Overeaters Anonymous: the meeting

So tonight Jim, formerly large fellow, attended an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
I was visiting the local library in a small town near where I am staying on the west coast. The meeting was being held there and I was invited to attend. I accepted. I had envisioned that the meetings were a big group of people , or a group of big people, all there to cry on each other’s shoulders. Maybe that is the case in some places, but this is a small town and there were only a couple of people there, and I made three.
There is a format to the meetings, which open, and close. with the serenity prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the power to change what I can and the wisdom to know the difference.” It is the standard prayer used at all so called twelve step programs, from the original Alcoholics Anonymous to Narcotics Anonymous and so on. A list of the tenets of the group is read, and focus is given on one or more of them, almost as a reminder. Small donations are voluntarily offered up for expenses and then, after the formal part of the meeting is taken care of, it is open floor time. This is where the attendees introduce themselves, tell what their problem is, i.e. “I’m a compulsive overeater” and go on to relate things that happened to them over the time since their last meeting. This evening, a lovely, not overly large woman told about how she has been waking in the middle of the night and has been making peanut butter on toasted bread. It is a habit she has been visiting for a while, and I can relate. I used to wake at odd hours in the night and eat a bowl of cereal, and I would also, at times make a peanut butter sandwich. I related this at the meeting and a dialogue of sorts opened up.
While I have heard that some of these type meetings can turn overtly religious, with a “higher power” being recognized in all of us, and before which we are all powerless, I did not feel it was brought up too much or too strongly this night. Granted, there were only three of us there, but what did happen was that a nice, and I feel productive three-way discussion opened up.
The meetings are a way to find that shoulder if one is needed. They are a place to commiserate with others in the same boat, and to find solutions through talking about what is going on. For a species of animal that can express ourselves through speech, we waste our voices on so much crap sometimes that we don’t hear the things we need to hear. We speak but do not listen. Here, people do listen, even small groups of three.
That can’t be a bad thing. It could come off too “churchy” for some people, but it does put everyone in the same frame of reference. Higher power? To me it is my brain, and the nature that created me. To others, it is God, or another deity. No matter. The problem to be solved is still the same—an addiction. And this approach is at least an attempt to work with it, and any step in the right direction is a good step.
Im glad I went. And I even get it that there were no coffee and donuts. That is for the “Cops Anonymous” meeting.

Trump: The Joke

We have an interesting world right now. Countries long under the rule of cruel dictators in the Mid East are rebelling, with mixed results. Democracy looks good but they are finding that it is a tough job getting there. Once they do, though, they can enjoy all the great entertainment that we have here in the good old United States!
For example: They will get to elect their own leaders. One of their own will run for office against another of their own, and they will choose between them. That person will take office and for most of his or her term will suffer the slings and arrows of abuse and criticism and worse from the losing party, or candidate. And nothing much will get done because of all the squabbling.
My friend Josh Joffen wrote a brilliant song called “Monkey See Monkey Do” about all the silliness that springs forth during this whole process. An example: “Off in the distance, what’s that I hear? Could it be this is an election year? There’s fussing and fighting scratching and biting all around the country the fur’ll be flying, raising quite a ruckus for miles you can hear the sound. And when they’re finally finished there’ll be nothing left to pass around.”
Well, our monkeys are starting to come out of the trees, and not surprisingly, most of them carry a Republican card in their ape suits. One of them, Donald Trump, is a bit more of a monkey than the rest.
Trump, who, of course, is promoting yet another version of his trainwreck Apprentice television show, has been making the rounds of talk shows and has been making headlines by telling the world that he thinks that President Barack Obama was born not in this country, but in Kenya, and cannot produce a birth certificate proving his American birthrite. Well, Mr. Trump, no one can produce an original birth certificate, only a certified copy. Various statements by people at the hospital in Hawaii where he was born, as well as newspaper announcements of Obama’s birth, have pretty much put the argument to rest. Even Bill OReilly argued with Trump over the issue, to no avail.
And of course, Trump, who is not a stupid man, knows that no publicity is bad publicity, and has actually pulled into second place in polls asking who Republicans would vote for, for President in 2012. Only seasoned politician Mike Huckaby is ahead in the polls. The only trouble is that Trump is not going to run. I’d bet my life on that fact because to run for an office like President of the United States takes a few things: ego (of course, Trump has this times a million), smarts (again, Trump has them ) and credibility. Here is where Trump falls way short. By continuing his “birther” rants on every possible stage he can land on, he has pretty much blown any credibility has had out of the water. And the recent polls showing that 51 percent of the Republican party are also “birthers” means that this country has really fallen down in the IQ levels. It also means that it is going to be a landslide victory in 2012 for Barack Obama. The lineup for the Republican Party is a combination of un-electables like Newt Gingrich, who will probably be busy seducing his 4th wife, or is it third?, or Sarah Palin, who went from mayor of a small Alaska town to a national punch line overnight.
A bigger punchline is Donald Trump. Let’s hope we never have to hear the joke more than once.

Jack Hardy Remembered

Jack Hardy died yesterday. Most of you won’t know Jack Hardy, or his music, but if you were anywhere near the New York City folk music scene in the past 35 years, you sure did. He seemed to be everywhere. He certainly was an influence to a tremendous number of the talented young writers and singers who emerged from that scene. People like Suzanne Vega, David Massengill, Shawn Colvin, Lucy Kaplansky, Richard Julian, John Gorka, Nikki Matheson, Rod MacDonald, Josh Joffen, the Roches and many more all learned at his feet, sometimes literally in weekly songwriters’ get-togethers at Jack’s apartment in the village, where ideas and songs were tossed back and forth, and challenges were issued. One time someone, I think Jack, challenged a brilliant young guy named Richard Meyer to write a song about the Teapot Dome Scandal. (Don’t know it? Look it up!) and Meyer came up with an absolutely stunning song called “The January Cold” about not only the scandal, but the humanity of the corrupt presidency of Warren Harding.
Later, Jack was instrumental in starting a combination magazine/record called first The Coop, and then the Fast Folk Musical Magazine, a roughly monthly 12 song vinyl LP combined with a magazine that was the first place that many people would get exposure to the artists listed above, and others like Dan Bern, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, Tracy Chapman, and more. Each year Fast Folk concert revues were held at places like the Bottom Line and the home base for the scene for a while, the retro and rather tacky looking Speakeasy. I went to many shows at both and had a blast.
My personal experience with Jack Hardy was somewhat limited to brief “hello”s at his gigs, with one kind of remarkable (to me) exception.
WNEW radio DJ Pete Fornatale, a folk fan who would delve into the Fast Folk library often, played a song by a man named Ray Lambiase, called Free Men, and he mentioned that it was on Great Divide Records. I somehow found a phone number for the record company, and gave it a call one day. Jack Hardy himself answered the phone. I told him who I was and why I was calling. He asked me all kinds of questions, about how a young guy in Kerhonkson, New York, in the Hudson Valley, knew about the record, and how I had heard an FM signal that shouldn’t have reached where I live (I had jerryrigged my cable TV signal to my receiver, before such a thing was really known) and we talked for about a half hour about which musicians I liked and my own experiences. He then told me that he had a copy of the record sitting there and asked me for my address. I gave it to him and asked him how much the record was and where I should send the money, and he told me, in his raspy voice, “My treat.”
Later I got to meet the great man at another Jack-propelled event called “A Gathering of the Bards” at a lake near Monticello, New York, where I played catch with a Nerf football with John Gorka and walked in on another singer in the shower with his girlfriend. Such were the times.
So it was with great sadness that the news of Jack’s passing came to me via an email from some folk music site. Quick flashes of what I related above came back immediately, and then the songs I loved best by the man himself---Tinker’s Coin, Elevator, The Children, Síar ón nDaingean (West of Dingle) and many more. One song, called I Ought to Know, is one of my ten favorite songs of all time, a challenge to us all to learn the really important stuff in history, much like Howard Zinn’s People History of the United States, but without a single fact given, only a laundry list of what the singer ought to know but doesn’t. It certainly made me look up all of its references. I am including the full lyrics here. Hopefully anyone reading this will do as I did. You ought to know about this stuff. And you ought to know about Jack Hardy. I’m glad I did.

I OUGHT TO KNOW by Jack Hardy, RIP
I ought to know more than I know
I ought to know where this road goes
I ought to know great literature by heart
the history of art
this I ought to know

I ought to know more than 1492
I ought to know what the Buffalo Bills do
I ought to know more than the quarterback's wounded knee
what happened at Sand Creek
this I ought to know
but I don't

I ought to know about the sacrifices made
I ought to know ration stamps, air raids
I ought to know more than George C. Scott
and John Wayne get shot
this I ought to know

I ought to know what the drinking gourd means
I ought to know more than "I have a dream"
I ought to know about the back of the bus
and the crack of billy clubs
this I ought to know
but I don't

(chorus:)
I don't know nothing about nothing
but I'm proud to stand upright
I don't know nothing about nothing
but my future looks so bright
illumined by the light
laugh-tracks, soundbites
and a replay to get it right
I ought to know

I ought to know the songs of Joe Hill
I ought to know Trotsky, Marx and Hagel
I ought to know about the Haymarket hangings
and the H.U.A.C.
this I ought to know

I ought to know about Oliver Cromwell
I ought to know about the Gnostics and St. Paul
I ought to know what Jesus really said
and who the preacher takes to bed
this I ought to know
but I don't

I ought to know what's buried in the landfill
I ought to know about the clear-cutting bills
I ought to know about pipelines and schemes
what extinction really means
this I ought to know

I ought to know for whom the bell tolls
I ought to know the pride and prejudice of polls
I ought to know if the grapes of wrath are union
picked by Victor Jara's hands
this I ought to know
but I don't

Gambling: Time to Outlaw Video Slot Machines!

Gambling. A nasty habit, and one that I have visited before as a topic for columns. In those columns I was railing against those video slots that are “for entertainment purposes only” in every gas station in the state, so it seems. My contention was that the places that have them are paying cash as a prize, and we all know that it is a practice that is illegal. It still goes on. I have seen it with my own eyes.
After my last piece about the machines I received some very strongly worded letters from the dear readers of the JPA. These readers stated that gambling was an individual choice and that it was not the job of government to regulate those things that hurt no one. My contention was that, because I was once briefly associated with those machines in a seedy little underworld web that is constantly trying to evade detection by the police, I know of what I speak, and that the machines are programmable to only pay limited jackpots and are fodder for weak-minded individuals who have addictive personalities. Same response: “No harm, no foul”, as long as the laws are followed. Well, the laws are not being followed and are regularly broken with impunity. I saw it as recently as three days ago at a local gas station. But that’s not my battle here---the police do what they can against tricky proprieters who make payments in restrooms where video taping is illegal. My concern is that the very people who should not be gambling---the poor, those on public assistance, those barely able to feed their families---are seduced by the machines. And now medical evidence backs me up. A recent 60 Minutes piece on CBS detailed the fact that gambling is addictive and that the very worst facet of the addiction is those very gambling machines I have been trying to get outlawed.
What once was a casual activity, with big and very legal casinos in a limited number of states like New Jersey and Nevada, has now grown to a disturbingly large number. Casinos or gambling establishments are now in 38 states and looking to expand to even more. What once was an occasional entertainment is now pervasive and all too easy to have access to and people are losing money and their assets at alarming rates. Those on the side of the casinos say what some readers have said---it is a personal choice. Medical professionals say something else: the machines are indeed addictive and they have the studies to back it up.
Here is how it works: the machines, which used to be called One Armed Bandits, and had a lever on the side that you would pull, could only go fast enough to allow the player to pull the lever several hundred times in an hour. The new video slots, such as seen in gas stations, have no lever and are all button controlled. Money in, push push push. At a rate of up to 1200 games an hour! The combination of speed and the little rewards are exactly what creates the addiction, and the manufacturers of these machines know that. The machines are set to pay a little bit, small amounts, occasionally, giving the false impression that the player is winning, when in actuality they are losing and throwing their money in faster than they can count it out. This actually creates a chemical situation in the brain that is terrifyingly like that of crack cocaine addicts and when some players are in the “zone”, as it is known, they actually could not remember their own children’s names. They also suffer from similar shakes and other conditions akin to withdrawal from a chemical addiction.
The government has stepped in to regulate alcohol, tobacco, and medicine. It is time to do something to help hard working Americans to keep their money. Outlaw video slots now. Let the gamblers play legal lottery, or better yet spend their money on viable products and services that help us all to exist.

Rock IS Dead.Long Live ROCK!

I am in mourning. I think it is official that something that I really love is dead.
I’m talking about rock and roll music.
You know the scene from countless movies and television shows where a couple are at a dance, or a wedding, or some social event, and the band strikes up a mellow tune, and one of the couple looks at the other, and says, “Listen! They’re playing our song…?” Well, in my mind’s eye I see two old people slow dancing to Stardust or another classic in the Cole Porter/Hoagie Carmichael style. And that is the way it used to be.
Then along came rock and roll. Born from the marriage of rhythm and blues and jazz numbers of the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, rock and roll began as a near-novelty, arguably first with a song called Rocket 88 and then with danceable tunes like Rock Around the Clock. Then along came Elvis Presley, a white boy singing like a black man, and the glue that held it all together was set. Little Richard, out of Macon, Georgia, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and many others came along and all of a sudden “playing our song” meant something a little different—a little more bounce and swagger that brought it all home.
The songs themselves were often silly, simple and were mainly about love and automobiles. Even the Beatles, who first came to the world’s attention in 1963, were mainly singing about the same things, albeit with a different accent and with fresh sounding chords and melodies.
Then Bob Dylan went from folk music to electric and it was Katie bar the door, as complex lyrics and songs that were not the usual three minutes long hit the airwaves, and on Dylan’s watch, everything about music and society changed in 1965. Some say that it was the final nail in the coffin for manufactured, fabricated tunes from the old Brill Building group, like Carole King, Neil Sedaka and Neil Diamond, who sat in offices and wrote songs on demand. All of a sudden lyrics about “Einstein disguised as Robin Hood” and “Googoogajoob, I am the walrus” were sung to heavier melodies and it was then that rock and roll really became an art form. This art form grew and insinuated itself into the public consciousness even more, and after, with the help of punk rock, surviving the disco era and the techno era and even the recent hip hop era, rock and roll, now usually just called “rock” has finally and probably been undone by something that I had thought was dead itself: manufactured music, done for money, and with no soul, no heart and with a clear eye on just making as much money as possible.
I’m talking about American Idol. To my mind, this “talent”-show-on-steroids is symbolic of all that is wrong with music, and by extension, art, today. Nothing about the show is creative. Indeed, when some of the hopefuls try to express some individuality, they are often harshly criticized for straying from the melody or for being “pitchy”, a word that may be the only thing creative to come out of this show. The most damaging and insulting aspect of the show really began a couple of season ago when the “judges” began telling these young people, many of whom were very talented singers, that they should be doing one style of music or another, instead of what they liked to do. This is no different than telling Leonardo Da Vinci to focus on comic book art, or telling Marlon Brando that soap operas are his future. How dare they!!!
So the death knell has rung for rock and roll. That American Idol and other factors (the internet and corporate greed among them) helped put the last nail in isn’t their fault, but there are about five generations of mourners who have lost the love of their lives. A sad time it is indeed. Long live Rock!

Walking the Walk

Well, there goes another year. People died. People were born. Countries waged war on other countries and as always, innocent people got killed. In Haiti, an earthquake turned an already starving, under-developed third world country into something closer to a Stone Age civilization, and after the appropriate initial outpouring of sympathy and charitable telethons, it was quickly forgotten by all but a few.

In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.

The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…

A Parable: The Boy and the Butterfly

A boy found a small, delicate cocoon that had been battered by the strong winds and rains and the sun. He watched as from the cocoon a tiny, equally delicate butterfly emerged. A precious thing of beauty she was. But she was very, very fragile and the boy didn’t realize just how fine and delicate she was. He reached for her, grabbed her with his strong hands, wanting to admire her fine features and the wonderful colors of her wings. Being so delicate, when he picked her up, in his excitement he grasped her too tightly and damaged her wing, making it almost impossible for her to fly. He brought her home, into his room, and found a small glass box in which to keep her so he could admire her. He really loved to look at her and see just how truly amazing she was. But he could see something sad about the butterfly. She wanted to take to the air, to do what butterflies do, but because her wing was damaged and because the boy was keeping her in a glass box, she could not flex her damaged wings and fly as she was born to do. She was grateful that the boy had rescued her because there were many large birds around that liked to eat butterflies just like her. But now she was injured and her life was sad.
She spoke to the boy. She asked him to please let her go free, to grow stronger and to be free to fly where she wanted. The boy knew that with her hurt wing she would never be able to do what she wanted to do. He gave it much thought and decided that he would help her to be the best butterfly she could be. He found her old cocoon which was badly damaged by the elements. He carefully unravelled the fine silk and just as carefully wrapped it around the beautiful, tired and damaged butterfly.
“This will heal your wing,” he said to her. “You rest, heal, and when you are ready you will emerge from this new cocoon stronger and better and even more beautiful. You know where my house is, and where my garden is. If you want to come back and make my life a more beautiful one, you will always be welcome.”
And he walked away.