What do you do when the limo driver goes the wrong way?

It was his appearance that threw me off. The schlumpy look. I know drivers are underpaid, that they buy their suits at a discount, but suits they usually wear and they do not look like they were called away from band practice and it makes me feel…

Bad about myself. Because my wardrobe looks like I got it from Goodwill.

I didn’t used to be this way, my mother dressed me well. And then I went to Middlebury College in the middle of Vermont where there were no nice places to go and the rich dressed in chinos and worn-out Weejuns and if you wore nice clothes you were an outcast. Who you were inside was what counted, and if you bragged about your intelligence and achievements you were a pariah.

Oh, how the world has changed.

I’d like to say these scions of the wealthy won the game. But nobody I went to college with set the world on fire. Nobody is excoriated in the press for flaunting their wealth. And so here I am, with a bedraggled appearance and few assets, and I wonder if I played it wrong my whole damn life. And I wonder where the turning point was. Growing up in a female-dominated household? Skipping a grade? Having a renegade father who hewed to his own instincts but was never a member of the group? Or was it Middlebury College or was it all of it?

Speaking of my dad… He was all about breaking the rules. Kinda like today’s techies. Which is why he managed to take a mediocre profession and turn it into a gold mine. My dad was a real estate appraiser, normally a schlepper in a bad sport coat. But my dad fancied designer duds, and he was a legend in Connecticut, I heard an attorney general say they should have paid him a million dollars to go away, because he was so damn good at his job, getting money from the state in eminent domain cases.

But as much as my dad could rant and rave, he knew when to hold ’em and he knew when to fold ’em, his policy was to be nice to the service people. To utilize a charm offensive, until that failed and he had to bring out the big guns.

So the driver was going the wrong direction on the 5. Now one of the great things about being an adult is you’ve got direction home, you know where you live, you know how to get there, and in L.A. it’s not that complicated, until you hit the hills, but in the Valley…

Felice mentioned she’d never gone this way. Her mother said it’d been a long time since she’d been on this side of the hill. And the driver must have been a fan of Supertramp, he was gonna take the long way home.

Kinda like going from Philly to New York via Atlantic City, literally.

So, we said something, we got him to turn around.

And then he missed an exit. He went the wrong way on the 101.

What do you do?

Take over, tell him how to go.

But he was beholden to his GPS, you know the kind stuck to the windshield with a suction cup. It was descended divinely from Rand McNally and no human being could contradict it.

Until it said to make a wrong right blocks before Felice’s house. We heard the clicking of the turn signal. But we didn’t dare say anything, his temper had flared.

But not like it did when he passed Felice’s abode.

And I was flummoxed. Don’t we live in a service economy? Weren’t we paying, handsomely, shouldn’t he be beholden to us? And what were we asking for anyway, to go our own way? Fleetwood Mac let us, couldn’t he?

But it’s New Year’s Day and he probably doesn’t want to work but then he left Felice’s in the wrong direction and I implored him to turn off his GPS. I used the magic word, “please,” I did not lose my cool, I felt it was my job, to take control, I’m 62 years old, I’m an adult now, and it’s finally time to grow into my shoes.

At least I thought it was, I thought I was succeeding, until he blew his top again. Going to Ginny’s house. And after missing her building and having to make a U-turn upon our instruction and finally pulling into the parking area he lit into me.

Now let me tell you, I can lose my cool. I learned it from my dad. But I’ve had decades of psychotherapy, I can control my outbursts, if not my feelings, I can play to win. The driver accused me of yelling at him, which was untrue, and kept defending his mistakes. What to do?

Try to be nice. Ingratiate yourself. Express sympathy for having to work on a holiday.

And that’s when he got in my face and told me he was right and he wasn’t going to sacrifice his safety record no matter who I was and how rich I am.

Ain’t that a laugh.

But he was inches from me, and my instinct was to light into him, but I thought he’d hit me, because when people get wound up there’s no telling what they’ll do, the law be damned.

And that’s when it hit me, was I a wimp? Had it hobbled me my whole life? Had I been letting things slide in the name of getting along to my detriment? Because the big swinging dicks don’t tolerate no nonsense, I’ve seen them in action, they’re ranting and raving and having it their way and they own the damn Burger King, even though they never eat there.

Do the bullies succeed? Is craziness tolerated? Look at Trump, the press gives him a pass because he sells advertising and the public supports him because he’s a billionaire, even though he’s a flash in the pan who will be forgotten in months, at least when it comes to the Presidential election. But everything’s momentary in our society, it’s a pinball machine of b.s. Everything’s trumped up and if you’re not fighting for your piece you don’t get none.

And so many get none. They were taught to obey the rules and look what it got them.

And those who took matters into their own hands…

And then he said he knew I was going to report him. Actually, I was gonna let it go, but Felice thought the driver was a psycho. I’m afraid he’s gonna lose his job.

And then Ginny comes back from her building to argue the directions. A nonagenarian versus a punk. And he doubled-down. Why should he do otherwise? That’s what all the rich and famous do, maybe he learned it from Bill O’Reilly.

Ginny asked me if I wanted to call Uber.

I figured I was invested this much, I was not that far from home.

So I sat in the back, meek, like a second-grader, even though he was supposed to be serving me. He took the wrong exit, went the wrong way, does it have to be his way?

But I didn’t say a word, because I was afraid. Because I felt it was too small an event, I’d be better off just letting it slide.

But now I’m thinking I let too much slide, in the desire of getting along, I didn’t fight for the big piece of chicken, I let others go first.

And now where are they and where am I?

I’m not saying I want a do-over, but if I had one I’d do things differently, because the truth is it’s every man for himself and if you’re not getting ahead you’re being left behind, and the warfare is between us while the rich get a pass, laughing as they live a lifestyle we can’t even dream about because we haven’t been exposed to it.

So I’m saying to myself I’m home, I should forget about it.

But is that what I’ve done my whole damn life?

I don’t want to change the world
I don’t want the world to change me

I’m surprised so much hell is being raised over the death of Lemmy Kilmister. Could it be that he’s one of the few authentic rock stars left, who’s doesn’t care what you think, who’s doing it for himself?

I think so.

And now he’s gone.

I’d be lying if I said I was the biggest Motorhead fan, and Lemmy’s fascination with Nazis was pretty creepy, but he was nobody other than himself, he gave it all for rock and roll, when that was a religion, an ethos, a way of life, when we looked to our stars for guidance, who at the same time were not giving it.

But for me the apotheosis of Lemmy’s work is that he did with Ozzy Osbourne on the “No More Tears” album, wherein he cowrote lyrics for four songs, including “I Don’t Want To Change The World.”

Remember when we all weren’t desirous of being liked, when being an outsider was a badge of honor? Lemmy did.

Standing on the crossroads, world spinning round and round
Know which way I’m going, you can’t bring me down

Now everybody hangs on the words of rich assholes as if they have the key to life. Used to be life was your own personal adventure, you created it and you owned it.

You know it ain’t easy
You know it ain’t fair
So don’t try to please me
Because I really don’t care

Everybody cares too much today, they’re fearful of offending a potential customer, the sui generis individual has gone away. To the point where when an original dies we lament the loss of past glory.

But Lemmy didn’t.

Don’t tell me stories ’cause yesterday’s glories
Have gone away, so far away

There was no sense of history in rock and roll, the rules were broken again and again, and we looked up to these trailblazers, before the past was canonized in a Hall of Fame that does a good job of excluding those who pushed the envelope, who were dangerous, who were different, who really didn’t care if you liked them or not. You don’t hear Ian Anderson bitching about not being in the R&RHOF or Jon Anderson or Justin Hayward or John Lodge, but they were originals with huge, passionate audiences that the cognoscenti did not approve of. Kind of like Lemmy, he may not have reached as many, but if Patti Smith is in the Hall of Fame as an influencer, he should be too, just read the testimony of all the legendary rockers overwhelmed by his death.

I’m living on an endless road
Around the world for rock and roll

Motorhead never cut “I Don’t Want To Change The World,” but “Hellraiser” appeared on their 1992 album “March Or Die.”

That’s what bands used to do, travel around the world in an air of debauchery, leaving not only death and destruction in their wake, but children. This is the life every red-blooded male wanted a part of, what the groupies wanted to snuggle up to. Don’t mistake today’s touring behemoths with the stars of yesterday… There were no cameras, your life was as wild as you could imagine, you made it up as you went along, and you had millions hanging on every word.

Sometimes it feels so tough
But I still ain’t had enough

Nights at the Rainbow, endless tours, Lemmy kept on keepin’ on. He abused his body and continued to live the rock and roll lifestyle while too many of his contemporaries, especially those who came thereafter, were sucking up to those with the money, the faux stars known as bankers and techies, who don’t have the cojones to march into the wilderness on their wits alone, with no VC money, willing to do something unpopular, winning all the while on their personality.

Feeling all right in the noise and the light
But that’s what lights my fire

It can never be captured in video, you have to be there, to feel the pulse, the emotion, this guy Lemmy on stage WAS ROCK AND ROLL!

Walking out on another stage
Another town, another place
Sometimes I don’t feel right
Nerves wound up too damn tight

That’s what being a rock star is all about, the trappings come last, first and foremost it’s a job, wherein the travel is endless and you’re frequently unaware of the burg you’re in, but you keep on nonetheless. Many do drugs just to cope, others drink copious amounts, to come down from the high of being on stage, experiencing all the adulation and the noise. It’s why all the richies want access, because they don’t have that in their own lives… No one’s gonna cheer when Mark Zuckerberg takes the stage, certainly not Lloyd Blankfein.

People keep telling me it’s bad for my health
But kicking back don’t make it
Out of control, I play the ultimate role
But that’s what lights my fire

And it lit our fire too. You couldn’t get a ticket, rock and roll ruled the universe. That’s what got Lemmy involved, he needed to be closer, being a roadie was good enough.

And then he played. And played and played. For decades. He couldn’t do anything else, he’d sacrificed his entire life for rock and roll.

Like me.

Like you.

It’s our God.

And when a parishioner dies we reel, we testify, we can’t believe the Grim Reaper has taken another.

But then we circle the wagons, push a button and crank it up. Because we were born hellraisers. We’ve got contempt for the man, we ain’t selling out to no corporation, our lives are about freedom to a pounding soundtrack turned up to 11.

Never forget it.

Long live the Ace of Spades!

“Hellraiser”- Spotify

You’ve just got to make it to January 1st.

“Guess who died?”

That’s how my father would wake up my mother most mornings. A notoriously late sleeper, my mom was the opposite of my eager beaver dad, who’d already been out buying donuts while the rest of were still under the covers. And having perused the Bridgeport “Post,” he just couldn’t help but inform my mother of the latest passings, even though she complained this was no way to be awakened.

I’ve turned into my dad. It happens surreptitiously, while you’re not paying attention, as you get older, and then, sometime when you’re an adult, you realize you’ve not only got your father’s DNA imprinted upon you, but his identity too. You just can’t shake it. And I can’t stop telling people who died.

Like Snuff Garrett. Do you know the L.A. “Times” didn’t even print an obituary? He produced Gary Lewis & the Playboys, and if that doesn’t impress you, he did Vicki Lawrence’s “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” and Cher’s “Gypsys, Tramps and Thieves” and “Half-Breed” too. Amazing how the past is plowed under, if you weren’t there it’s like it didn’t even happen. Does anybody remember the Commander, Mike Chapman? He and Nicky Chinn were gods decades back. But they’re still alive, at least Chapman is…Chinn? Probably. But you get old enough and you can’t remember who’s passed and who hasn’t. I laughed how Paul Simon and his band couldn’t remember who was dead or alive in “One Trick Pony,” now I know it’s a function of age. It all becomes a blur. And soon you’re gone too.

And a couple of weeks back, Luigi Creatore died. Don’t worry, I didn’t know him either, but I did know his songs, he and his partner Hugo Peretti, known together as Hugo & Luigi, produced Little Peggy March’s “I Will Follow Him,” one of the great singles of the sixties. And they produced Sam Cooke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away” and “Chain Gang,” never mind “Wonderful World.” And they not only did Jimmie Rodgers’s “Honeycomb,” they did Van McCoy’s “The Hustle” too! And I’d never even heard of them! I wonder if the Grammys will make a big deal about them, their work will last longer than those of the acts nominated for Album of the Year. How come today’s music never lasts?

Meanwhile, read Luigi Creatore’s obituary here:

Luigi Creatore, Songwriter and Producer for Presley and Sam Cooke, Dies at 93

where you’ll also learn Luigi was part of the team that did the Tokens’ “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”…what a career!

And although you’ll enjoy the history lesson, you’ll be wowed by the picture of Snuff Garrett and his colleague Leon Russell in Garrett’s obit. Once upon a time, Leon was not the Master of Space and Time, just another talented musician on the make:

Snuff Garrett, Record Producer Who Made a String of Hits, Dies at 77

And just yesterday, Little Stevie Wright of the Easybeats passed away. Vanda and Young get all the credit, but it was Little Stevie who sang the incredible vocal in “Friday On My Mind.” What a track that was, I can remember hearing it over the PA on a bitter day at Brodie Mountain, now they’re both gone. Live long enough and everything that was meaningful to you ceases to exist.

But it’s not only musicians who succumb in December.

Meadowlark Lemon just died. Do youngsters know who he is? Back when the NBA was still white, the Harlem Globetrotters were as big or bigger than any of the league’s teams. And its star was the clown known as Meadowlark, who lived around the corner from me in Fairfield, Connecticut. In a tract home. Where there wasn’t another African-American around. I never saw Meadowlark in the flesh, but his son used to hang at the playground, he was a good dude.

And then there’s Haskell Wexler, one of the best cinematographers of all time. Not only did he shoot “Coming Home,” but he did “Bound for Glory,” which looked like the Dust Bowl, and “Days of Heaven,” one of the most richly beautiful films of all time. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, Wexler shot “American Graffiti” and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” and even “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” And it’s not only the credits, it’s the look, Wexler was an artist, someone unique. And at the height of his fame he made his own film, wrote and directed it too, called “Medium Cool.” It made an indelible impression upon me, not only because of its visceral quality but because of the use of Love’s song “Emotions” in it, as in “Arthur Lee and…” Wexler took a risk, put it all on the line, the Chicago Democratic Convention of ’68 was a vital part of the film. This was back when artists stood for something, when they weren’t so worried about their commerciality that they refused to
take a stand. I ran into Haskell at a Thanksgiving party last year. He didn’t hear so well but was stunned that I knew who he was and had so much respect for him. And to think of all the bozos lapping up the accolades these days. Haskell Wexler was a giant, and the Oscars will make a big deal about his death. No, they won’t, but you’ll see him in the “In Memoriam” montage.

And how about Stein Eriksen? Ski Like Stein! That’s what we all wanted to do, I got his book for Hanukkah. And watched him flip on TV. He was debonair and the true icon of skiing before Jean Claude Killy and was never eclipsed by the French master. I only saw him once, in front of his namesake lodge in Deer Valley.

And Ellsworth Kelly just passed, and Dave Henderson too!

And my uncle Herbie, my mother’s brother.

I don’t come from a large family. But now only my mother is left. Herbie lasted a long time, he died at 94, he was nearly 95. But I remember talking to him back in 2008, when he was wearing his Tufts hat, and he told me he went to the reunion but few attended, everybody else was dead. And you think you want to live forever, but you don’t. Because not only do you become frail, all your friends are gone, you’ve got no commonality, no frame of reference. Don’t envy those financial titans marrying twentysomethings, what do they talk about? We sang the theme song to “Car 54, Where Are You?” the other night, does anybody under fifty know that show? Under sixty? “There’s a holdup in the Bronx, Brooklyn’s broken out in fights…”

And when you’re young everything’s new and you think you’re going to live forever.

And then you age and you’ve seen it before but you understand it better, you’ve got context, you can deliver wisdom, but no one younger than you seems to care, they’re all just doing it for themselves.

So we get this inane worship of the young and stupid. Honoring someone for their youth is like honoring someone for being born, it doesn’t have much meaning, these individuals are far from fully-formed.

But then you become who you are, you’ve been there, done that and you pass.

It’s the way of the world, but it’s still incomprehensible. You were so vibrant and alive, and then no one cares about you anymore and just a few remember, no matter how great your contribution was.

So, if you’re trying to leave your mark, if you’re all about accumulation, you’re missing out. The truth is we’re all just grist for the mill and the best you can do is to have experiences and adventures that mean so much to you. Because ultimately you’re the only one who cares, the rest of us keep on keepin’ on, focused on our own little lives.

But when the giants fade away, when those who provided signposts in our lives are suddenly gone, we feel the emptiness, at least for a while, not only are we reminded of their humanity, their singular quality, their greatness, we’re confronted with the fact that life is evanescent, that it can be snuffed nearly instantly.

So take care of yourself. Go to the doctor, get those tests, no one is invulnerable, no one gets out of here alive. When you’re done, you’re done, no matter what anybody says. So make the most of your time while you’re here.

And know that people can have an impact. The ones mentioned above certainly did.

And pray that your loved ones make it through the holidays, it’s the hardest time.

1. Try to be great. In a world of overwhelming incompetence, where everybody’s vying for attention, we seek and glom on to great, and tell everybody we know about it. Unfortunately, because of the plethora of information great does not ascend to the top of the totem pole instantly anymore, but it’s the first step in the ladder to success. Forget the penumbra, the social media, the marketing, they’re subservient to the underlying product/endeavor. Everything great sells itself. Sure, ultimately a push helps. But it’s amazing how you can gain traction with great and great only. Great is hard to achieve. You know it when you get there. Your whole body tingles, you smile, you’re self-satisfied, you don’t even care if anybody else sees/hears what you’ve created, but you know when they do they’re going to have a reaction. Don’t play it safe, play for a reaction.

2. Beware of self-hype. Others with stronger personalities and better contacts and more money will spread the world how great they are. You’ll read it in newspapers, online, and it will make you feel inadequate. Don’t fall for the bait. Tireless self-promoter is a gig, but it’s got nothing to do with art. Furthermore, in today’s era, just because you get the word out that does not mean you gain traction. Also, “Hamilton” tells us you don’t know what’s going on unless you’re in the room. Castles are built in the air, don’t fall for the story, it’s rarely true. People don’t want to talk about the hard work, the payoffs, the manipulation, the lies and deceit. They want to make it look like everything fell into their lap and they’re the luckiest person in the world. Don’t buy it. Be skeptical, search for the real story. If you predicate your success on the footsteps/careers of others you will hit potholes, because you don’t really know what they went through.

3. Play the long game. Now, more than ever, it’s about being in it forever, not momentarily. Streaming pays over time and we’ve already forgotten every winner of the “Voice.” News is a 24/7 enterprise with very little sticking. Tragically, the Planned Parenthood shooting was trumped by the massacre in San Bernardino. If you think you’re going to win by dominating the news cycle, know that only those with the deepest pockets selling the blandest mainstream pop can win that game, and they rarely do.

4. Lead with your product, frontloading is passe. The advance buildup works for one time events like boxing matches. Art has a very long arc. If you squander your budget at the outset your product will probably die. Marketing is now about reaction, about finding a small fire and turning it into a conflagration.

5. Only the dumbest of the dumb believe the press releases. Do you want to appeal to this audience? Substance sells. It’s just that substance takes a little bit longer to explain. If you’re going to talk to a reporter, if you’re going to post online, try to say something real, try to be genuine, this is what people react to.

6. Data rules. Now, more than ever, it’s about the numbers. And the numbers don’t lie. The Sorkin Steve Jobs movie tanked. As did Carly Rae Jepsen’s album. Smoke and mirrors are passe. The younger generation knows this more than the oldsters. You can see the number of streams on Spotify and soon you’ll have even more data indicating the success or lack thereof of your project. If your numbers are low, either be happy or change. Don’t be sour grapes. No one’s got time for that anymore, life is too hard. The tools of creation are at your fingertips, don’t be afraid to remix your art, to pivot. Sometimes you change one little thing and the whole picture changes. Ignore/stop listening to those who keep doing the same thing and bitch they’re not getting the attention they deserve.

7. Just because you were famous and made a living in the old pre-internet era that does not mean you’re entitled to make a living in the new. That was an artificially controlled world, of scarcity. If you got through the barrier, people knew who you were. Now you have to earn your stripes. It may turn out with so much available, people are just not that interested in what you’re doing. As for those lamenting the loss of the old model, you’re now living in the most egalitarian era for art ever. It used to be nearly impossible to get a record deal. Now you can be your own record company. But don’t expect just because you did it that people other than your mother and significant other will care. The bar has been raised, people have no time for mediocre, no time for good either. Sure, you need chops. But if those were enough the business would be ruled by Berklee graduates. No, what you need is inspiration. Which can come in an instant, any time, taking a shower, doing the dishes, taking a walk. The fuller your life, the greater your inspiration. Don’t be a slave to the screen.

8. Courage is underrated. The best put their lives on the line. They reveal their innermost thoughts so the rest of us can relate, so we don’t feel so alone. Are you willing to go naked, are you willing to bare your soul? Don’t confuse this with Instagram/Facebook. There’s no context there, there’s no art. We want to see humanity in a song.

9. You won’t know what your one big break was until after it happened. A career is a long winding road upon which you must keep up hope, because you’re going to be confronted with endless disappointments. If you think one missed opportunity killed your career, you’re a chump.

10. You can work with the usual suspects, but we’re most interested in that which is new and different, that’s what turns our heads. Grunge eviscerated hair bands and if you think the popster paradigm is going to rule forever, you have no sense of history. No one is forever, change comes quickly and violently. That does not mean your left field project will break through, just that some left field project will break through.

11. If you’re only in it for the money you’re in the wrong profession. Art is about power. Touching someone’s emotions, touching someone’s soul, is richer and more valuable than any physical product ever. The key is to get people on your side with your truth and move mountains. We’ve equated successful artists with their bank accounts. We’ve got to equate artists with their minds. Today’s artists play to the media, they take camera crews to their meetings with sick children, everything is promotion. Wrong. The best promotion is your identity encapsulated in your art. In their heyday Steely Dan didn’t go on the road. Jefferson Airplane challenged the establishment at their peak, just listen to “Volunteers.” John Lennon became an icon for stating that the Beatles were bigger than Jesus, the truth. What kind of crazy world do we live in where Donald Trump owns the media by saying what no one else will, his personal truth, and every so-called “artist” is afraid of going on the record for fear of alienating a potential customer. Quick, name the clergymen who got their flocks to burn Beatle records after John Lennon’s comment. You can’t. Insignificant players will gain the spotlight for a moment, but do not let them distract you from your mission. You will have moments of insecurity and doubt, you will be ready to give up. But don’t do so because some bozo with a keyboard who lives in his mom’s basement is jealous of your success and wants to keep you down.

12. We’re always ready. For the new, the great, the exceptional. If you touch our souls we’ll give you enough money to survive, and if you’re asking for more than that, you’re not an artist. Don’t focus on cash but audience. If you’re not trying to reach as many people as possible, you don’t believe in your art. Sure, 1,000 true fans will keep you alive, but you’ll have no social impact. Your goal is to put a dent in the universe. Start building your rocket.