Happy Anniversary...Compact Disc

Back in October, during my ride to work, NPR ran a brief, uninteresting story on the 30th anniversary of the advent of the Compact Disc.  Despite being forgettable, the piece did send me into one of my reveries, this time back to the corner of East First Street and First Avenue, where my friend Jem Aswad lived in a walk-up, split-level apartment.  It was small but interesting, with lots of exposed brick and an upstairs loft space with roof access.  

Jem has always been my music buddy.  The first time we met, he taught me how to play a few songs on the guitar in the lounge space on the third floor of Shaw Hall in Syracuse.  He was wearing a Psychedelic Furs t-shirt.  Although I knew nothing about the band in 1981, I could tell by looking at the shirt that they were cool, as was the dude wearing it.  Jem (who went by "Jim" back then) turned out to have an extensive record collection, and he worked part time in an indie record store called Desert Shore Records.  During our 30 year friendship, I've witnessed Jem's complete immersion into the world of music, from LPs, to cassettes (he made some amazing mixed tapes for me and the rest of our crowd back then), to CDs to MP3s.  I'm sure he's still got a warehouse full of vinyl records stashed somewhere, and lord knows how many songs are on his iPod at this point.

But yes, CDs entered the mix some time in the 1980s, and I will never forget my introduction to them.  One afternoon down there in the East Village, Jem happened to show me a cardboard box he had in the bottom of his closet.  The box was filled with CDs, which I'd never seen before.  Not in person, anyway.  My understanding was that they were significantly more expensive than records, which I still listened to at that time -- in 1986 or '87 -- after Jem moved into 1st and 1st and before I snuck on over to Europe for my expat stint.  

"Come on," Jem said, with that familiar twinkle in the eye that suggested impending mischief.  He grabbed the box, and I followed him up the iron spiral staircase that led to the loft and out onto the roof.  From six stories up, we had a good view of the block.  I'm not sure, thinking back on it, what time of the day it was; I'd like to think there weren't too many people around.  

Remember now, the CDs in that box were like exotic treasure to me.  To Jem, however, they were nothing more than what probably amounted to an unending stream of freebies that awaited him daily at CMJ, where he had an entry-level editor's job at the time.  He sent the first disc flying out into space, and I marveled at the way it dipped and dived, shining prismatically before smashing into the sidewalk below.  I threw one of my own, Frisbee style, and watched it crash as well.  

I'm sure it didn't take long for us to realize that what we were doing -- our little act of Keith Moonesque rebellion -- was idiotic.  Rather than wait to get arrested or threatened with violence, we moved our party back inside the apartment.  We may have smashed two CDs that day, and for the sake of the story, I'm sure it would be better to contend that we tossed the whole lot off the roof.  Regardless of the number, I'll never forget the sense of pure decadence I felt, as I watched what was still a technological novelty at the time, these shining flying saucers, crashing into shards down below.  

When Your Friends Become Your Family

Every once in a while, I steal a peak at my nephew's Facebook page.  He's in his early twenties, and the online life he's leading is WAY different than mine.  For one thing, he's got far more friends.  They write almost exclusively about what appear to be inside jokes.  In other words, they're speaking a language I don't quite understand.  I wonder, as I browse his page, how many of these 1,000 + individuals are his "actual" friends.  The reason I wonder this is because I remember, so fondly, my own friendships from that time in my life.  It's a bit of a cliche to say it, but when you're in your 20's, your family -- the one you grew up with -- recedes into the background, while a select group of friends comes to the fore.  In essence, these folks become your family.

I was lucky enough to have a few special groups of friends.  In college, we lived first in dormitories, then in a collection of thin-walled, over-priced apartments off campus.  There was talk at one time of trying to rent an entire house together, a proposition that excited and intrigued me.  Doonesbury was one of my favorite comic strips at the time, and I liked the idea of having a "Walden" where my friends and I could regenerate in a kind of self-selected, co-ed fraternity.

For whatever reason, our commune never came to be, but it didn't matter much:  Just because we lived in separate places didn't make that group any less of a family.  In fact, I'm still in close contact with many of my college friends today.

And I did get to live my commune fantasy eventually, if only briefly, when I lived in a place I've written about before -- the Cava de San Miguel apartment in Madrid, Spain.  Those friendships, with an international flair now (Spaniards, Italians, Americans, Germans and Dutch came together in that place), were part of what made that spectacular flat so special.  Granted, the relationship that brought me there was falling apart, and I was carrying around some pretty heavy grief at that time in my life, but I still enjoyed the sense of community in that sprawling old Madrid apartment.  I'll never live anywhere like it again.

Fast forward a few years, and I am a young man waking up from a failed marriage, in need of a place to lick his wounds.  Other friends, in similar moments of their lives, have found a summer house in a place with the rather magical name of Big Indian, New York.  The drafty farm house provided a lovely sanctuary for all of us, and we had some wonderful times that summer of 1993.  The experience in the house in the Catskills was the closest I've come to a commune and to the Doonesbury Walden experience, complete with my own "puddle" (actually a little bend in the Esopus River, that provided a perfect soaking tub) in which I could luxuriate on hot days, thinking about nothing more than how much I was enjoying the time with my friends.

Of course, as with all things, I look at my two young sons and wonder what sorts of communal experiences they will have when they're older.  Jackson is the social butterfly.  In a way, his entire life has been one big commune; the moment he walks in the door, anywhere he goes, it seems, the hellos start coming.  Diego might be less likely to want to share his space with others.

Who knows, though?  Like me, he may find himself one day surrounded by a small group of friends who, for that brief moment, become his family.  I could see myself visiting him -- in my sixties now -- smiling, and wondering, as I listen to their code-like banter, just what the hell my son and his friends are talking about.

Perilous Crossings: Memories of Driving in Winter

It was this time of year back when I was young, some 30 years ago to be exact, that I would make the long winter journeys between Syracuse University where I studied and Westchester, New York, where I lived. I made some of those excursions by train, which I’ve discussed in an earlier post.

There were occasions too, however, when I made the trip between Purchase and Syracuse, New York driving. My mom and/or dad would drive me up, or I’d go with a friend or two. These trips were generally “uneventful,” as they say, in that no one was ever injured, killed or arrested in connection with any of them. Believe me when I say, with no hint of irony or hyperbole that any of these three eventualities could easily have come to pass during my five years of being a student up in the frozen tundra. It’s not something I say proudly, or even lightly; in fact I’m humbled and more than a little ashamed when I think back to my recklessness behind the wheel during my early driving days.

My friend Mignon Young (Hambrick back then) and I like to recall the time she, Pete Landau (pictured above in a photo by Mignon) and I drove home together in her aging Renault Fuego (as Mignon recently said, “I later determined that fuego was Italian for ‘biggest piece of shit on the road.’”). The car had no heat, and this was a five-hour trip in the snowy dead of winter. We
entertained ourselves in the freezing car by playing games like “Botticelli” and “the Movie Game.” The latter was of our own invention; one player names a movie title, the next has to name their own, starting with the final letter of the previous player’s movie title. It was a ridiculous, inane game, but one that made the minutes and hours pass more quickly somehow. Of course, the fact that we were young and had a joyous friendship helped too.

On that same stretch of road – Route 17 – I recall being stopped by troopers one year. There had
been a lot of snow and ice, so they were ushering cars over a particularly icy bridge one at a time. I was behind the wheel; my mother was in the passenger seat and my brother Mike was in back. The trooper looked at each of us and then, like the guy who straps you in to the roller coaster, he said, “Okay, man, just take it slow and keep those wheels straight and you should be fine.”
I nodded and, gripping the wheel, my forearms stiff as planks, tapped my toe lightly on the accelerator, then the brake, both of which felt suddenly unfamiliar, as if I were borrowing a friend’s car for the first time, instead of driving my mother’s LeBaron – the very automobile on which I’d learned to drive.

I’m not sure what happened next; I do recall the hundred yards or so of that bridge seeming much, much longer, and the moment when I silenced the unsolicited driving advice I was getting from my passengers, not by yelling but by evenly asking if either of them wanted to take over for
me. With the quiet I needed, I got us over that bridge and to our destination.

There are other stories I could tell on myself that involve that route, but I think I’ll wait until I’ve got less to lose. I like my job and my “place in my community” too much. Who knows? It might make for a good deathbed confession someday…….

Nostalgia Tripping With Dear Old Friends

As usual, I’m my nostalgic self, only more so, of course, on this trip to my home state and home city. J and I have seen family and friends. There’s no way for us to see everyone in the course of a week, and my sinus issues knocked out a couple of prime opportunities with some very special people in my life.

Today I got to have lunch with my old pal Jem. I met him at his office building, just north of Astor Place. It was a fitting spot; many of our youthful indiscretions occurred within a ten block radius of that location.

After the handshake/hug, Jem started listing lunch possibilities, but I had one place on the top of my list.

“Is the Yaffa Café still in business?” I asked.

His eyes curled up and he smiled that big smile of his. “I knew you were going to say that,” he said.

We made our way east on 8^th Street, all the while looking around to see what was still open from the days when we were kids. The Continental Club on 3^rd Avenue was still there, and Jem noted that it was surrounded by six ATM machines, something you couldn’t find except at one bank on the corner of First Avenue and Avenue A, back in the day.

As we reminisced, I was pleased to see the Holiday Bar was also still operating. It was – and still looks to be – a no-nonsense dive bar. My favorite kind.

Crossing First Avenue, we were both pleased to see that the Yaffa Café, a regular haunt of ours in the late 80’s and early 90’s, was, in fact, still there, still open 24 hours, and, as we entered, we saw that it was virtually unchanged. Jem had the same thing he used to have when we were young(er) – the Yaffa salad. I ordered us some hummus and pita to start with and then went for the turkey burger. This was the place where I first experienced a turkey burger, and it tasted exactly the same as I remember it tasting then.

We filled each other in on our lives – our children, our siblings, our jobs, and what we’ve been reading. The familiarity of this friend, with whom I connected so immediately on an autumn evening playing guitars in our Syracuse dormitory, came right back, with no awkwardness, no stumbling.

I grew not only nostalgic, but also a little self-pitying. In Austin, I have some budding friendships, but nothing so familiar as this. They say that you leave your family at a certain age, and that your friends become your family at that point. This is certainly true of my bond with Jem. He is like a brother to me. It’s not a fair comparison, I know. We’ve only been in Austin for three years, and that first musical (that’s being kind) meeting between me and Jem happened thirty years ago this coming September.

J and I met with more recent, but equally dear friends, for dinner tonight, when we visited the new home of our former next-door neighbors, the Savinskys. We created a strong connection during our time as new parents in the Park Vanderbilt apartments from 2002 to 2008. Our friendship was, and is, based on laughter, conversation, our children, and good meals.

Both Yan and Olga emigrated from the former Soviet Union, from Ukraine and Russia, respectively, and they always make a point to feed us a generous spread of delicacies from their homeland. Tonight, in their lovely seaside condominium, with the view of Manhattan and Brighton Beaches, was no exception. As with Jem, the chemistry of our friendship slipped right back into place. We ate, drank, and laughed, as our boys played loudly with their old friend, Misha upstairs. We were all sorry to say goodbye.

J and I believe in our Austin experiment, and we’re both willing to see it through. I think this visit is making both of us a little melancholy, though, as we are reminded of all these wonderful, beloved people we have left behind.

Mulling It Over in My Mind

Well my Easter turned out to be a good one, spent with friends who have similar culinary tastes to mine. They made Cuban sandwiches and pitchers of mojitos. If you’ve never had one, you’re crazy and must start drinking them immediately. Same for eating Cuban sandwiches.

Oh sure, you might be on one of those “health kicks,” and that’s fine, but it really would be a shame to go through life not having experienced either of these things. I thank my friends for their generosity, and for making a holiday that is inherently difficult for me so much better.

Drinking the cocktail reminded me of my days in Madrid, when we used to frequent a bar that specialized in another mulled drink, the caipirinha from Brazil. It’s sugar-based, like the mojito, but because it pairs the sugar with limes, instead of with mint, it’s bitterer than its Cuban cousin.

Both drinks give me a most pleasant buzz. Everything blurs at the edges, like a Vaseline-treated lens from a 1970’s soap opera. Sounds that grated on your nerves blend into the background, and you hear waves hitting beaches, even when you’re landlocked.

I can’t remember the name of the club where we used to drink the caipirinhas. I’m not even sure where it is anymore, as the memory has faded with the years. I’ll need to check with my buddies from that era, and see what they come back with.

What I do remember is settling into comfortable chairs and downing the drinks in rapid succession, amid much laughter and commotion. The music was good, too, I seem to recall.

Of course, that was a more carefree time, with fewer responsibilities than I have now. Today was a good reminder, though, that having responsibilities does not preclude having fun and enjoying the joys of food and drink.

I’m very blessed, in many ways, not the least of which is to be able to take part in days like today. I’m thankful for what I have, and must always remember that we share ourselves with the Earth, and the others on it, for a relatively brief period of time. It’s for this reason that we must make sure to LIVE.

It's National Karaoke Week!

Karaoke entered my life sometime in the mid 1990’s when my friend Susan Dreyer-Leon, (then just Dreyer) invited me along with some of her high school friends to some joint in the Korea-town neighborhood of Manhattan, in the West 30’s, just below Herald Square.

Like most people, I was unnerved at the thought of doing Karaoke. There’s an image one has of having to do a performance. I’m not sure where this image comes from. Maybe it’s in a movie? At any rate, I was relieved when I realized that it was just the four or five of us, with a couple of six packs of Budweiser (the group was from St. Louis, so I guess we were honoring their background). We were in a dark room with two sofas and a large-screen television, a couple of couches, two microphones and several binders filled with more songs than I could ever think to hear in sixteen lifetimes.

It was after that night that I became a Karaoke freak. Once our school moved to within a stone’s throw of Korea-town, we were “in there like swimwear,” as the saying once went. Many a staff party ended up at the Muse Karaoke bar (which, I’m saddened to learn, has closed down) on West 26^th Street, just a few blocks down from the school.

Not only was Karaoke a terrific way for our staff to blow off steam, obviously, but we also bonded, and learned about each other’s musical tastes and crooning skills, or lack thereof.

Since that time, I have successfully recruited several people into the Karaoke world, including my wife, who has, in turn, recruited her sister and several cousins. For my birthday a few years ago, Jeanette bought me a Karaoke set up that hooks right into the television, and although it doesn’t show the cheesy videos you get in some of the KTV joints, it does have some hilarious still photos that are wonderfully incongruous with the songs playing along with them.

My children have become Karaoke fans, as well, and I’ll never forget the Christmas party at our apartment in Brooklyn, when Diego’s version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star got the high score of all performers.

Karaoke is not only good fun. It’s a reminder of the importance of song in our lives. Even out-of-key, horribly rendered song. If it brings family and friends together, how bad can it be?

So enjoy National Karaoke Week, everyone!

Out of My Depth

Because I live in "the live music capital of the world" and because my old college friend Ken Weinstein works in the music industry, I've had the opportunity to spend time with him during a couple of his visits here in the two and a half years since I moved here from New York. The first visit was during the Austin City Limits festival, and the second was today, during South by Southwest.

I picked Ken up at the home of a friend of his this morning at about 10. He looked reasonably well rested, despite having come in on the late flight from JFK. On his suggestion we went to Juan in a Million, on East Cesar Chavez, where we dined on migas which I actually love (Who knew?) and caught up with each other's lives.

From there we drove downtown, meeting up with Ken's friend, local deejay Andy Langer at Franks on 4th and Colorado, where we watched Jack White (formerly of the White Stripes). He started out by noting, "I see more black gadgets than faces," because the crowd around him were holding up our iPhones and Blackberrys, shooting pictures and video of him the entire time. At one point Kenny noted, "The only reason I can see anything is because I'm watching him through that guy's iPhone."

Jack played two songs on acoustic guitar, the first being "Not Fade Away," which he introduced as "a Texas song." The other was "Dead Leavein the Dirty Ground," a White Stripes song.

After the brief showcase was over, Kenny and I walked east to the Convention Center, where he got his badge. Then, Ken began bumping into people, including his business partner, Jim. And then a guy named Andy. And then a guy named Lyle. And then a woman whose name I can't remember. Then another. And another. And another.

We made our way with Jim back over to Franks, where Ken ran into Rolling Stone senior editor David Fricke who was extremely pleasant, graciously indulging fans who approached him, asking to have their pictures taken with him. After driving Ken, Jim and Andy over to the Four Seasons hotel to drop off Ken's stuff, I had the option to continue on with them. But I thought of Jeanette and the kids, and decided I needed to make my way back to them.

I think I may have been a little intimidated by the Industry Talk. I realized at some point that for these guys the festival is work. I was tagging along, and I think I needed to find some familiar ground.

It's not the last of South by Southwest for me this year; I'll try and get some sleep tonight and jump back in at some point, either tomorrow or Friday. It was great to see my old friend, but for me he was really the headliner of the festival today. Everything else made me feel a little out of my depth.

My Brief Songwriting Career, Such As It Was

This morning, as I got comfortable with my rental car -- some kind of midsized Dodge ("Avenger," I think it's called. Weird name for a car.) -- I did what I always do in that situation: hit the "Scan" button on the radio, listening for halfway decent stations. Upon hearing a familiar riff, I left it on 100.3, KJKK, "Jack FM." I began to sing along with Chrissie Hynde, approximating the lyrics, "Middle of the road/It's the common thing/I'm standing in a middle life cry with my pants behind me..."

Wait a minute, I thought, I know that riff. And then I remembered: Jem Aswad and I sat in the basement hallway of our freshman year dormitory, the Robert Shaw Living/Learning Center, well after hours, Jem on the guitar, me straining to make my voice sound anywhere near acceptable. I don't remember what drugs we were on, but I have to believe they were good; either that, or Jem was a serious masochist.

We "wrote" a number of songs, the worst of which may have been "I'm Rotting," a touching tune about life equalling continual decay. (We were so deep.) In our defense, the A-G-E riff heard on "Middle of the Road" was ours first. Sadly, we did not record "I'm Rotting" to provide proof of this.

(Whoa, man, I just thought of something: We wrote a song about the decay of growing old, and the chords were A, G, E, man! Too bad those were the only chords. In the whole song.)

Okay, so we never became the rock stars we aimed to be. To his credit, Jem has come much closer, writing for Rolling Stone, MTV and Billboard. And he still plays guitar quite well, often appearing at PS 321 in Park Slope, Brooklyn, playing for his daughter's rapt class.

Me, I've made something of a name for myself as a vocalist in certain exclusive Karaoke circles. Due to blogging guidelines, I am not at liberty to repeat that name here, unfortunately.

Hey listen, the way I like to think of it is this: We may not have written any good songs down there is the bowels of Shaw Hall in the small wee hours of the morning.

But we did create one hell of a friendship.

Thank God it's lasted longer than "I'm Rotting."

My Home Town's Brush With Greatness

As I've mentioned in a previous post, Manor, where I now live, is a small town. There is a block of four store fronts, with a corrugated tin awning over the sidewalk, and an old-fashioned water tower, pictured at right.


Downtown Manor has always evoked a strong feeling in me; I'm not sure why. Recently, however, I've come to learn that they filmed "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" (directed by Lasse Hallstrom, 1993) here, and suddenly that feeling makes a lot more sense.


I watched the movie the summer after its release, on DVD, or probably VHS, at a rented house in Big Indian, New York, in 1994. It was a summer of healing, as I was coming off of a divorce, as were a couple of my friends at the time. I spent most of my healing time drinking and doing other things to "self-medicate," as they say. Generally, it was a lot of fun. A good distraction -- "just what the doctor ordered."


I fell in love with the film, because it has all the aspects of films I tend to enjoy: quirky characters, a strong sense of place, and no guns or loud explosions. The director's previous film, "My Life as a Dog," is one of my favorites, so when I heard it was the same director, I was excited to see "Gilbert Grape". Leonardo DiCaprio, who was basically an unknown at the time, was unbelievable in the role of Arnie. Johnny Depp was, as usual, strong in the title role. Good supporting performances by Juliette Lewis, John C. Reilly, Mary Steenburgen, and Crispin Glover. And Darlene Cates, the 500+-pound non-actress they recruited to play Gilbert and Arnie's mother managed to steal the movie from all these name actors.


As the film came to its climax, and Arnie faced a harsh realization (I won't say more, in case you haven't seen it; and by the way, you really should), I lost it. I didn't just cry. I didn't just bawl. I didn't just weep. My emotions exploded out of me, and I was lucky to have my good friend, Susan Dreyer (who has always said she wants to write a piece about that Big Indian summer called "Bridesmaid to a Divorce") there to pat me on the back and remind me that everything was going to be all right in due time.


Since learning that the movie was filmed here where I live, I have been giddy. I smile as I pass the iconic silver-painted water tower (pictured, above) that Arnie climbed up. I have plans to go look for the Grapes' house (it's out on Route 973, by the new football stadium), and, yes, I took a picture of the sidewalk in front of Manor Grocery, where Johnny Depp scrawled his initials and the date of the production, 1/93.

If I seem a bit star-struck, it's really not about that. Instead, I think it's just this odd convergence of an emotional moment in my past, and where I am living right now. Who knew, back when I watched this film in the summer of 1994, that I would eventually live in the small town that played such a large part in the lives of those characters? It's just so random. And yet somehow, deep in my core, it makes absolutely perfect sense, too.

The Boy Who Lived Everywhere

I have begun referring to Malik (not his real name, pictured at left) as "The Boy Who Lives Everywhere," because he is what his own mother refers to as a "House Hopper." Malik lives in the house next door and is a very sweet, very polite first-grader, who is just as likely to be in my house on a Saturday afternoon as he is to be in his own, or in the house across the street, or the one next to that. Jeanette and I don't mind having him around, and are prone to ask him to stay for dinner more often than not.

Basically, what he does (and who can blame him for this, really?) is travel house to house, looking for the next best video game to play. He's got plenty of his own, but anyone with kids knows that as far as they're concerned, other people's toys are much more fun to play with than their own. In his way, Malik is a genius.


Malik crossed the line recently, however, when, as he was eating dinner with us, he said, "I sure would like to stay here and have a sleepover with Jackson and Diego. I'm going to go ask my mom."


"Slow down, cowboy," I said. "You forgot something important there, pal."


"What?" he asked.


"Well, we didn't invite you to stay over."


Malik and I shared a moment of silence, just kind of staring at each other. I think he was trying to determine whether or not I was serious. To lighten things a bit, I repeated, smiling this time, "Being invited is important, buddy. Your mom would agree." He smiled his gap-toothed smile, and said, "Yes, sir," a little dejected. I gave him a high five, and we enjoyed the rest of his visit that evening.

This led me back to my own childhood, living in a community that was then about the same age as our present community is now. There was a group of us kids, probably about eight to ten, in all, who routinely roamed the streets and back woods of our area. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, so our house was filled, on a regular basis, with any number of our little crew. We rode bikes and skateboards, and were an every-day presence on Hartford Lane and environs.

The experience with Malik brought back to mind the time my brother Mike was hanging around at his friend Jonathan's house one Saturday. I was in our kitchen at home, keeping my mother company as she prepared dinner, when the phone rang. I wasn't paying attention to the call, but suddenly my mother was beside herself with laughter. She couldn't speak, she was laughing so much. When she finally got it out, my father and I were laughing, too.

Apparently, it was Jonathan on the other end of the line. Six-year-old Jonathan Heller had taken it upon himself to pick up the phone and dial our number. When my mother answered, he very politely said, "Hello, Mrs. Fuchs. This is Jonathan. Don't you think it's about time Michael headed home for dinner?" She'd then done everything she could to contain herself as she sternly directed Michael to come right home, before breaking up completely.

My brother had clearly overstayed his welcome, and poor Jonathan felt his only recourse was to go to the ultimate authority -- my mother. We were -- all of us -- the Kids Who Lived Everywhere back then. As I think on it now, forty years after the fact, it feels like nostalgia to me. But then I look at Malik and am pleased that he is carrying on in our tradition. Sure, we overstayed our welcome from time to time, or invited ourselves over inappropriately. But we did it because we were reaching out to those who lived near us, and isn't that what being a "community" is all about?