mind. In the author's story, her kid brother was overwhelmed an enormous homework assignment at hand: to write a report on birds.  His dad gently sat him down and gave him the best advice ever. "Bird by bird buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

Amen to that.

Here are some of my birds in random order:

• I got my first VW Jetta in 1986. Since then, I've owned three. I love them. I purchased our last in Connecticut in 1999 with the sole purpose of moving from NYC to VA with Stinky the cat on the seat beside me. This week I bought a forest green/black RAV4. I sobbed at the dealership when leaving my car behind. Leaving Stinky behind. Leaving a piece of myself behind. (Speaking of the vapors, apparently I was overcome with female hysteria. No smelling salts nearby.) And then I drove off in my giant hulking machine like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome smashing through roadblocks, sparing no one. The new me will survive -- nay thrive. 
• Itinerant artist, and all around great guy, Jim Mott came and stayed with us for a few days recently. I felt a little bad for him because he probably usually stays in areas that are more picturesque than our suburban tract. But it was fun to host him, spend time chatting with him and, most importantly to me, see the world from his eyes for a brief moment in time. He's very much in tune with color and light (as one might expect). I, on the other hand, am not. One evening, he and I headed out to a nearby field to watch the moon rise. Literally. Staring into the horizon to catch a glimpse the split second it came into sight and then watching as it swiftly rose to its full splendor. I hate to wax poetic given that I'm an MBA nerd and not prone to such things naturally, but it was a gorgeous, mesmerizing, radiant full moon. Next time, I'm bringing bug spray. 
• My brother sent me two blogworthy items of interest. First: research proves that more intelligent people (i.e., those who scored high on a vocabulary test), drink more than the "dumb." Given that my writing style has clearly devolved over time, I think there's a call-to-action in these findings. (In a corollary sense, it also may explain why I was an English major in undergrad. Somehow it just came more naturally to me back then.) Bring on the pink elephants. 
• Second: A recent WSJ article about nationwide fashion trends contains a great line that my brother picked up on about the indie movement in Brooklyn (e.g., home-sewn clothes, handmade jewelry, homemade pickles, butchering their own meat). "It's what I call 'party like it's 1899.' " Classic.
• Lastly, the neighbors hosted a red wine tasting at the fire pit last weekend. Everyone brought a bottle and we sipped, rated and ranked them. The clear winners, in my opinion, were the wines our neighbors custom made at Casa Vin'Arte in Fairport. Absolutely delicious. So, in addition to spending a really nice evening with a select set of neighbors (i.e., the non-crazy ones) ranging in age from 4 to 80, we were also partying like it was 1899.

Yeah, they say one thousand nine hundred zero zero party over
Oops out of time