CaptainBananas

2008

2009-01-06T13:06:00.001-08:00

CB's tale of holiday Beatle redemption

2008-12-23T05:40:00.000-08:00

I wrote the story, clickable below, 5 years ago and haven't looked at it since I published it at Christmas 2005. The story takes place in 1995. Things have changed, but some things haven't---most noticeably the Drama leanings.

Here's "Broke For The Holidays."

(My apologies for "Thoughts skittered around my brain like hot water dancing on a skillet.")

A for-real Festivus

2008-12-19T06:39:00.000-08:00

I pulled over at Broadway Farms on the Upper West Side of Manhattan late last night and dashed, leaving Mrs. B in the passenger seat.

I passed a short, elderly man and quickly realized it was this guy.

He looked at me, I looked at him, and we both went on. He was wearing a baseball cap with "Comedy" on its brim, and he walked very slowly.

Pause, baby.

There are famous actors and musicians, and then there are the guys who have really meant something to you, day in, day out.

I'd passed a magic man.

I texted Mrs. Bananas from the frozen section, "Keep your eye on the front door. In a moment, you'll see Jerry Stiller coming out."

I checked out my goods before Stiller did, so Mrs. B and I sat in the car and waited so she could get a look. And waited. Debated whether or not to skat, but one of us said, "You will most likely never see him again, and you will remember this forever." Agreed. We sat.

He emerged, turned left and slowly walked north, glancing at us as he passed and continuing on into the night. Satisfied, we drove off.

This makes the third "Seinfeld" actor I've randomly come across. The first was Jerry himself, at the 79th Street boat basin in 1998, at the height of the show's popularity.

Nobody ate. I looked around at the restaurant and every single head was turned toward JS, who ate, talked and laughed with his male pal.

Two years ago I saw this man in a Maui Hotel:

Since he's the cousin of a musician friend, I dropped the name and Wayne Knight turned around. He asked all about my friend, his wife, their family, and I told him. Off we went and off he went.

Why do we care?

Because the USA is glutted with so-called "stars", but the artists--the ones who truly deserve fame, money, adulation and their eternal life via the tube and elsewhere, and especially those who make us laugh, are rare and magical. If you see one, you stop what you're doing and say hi, even just in your head.

Now, like the Mona Lisa in the Louvre a month ago, I've seen Frank Costanza in person, and I'll go on my way.

The gas, please, at once

2008-12-18T08:13:00.001-08:00

At the dentist, waiting to get an "onlay."

The hygienist, they told me at the front desk, sings awesome.

Far out. Something to talk about after she applies this mouth-numbing goo before the 100-foot needle(s) go in my (gums) eye.

"Singer, eh?"

"Yea."

"Where do you sing?"

"Oh, just pop stuff."

"No. Where?"

"Oh, just around the house, a capella."

"Sing me something. Come on, man."

"Ha! Ha."

"How about this one? (sings) 'Don't it always seem to go/That you don't know what you've got 'til its gone/They paved paradise/And put up a parking lot.'"

("Big Yellow Taxi," Joni Mitchell, 1970)

"I don't know that song."

"Ok, here's another: (sings) 'Busted flat in Baton Rouge/Waitin' for a train/I was feelin' 'bout as faded as my jeans/Bobby flagged a diesel down/Just before it rained/Took us all the way to New Orleans.'"

("Me and Bobby McGee," Janis Joplin, 1971)

"I don't know that song."

"So what do you sing?"

"Oh, just pop stuff."

"Who?"

"Britney, Jessica Simpson, Miley Cyrus."

Things get hazy after that. I know I screamed.

Fortunately for me, there's you

2008-12-15T08:03:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while
Life becomes a trial
And I sink down, down, down
Into the Goo
A hairy beast gone wild
Kicking my feet like a child
But fortunately for me there’s you

Takin’ it all so hard
Puttin’ up my guard
Bitin’ off more
Than I can chew
When the world breaks balls
My spirit slips and falls
But fortunately for me there’s you

You are all that is good and kind
The rope without which I would sink
Compassion and healing combined
Bringin’ me back from the brink

When the sky starts to cloud
And the voices get loud
And I feel the turn---the turn of the screw
When all the horns start to beep
And every hill looks steep
Fortunately for me there’s you

You are healer and priestess and sage
The fence at the end of a ledge
Siphoning out all the rage
Pulling me back from the edge

When the Gods are drunk
And makin’ me their punk
And they come down and dunk
Dunk me into the stew
When I’m stuck down a well
When everything’s shot to hell
Fortunately for me there’s you
Fortunately for me there’s you
Fortunately for me there’s you

(c) Josh Max

The Ash-Scram Part 3

2008-12-12T05:11:00.000-08:00

Part 2 may be viewed by clicking on this sentence.

The door to my bedroom opened a little after midnight. I turned over and saw the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway.

“Hello?”

“Hi," she said.

“Can I help you?”

“This is my room.”

“Um. Wow. God. Really? Yakaru put me here.”

“He did? Where’s Amitab?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m just in from India, and I needed a place to stay. I’m not moving in or anything.”

“It’s ok. Where’s Amitab?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“It’s ok.”

Silence.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

She left the room and I turned over and fell into twilight. 10 minutes later the door brushed open and I heard the sheets move on the other side of the room and the sound of a body getting into bed.

“That you?” I called.

“Yup.”

“Ok.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

I turned over to go to sleep.

“So where are you from?” she asked.

I turned back over.

“New York City, but I’ve just come in today from India. I lived there 5 months in the Ashram.”

“Wow. What’s it like? I heard it’s amazing.”

“It is. You should go.”

“I want to.”

“Where are you from?”

“Israel.”

“Wow. You’re a long way from home.”

“We’re all a long way from home, man.”

I liked her.

I decided to take a bold leap. It was a commune, after all, and if it was anything like the commune I'd just left, my request wouldn't seem entirely unreasonable.

“Hey," I said.

“Mmmm?”

“If I have a bad dream, can I come and sleep with you?”

“If you want to sleep with me, say you want. Don’t make up a story.”

I gulped. "Ok, I want.”

She got up, came over to my side of the room, pulled the blankets away, climbed into bed with me, pulled the blankets over us, and came into my arms.

24 hours of taxis, buses, plane rides, car rides, another new country, horns and smoke and noise dissolved in the healing presence of Pritidana. It was not a mindless, mechanical encounter, but rather a sweet, gentle, fun and organic experience, and we did not cross that certain line.

Finally we both drifted into semi-sleep, a single, foggy thought crossing the brain, which had absorbed so much so recently.

"I dig London."

The Ash-Scram, Part 2 of 3

2008-12-09T05:30:00.000-08:00

Part one may be read by clicking on this sentence.

Part 2:

I was welcomed into the house by the sinewy, kind-eyed Yakaru, who led me to a large room with a fireplace, enormous windows, two generous beds and the smell of wood everywhere.

It was a far, far cry from the kitchen floor of the busted-up flat I’d lived in at the Ashram, and the room was mine for the ridiculous sum of 10 American dollars a night including food and the use of a washer and dryer.

I immediately saw my new digs were maintained impeccably; windows expertly painted, raising and lowering in perfect silence, heavy, finely oiled doors with gleaming glass knobs, furniture of the highest quality and placed just so. It felt as though the room was my official welcome to England, and a first-class welcome it was.

Famished and filthy, I took my biggest English carrot into the shower with me and rinsed the last of India down the drain while I munched under the warm water. I wrapped my room towel around me, threw my entire wardrobe in the laundry, and waited for---what? It was 3 in the afternoon and no one was home except Yakaru.

I padded into my room, closed the door and wrote in my journal, “I miss you, Valeria.”

I got a surge of mojo from the shower and clean clothes and decided to walk the streets to see if I could scratch a farthing making music. I threw back the shoulders, walked to the Crouch End tube, pulled out my box and sang for an hour, mostly Sun Records stuff like early Elvis, Jerry Lee, Perkins. A few stopped to look and in 60 minutes I had 22 new pounds in my case. English money can be heavy. Indian rupees are always filthy and beat-up.

I headed back home without a key.

Knock.

"Yes?"
"Hi, I'm staying here."
"Huh?"
"Yakaru knows."

The door closed, and swung back open in about 5 minutes.

"Come in, then," said Yakaru's wife, as though addressing a deliveryman.

People started arriving home from their jobs at around 6, going about their business. None seemed impressed or curious about their new visitor. The housepeople were so quick and so comfortable with each other that they all melted into one blap of “stranger with an English accent”, and I couldn't process each as individuals yet except for two 17-year old girls who looked right past me.

Dinner was prepared. I offered help and was given the job of chopping vegetables and putting them in bowls. I really didn’t want to do anything but figured I ought to, and when the meal was on the table, I ate surrounded by strangers who talked among themselves, with only the most fleeting logistical interest in yours truly. An enormous, bearded, leather-clad biker-looking guy turned to me and blew his entire image with “’Would you pahss the buttah, please?”

Energized by food, I accepted an invitation to attend a party with three dinnermates. We pushed into a car, drove to a club, parked and the others took off into a crowd of about 100 people dancing to house music, leaving me to wander, looking for a sign of welcome warmth, of tenderness, fun, understanding, humor and intelligence. Instead I found attractive people with emotionally constipated faces and perpetual cigarettes parked in their mouths, and I felt as lost as I had when I first arrived in Bombay. I was also clobbered by a new wave of fatigue and could barely stand.

Annoyed by the noise, the people and the smoke, I found one of my housemates and told him I’d be on my way, and he graciously found someone to drive me. Deposited back at the house, I took a hot shower, rinsing the club smell off me, and went to my room.

As I climbed beneath the cool, fresh-smelling sheets, I began to feel better. It was the first time I’d been truly dry and clean after months of humid, filthy India. I let down my mask, the mask I’d needed to deal with customs, to arrange logistics, rides and lodging, to postpone deep feelings of any kind, letting go of my friends and all my adventures in India and to produce some kind of pleasing personality to stranger after English stranger.

Now, alone with the silver moon bathing me through my window, I felt flush in the wake of what I’d done, where I’d carried myself to in these last months, busting out of a Manhattan shell and taking a chance halfway around the world. What would happen to me tomorrow? I had no idea, but for now, I had a beautiful bed in a beautiful house, I was as clean as a baby, and I’d found my own North Star once again. Even if there was no one else in the world who was soft and gentle in the world at that moment, I would be soft and gentle with Mr. Swami Gyan Shunyam, taking him away from loud fools and parking him in bed where he belonged.

Leaving the commune, or The Ash-Scram

2008-12-05T08:26:00.000-08:00

The Captain offers Slappy Frankenstein
aficionados his post-commune
adventures, in 3 EZ installments.

PART 1: THE ASH-SCRAM

I’d been in India five months and the spiritual cracks had been scraped, patched, sanded and painted. It was time to head west. Even master Osho said you have to go back out into the marketplace eventually and see how you do with your new, improved self. And I wanted a bath.

My first phone call in five months was to book the return trip of my plane ticket back to New York, and the first flight was in 24 hours.

I wandered around the Ashram and said goodbye to different friends, teachers and ex-lovers like Premartha, Sushumna, John Anando Masta, Marga Uti, Rohi, Shivan, The Spanish Guy, the Prince and the Pervert. I fished my smashed Western clothes out of the bottom of my duffel bag and left my mattress on the kitchen floor where I’d found it. I counted my scant cash and did what meditators do best---waited.

A nationwide rickshaw strike was going into effect the next day, imperiling my ride to the airport. I was directed to Nanu, who ran the Ashram “brown” market where Westerners could change money for better rates, rent bicycles and arrange other transactions.

“No problem, Baba, I am going to the airport myself, and you can come with me,” he said.

After my final night on a Poona floor and last breakfast of mangoes and papaya, I stopped by Nanu’s hut at 8 A.M. to confirm our 4:30 trip.

“4:30, Baba,” he said.

I showed up with two bags and a guitar at 4:30 with my girlfriend Valeria, who would see me off.

“I cannot go, Baba,” Nanu said. “There is a nationwide rickshaw strike.”

Blue Diamond had a coach that was leaving for the airport in 15 minutes, he advised.

Valeria grabbed one of my bags and ran with me the quarter mile to the stop. The bus was full when it showed up because of the strike, but there is no such thing in India as a train, bus or car that can’t squeeze in one more person, so Valeria pushed on my behind like she was jamming a vacuum cleaner into a closet and when I was more in than out of the bus, the driver set off with the door ajar. Valeria ran alongside the bus, waving, the prized tigers-eye necklace I’d given her bouncing on her chest. I held up the good luck electric yo-yo she’d given me and waved back as she receded into the distance, clomping through the Indian muck up above her ankles.

As I felt the bus wheels lurch violently over the deep divots of mud mixed with cow dung that were typical of the country’s roads, it seemed as though India and the ashram were giving me one final spiritual shake as if to say "Don't fall asleep out there in the world, baba."

I took a dented plane to Mumbai, checked into a cheap hotel and walked the filthy, shitty, packed streets, wanting to fill, fill, fill my being with the flavor of the ancient country in my last moments there. When the traffic fumes and the smell got too much, I found my way back to the hotel, ordered a last bowl of Dal and watched Indian MTV until midnight. At 5 AM, Air India whisked me out of their country, and the door to the East officially closed.

I’d left New York in March; it was August and I feared what I’d be in for when I got home. I had a new outlook, a new name and hundreds of experiences both tiny and monumental. How was I supposed to land in Manhattan, unpack my things and jump back in the river of urban mayhem, say hi to people without hugging them, get by with no morning and evening meditation in Buddha hall?

I had no money, was sunburned and dusty, I couldn’t explain the purpose of my visit or how long I planned to stay, but the customs man let me through when I decided to jump ship at Heathrow airport in jolly England, and there I disembarked.

It wouldn’t be too hard to bop around London like a pro, I reasoned. Hadn’t I watched “A Hard Day’s Night”, “Quadrophenia”, “Frenzy” and “The Wicker Man”? I’d been given the name of a local bookstore in London where they sold Osho books and took a big black English cab to get there, gaping out the window in search of Carnaby Street, Abbey Road, Michael Caine, Elton John or Led Zeppelin standing on a corner.

“Oy, ‘ere’s another ‘ippie!” the clerk called to the owner of the store when I showed up. I was given a phone number and the address of a commune, called and was told I would be picked up in a car in an hour. An adjacent room in the bookstore was used for meditation and I was invited to wait there. I plopped the bags, closed my eyes but got no meditation accomplished; the mind went nuts.

A hulking buzz-haired guy picked me up in an asthmatic Vauxhall and we rode to wherever it was I would end up.

“I just got back from 5 months in India!” I announced.
“Oh, yeh? Ow wuzzit?”
“Amazing.”
He didn’t ask anything more about it, and I didn’t tell him.
“What’s your name again?” he asked after 10 minutes of silence.
“Shunyam. What’s yours?”
“Pragyan.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I don’t know, bliss, sunshine, the usual rubbish.”

I had assumed every Sannyasin I met outside India would have longish hair, colorful clothes, a colorful mind and a playful attitude towards life, like me and most of my pals in the ashram, and I was shocked to meet a conservative man with a Sannyasin name. Pragyan stopped for an errand and I ducked into a small grocery store, buying English carrots and English grapes, my first in almost half a year.

We pulled up to a homey-looking house on a quiet street in a neighborhood called Crouch End.

“ Thanks for the lift, Baba,” I said to Pragyan.
“Huh?”
“Thank you for driving me.”
“Mmm.”

Captain Bananas' Thanksgiving truisms

2008-11-29T07:00:00.001-08:00

*Before you leave your house, it's smart to butter the doorway to accomodate the 28,472 pounds you will gain today.

*It's better to cook the night before. This way, if whatever you're making sucks, like my first batch of cookies did, there is still time for a do-over. However, just because it's best to cook the previous night doesn't mean you'll do it. Instead, you'll go to Rodeo Bar and stay out until 1:30, ya stew bum.

*If a relative calls and their message goes to your voice mail and you subsequently call back and your call goes to their voice mail, it counts as having spoken to that relative.

*If you bring a camera, shoot early because everyone looks a little beat-up after 8 hours of Thanksgiving.

*On the way home, you won't bother to check and see if it's best to take the Holland Tunnel, Lincoln Tunnel or George Washington Bridge back to the city because, after all, it's 10:30 PM on Thanksgiving day---no one will be on the highway.

*When you get home, 19 turkeys, who know where all the vegans live, will emerge from behind the stairwell wearing raincoats and Groucho Marx fake noses, eyebrows and moustaches and want to sleep with you in your bed.

Some Bananas inventions that didn't make it

2008-11-26T14:37:00.000-08:00

2008-11-23T05:08:00.000-08:00

"All you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people."

Alexander Bullock,"My Man Godfrey," 1936

The plane lands; the Captain doesn't

2008-11-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

I had resisted being BFF---Back From France.

It took me two days to acknowledge I wasn't waking up in the Napoleon hotel anymore, that I would not see the Arc De Triomphe to the right upon leaving my residence each morning, nor would I hear “Bon jour, Monsieur!” from the friendly bellhop with the “Stinky Armpit Championship” ribbon pinned to the lapel of his jacket. I was home, in Inwood, tactfully referred to by real estate agents as “Upstate New York.”

Inwood, where three parking garages, a gas station, a car wash, auto parts stores, a couple of restaurants and scattered bodegas bustle to my north and whose streets are almost completely deserted at night except for those walking to and from the subway or who find themselves in need of chicken claws from the 24-hour Fine Fare or a live pigeon from the store on 10th Avenue. Fort Tryon park nearby, yes, and one must be grateful for the trees, but you cannot munch “rocket salad” in this park, nor can you walk its wooded paths without being propositioned by Joe Buck minus the hat, fringe and accent.

I grew up with a similar collection of trees in Westchester, anyhow, cut off from the world except for the deer and squirrels, and was similarly removed from civilization. Everything interesting in Manhattan---theatre, coffee shops, cinema, art, live music, diversity---begins below 96th Street. I am here, nudging the Bronx, squeezed like the last blop of toothpaste.

But Paris! Civilization 1,000,000 times multiplied. I’d gorged and guzzled her over three days, rolling as a dog rolls in dirt, covering myself, getting her on my face and between my toes, screaming “Sacre bleu!” and “Zut alors!” with each roll, and stuffing my pockets with snails, French attitude, a lock of hair from Quasimodo, a vial of Seine, a photo of a guillotine and an eclair before my wife and I left the country.

In three days, we did the Louvre, Muse d'orsay, a Seine cruise, the top of the Arc, the stroll down the Champs Elysses, the Metro, the Tour de Montparnasse.

Determined to learn the language of my new girlfriend quickly back home, I dialed my Satellite Radio to NPR in French and let it ride all day.

Two days later, I still didn't understand what the men and women on the radio were saying.

I remembered, though, how long it took me to learn the language of the chords of the Great American Songbook in the early 90s as a non-reading musician, how I had to pick out every note of every chord of Bobby Short's version of "I've Got A Crush On You." by ear. Today, I hear and speak that language fluently as if I've always known it. Some day it will be the same with French. Not today, not tomorrow.

I obtained recordings of the work of the following French musicians:

Charles Aznavour
Jacques Brel
Sylvie Vartan
Daniel Colin
Jacqueline Francois
Maurice Chevalier
Josephine Baker
Mistinguett
Yves Montand

...and let their quick vibratos, accordions and drama wash over me as I stood doing the dishes.

Wednesday, I went solo to "The Wild Child", a 1970 film by Francois Truffaut, at the Film Forum.

In the movie, Wild Child Victor's teacher attempts to teach him to speak, and as such I also learned, from watching, the meaning of lait---milk---and clé---key.

Finally, on my 4th day back in New York, I went for a run in the freezing cold, running for my life as if chased or chasing, breathed deeply, and felt the sorrow of goodbye.

Then I was able to face being home at last.

And I must say it was nice to exchange the following with the customs man at Kennedy Airport Sunday night:

"How y'doin'."
"How y'doin'."

It is possible for a parent to love two or more children, and it is possible to love Paris without being disloyal to Manhattan.

I shall see my girl again in May---a long 6 months away.

2008-11-19T08:00:00.001-08:00

The Captain ships out

2008-11-08T05:27:00.001-08:00

Mr. and Mrs. B sail to London today.

Love, Popeye

2008-11-06T05:18:00.001-08:00

Olive, Olive
On the movie screen
Olive, Olive
You're my cartoon Queen.
Will you---won't you
Take this sailor boy?
Do you---don't you
Hear me sayin' "Ahoy!"?

I know
Bluto
Thinks he's quite a catch
But let's you 'n' me
And S'wee Pea
Go wandering through
The spinach patch

Olive, Olive
Where do I begin?
Olive, Olive
You so tall and thin

Out at sea
When you're not with me
The ocean seems to spoil
But the whis'pring gales
Blowing through the sails
Will carry me back to my sweet Miss Oyl

Olive, Olive
On the movie screen
Olive, Olive
You're my cartoon queen.
(c) Josh Max

2008-11-05T05:24:00.001-08:00

Drawing by C. Bananas

Vote, ya mugs!

2008-11-04T03:57:00.000-08:00

The Captain's Beast Loaf

2008-11-03T03:57:00.000-08:00

I would like to show you my "meat" loaf from last night, thanks. We saved some for you. It was made with faux meat and sausage, bread crumbs, bar-b-cue sauce, Heinz, Dijon mustard, assorted spices, an onion puree, chopped garlic and luv xoxoxoxo.

Mrs. Bananas ate it with relish (figuratively) and she grew up in Ohio, where they know their frito pie, their lettuce-with-mayonaisse-and-peas, and their meat loaf.

That scream you heard

2008-10-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

was a musician getting a large break.

Wanted: The Captain's music, at last

2008-10-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

A child isn't supposed to live at home after they're grown, and CDs shouldn't either.

So off goes "The Maxes Sing Al Hoffman", disc by disc, to this one and that one, each with a letter of explanation and a kiss before I drop it in the mailbox.

People ask me how I drive exotic cars---hell, cars of any kind---without crashing 'em at least once, or how I ride a motorcycle without getting knocked off like a porch pumpkin smashed with a baseball bat.

I tell 'em: "I surround myself with a bubble of love."

I do the same with the discs I send and hopefully the opener has an orgasm when he/she opens the package, or at least a flutty-wutty feeling. Off the discs go, like birds dropped from the nest, or bird droppings, depending on your point of view.

Some of the birds land.

Got a call three days ago from the New York music publishing office of 1/4 of That Band whose name rhymes with Needles, offering representation of 10 of my songs. Gonna meet with 'em this tomorrow to hammer and yammer.

Took a meeting last night with a record company distributed through WB who wants me, us, The Maxes, to record 3 more discs, soon, full budget, full production, horns, strings, and distribution in the US and Europe, and the dough ain't coming from my paper route. Yeah, you gotta recoup, but this deal is let's go let's go let's go we love you let's do it. We say ok. Gotta have the expert look at it and approve it, but barring incident...

Giddyap.

Got this quote from Sirius DJ Meg Griffin yesterday regarding last year's "The Maxes", whose "Stand and Dig It" and "Fortunately For Me, There's You" she played a billion times:

"The Maxes...are infectious and optimistic in a way that defies the dysfunction of our times, and they sit quite nicely between Flaming Lips and the Jetsons. I'll have some more, please, especially on the radio where this kind of fun just grabs the listeners."

I have sent hundreds--hundreds of letters in the last 10 years to people in the industry. Tapes, discs, photos, calls. Repeat.

It's easier to get a Bentley Continental GT to show up at your door than to make a quick dent in the Biz, in my experience.

But in the imagined words of sewer worker Ed Norton of 328 Chauncey Street:

"The s--t moves along at last."

Beanus interruptus

2008-10-28T11:55:00.001-07:00

It oughta be an Olympic event; the 20-yard New York City store dash from auto to store to auto in 30 seconds or less. I tried it last night at Chipotle on West 48th between Broadway and 6th Avenue.

A frantic gesture by Mrs. Bananas outside the store alerted me to the presence of a car behind my car, and it wasn't Mr. Softee.

It didn't help that my car was a milk-white 2008 Volkswagen Jetta wagon with Michigan plates.

I charged out out out. Before I could get a word in edgeways, I got the grille.

"Is that your car?"

"No, ma'am, that's a test car. I am reviewing it."

"Well, you ain't got a press sticker in the front windshield."

"No, ma'am, I sure don't, but I'm pleading hunger in the 1st degree. I'll git, right now. To heck with the food."

"You're gettin' a ticket."

"If you have to. I sure would appreciate it if you'd let me go."

"You're gettin' a ticket."

"How about leaving off one of the numbers?"

"Now I'm writing 'Tried to bribe.'"

"How am I bribing you? I just asked you to leave off a number."

Silence. Since it appeared I was nabbed, I shrugged and started to dash back into the store to get my food.

"I already got it!" Mrs. B. said.

I waited. Wasn't I supposed to get some kind of orange envelope with a summons?

Walked back to the traffic agent's car, stuck the puss in the window.

"Hey, can I get out of here?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Off I zipped.

You don't get sent to the Principal's office a billion times without learning something.

Jack O'Bama!

2008-10-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

West 73rd street steps, NY NY photo by Josh Max

A life in New York movie houses

2008-10-23T04:43:00.000-07:00

The Captain looks back---
sometimes wayyy back---
on pivotal New York
movie experiences.

Everyone who lives in New York has a New York story, whether it's the neighborhood they live(d) in, the person they married or dated or divorced, the struggle to survive and thrive or watching H&H bagels go up to two bucks apiece. As an American cinema aficionado, I can point to several movies I've seen in my time in the city which shifted or shaped my viewpoint whether because of the content of the movie or what I was doing at the time.

Here are six.

The Fabulous Baker Boys (1989)

This critic's favorite, starring Jeff and Beau Bridges and Michelle Pfeiffer and which I saw by myself at the Angelika, won several awards. But its story of two middle-aged piano playing brothers who mostly gig at crap lounges---one keyman a true artist, the other a hack who sprays his bald spot black before each show---put the fear of Zeus into me. "Welcome to your possible future," said a little voice in my head. "Baker Boys" is one of the reasons I do not play more in public, even though I have 3,000 or so songs in my head and could easily attain employment at some hotel or club playing your favorite hits.

Just because you can doesn't mean you have to.

Midnight Run (1989)

I saw "Midnight Run" at the Metro three days before I went to an Indian ashram to live for 5 months, and laughed louder than I might of had I not had felt a deep excitement mixed with panic. "In three days, I will on the other side of the planet," kept running through the brain, and "Midnight Run" is now cemented in that time period for me and is as much a reminder of India as are mangoes, papayas and the smell of burning leaves and cow shit.

That Thing You Do! (1996)

It's never been a great movie---the band-frolic scene is shamefully stolen from "A Hard Day's Night" and lead singer/songwriter Jimmy Mattingly looks more falafel than 1964 white bread. Look at the below pic---do you think "Rock 'n' Roll!" or "Ravi Shankar!" ?

It was the first movie I saw with the woman I'd marry, though, and if it comes on the tube, we both stop and watch and reminisce. I was also living, at the time we saw this movie at Lincoln Plaza, in my official Worst New York Apartment out of the 14 places I've lived, I was painting apartments for a living, and had just started a band which would become Josh Max's Outfit. "That Thing" is a reminder of what's vanished and what remains 12 years later.

I live in a better place now, I don't paint anything and the band has a new name and is on its way to recording its 4th album. Unlike the Wonders, the Maxes never broke up; we just had to find a way to make a jump out of the clubs and into Central Park Summerstage,for example, and we continue to weasel our way into show biz. The cannons still fire daily, as they must.

It's also interesting to watch all those actors in the movie band, "The Wonders," and note that none of them has gone on to stardom post-"That Thing."

Detour (1945)

"Detour" was part of a festival of noir playing at the Film Forum in the summer of 2004, and Mrs. M and I didn't miss "Double Indemnity," "Casablanca," "Touch of Evil," and about six others. Every time I get beyond fed-up with New York City and need to find reasons to stay rather than going somewhere warm, at least in wintertime, the Forum's at the top of the list. If you become a member, movies are only 6 bucks, too, so there's less pressure to stay if the movie blows.

"Detour" is also my top favorite noir flick---cheap, violent, packed with classic lines like "As I drove off, it was still raining and the drops streaked down the windshield like tears," and "Listen, Mister, I been around, and I know a wrong guy when I see one. What'd you do, kiss him with a wrench?"

Monkey Business (1931)

Saw this antique gagfest in a double feature at the now-defunct First Avenue Screening room at age 11 with Nick Max along with "Horsefeathers," "Duck Soup,"and "Cocoanuts," over a series of successive weekends. My life can be accurately divided into before and after the Marxes.

Big (1988)

I was dating a woman named Susan at the time, and the two lead characters in the movie are called Susan and Josh. "Big", for me, recalls that pre-Ashram time when the old mental, emotional and spiritual world was melting, and new concepts and attitudes toward life, work, sex, relationships, the world and the self were all rushing in. Susan was also the first person in New York I'd met who made enough money to have a new car and a nice apartment with the proceeds from her jewelry business. Dating her raised my bar for what was possible in the world of self-employment, as opposed to having a job.

Annie Hall (1978)

The final scene of this Oscar-winning Woody Allen movie, much of which occurs in Manhattan, takes place outside the Thalia, and I saw it in the Thalia. When the key scene appeared, the audience burst into wild applause. I saw it by myself soon after I moved to New York, and felt I really belonged afterward.

7 years of marriage today---Captain's log

2008-10-21T06:42:00.001-07:00

Married? Harried?
Captain B offers salve for the
baffled, the ornery, the battle-ax
and the bastard on the couch

Some people do better alone or with a cat or a book in the apartment than with another opposing-thumb creature using up the TP.

But if you're one of the millions who voluntarily plunged into what Chang and Eng Bunker did without a choice, I'd like to offer a few observations and or/pointers on this, my 7-year anniversary.

*Experts say marriage is work, but I haven't found that to be true. Mine's fun. Sanding 4 closets for 8 hours in 96-degree weather in an apartment with no air conditioning is work. If you're not having any fun, you're not looking for fun, and you don't have to look further than the guy in the reflection of yer bottle of Bud.

*Always strive to make the marriage the best it can be, and strive to be the best spouse, forever.

*Expressing yourself in a relationship is an art, but it's an equal art to know when to hesh, or find a better way of saying what you have to say.

*Don't try to have a conversation when one of you isn't in the room or has water of any kind running.

*Don't piggyback little complaints onto the big complaints.

*If you don't know what the other is thinking, ask them.

*Try not to go dead just because you're married. Keep seeing new possibilities, opportunities and seek adventure everywhere.

*Don't close the taps on loving others, even those of the opposite sex.

*Even if you've told them you love and appreciate them last week, tell them again this week and next week.

*If you come into a little money and want to spoil yourself, spoil her, too.

*Using either kindness or anger in an attempt to get what you want may not produce results, but one puts dents in the marriage and the other doesn't.

*Don't ever complain, even the slightest little bit, about your spouse to anyone, ever.

*From time to time when they're not home, go and look at the little objects they use in their life, like a shoe, a shirt, a necklace, a book, an eye mask. This will make you long for them.

*Always be flirting with them.

*Take her for a nice ride in a $375,000 Rolls-Royce and let her drive it in a parking lot. Ok, ok, that's my own little quirk. But ya get the point.

Beatles in the Sky With Bananas

2008-10-20T06:43:00.001-07:00

Captain B performs Lennon-McCartney
songs at wedding 2 feet from asparagus,
roasted red peppers, bruschetta

"She loves you" was written in the back of a van; most of the early Beatles material was written in an equal hurry under whatever circumstances.

And there I was, 45 years later, playing S.L.Y. and dozens of other Fab songs on the 65th floor of 30 Rockefeller Center for a wedding cocktail reception gig.

Photo credit: Josh Max
Got the call Thursday; "Beatles, 90 minutes, no singing, black suit, can you do it?" Sure.

I busted out my 1968 Gibson ES-335 to do the set.

A few things:

*There is something vaguely sad about a big wedding. It's a beginning but it's also an end, and you know a great deal of the people there were arguing right before they left the house to get there, and why didn't you put gas in the car this morning instead of waiting until we were on our way and I f---king hate midtown at rush hour and what do you mean 40 dollars to park my car. That said, this was a well-behaved bunch of bananas, and...

*A person in a black suit playing an instrument at a wedding is the same as the grilled shrimp, bruschetta, stuffed mushrooms and penne. The only people who look you in the eye and appreciate the wonder of being able to put your hands on a piece of wood with strings and make something called music are children. Otherwise, you are there for consumption and there isn't anything wrong with that. It also allows you to observe people without being observed, like a painting with eyes.

*People in their 60s will walk by and listen intently to a simple song like "From Me To You", mouthing the words without even being conscious of it---so ingrained in that generation's brains is this material---and you will reach them whether they know it or not.

*When someone requests all Beatles, that means you can play "Within You, Without You" if you wish, and I did.

*The bride and groom, who most likely requested the all-Beatles set list, did not appear and thus it probably wouldn't have made a scrap of difference to the crowd if "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" was substituted for "I'll Get You."

*I always want Clemenza, Tessio, Kay, Sonny, Lucy, Mama Corleone, Fredo, Johnny Fontane, Paulie Gatto, Michael, Kay, Vito and Luca Brasi at every wedding I go to.

Photo courtesy Paramount Pictures(c)

Why Plant's right not to tour

2008-10-17T06:21:00.000-07:00

The former Zep frontman isn't Planting his feet in a reunion tour.

Photo courtesy of RobertPlant.com

Former Led Zeppelin front man Robert Plant has perhaps the most perfect post-supergroup career in rock history. Last October, duetting with Alison Kraus, he appeared on"Raising Sand", a collection of earthy, moody covers impeccably produced by T-Bone Burnett. If this album was released by any artist at any time, it would be hailed as a masterpiece of vibe, color and feeling. That 60-year-old Robert Plant is half of this duet makes it all the more compelling.

There isn't a trace of Zep on "Raising Sand", but the album once again proves Plant's unique color, phrasing and intonation are inevitably overshadowed by his famous screams immortalized on the 84 million albums Led Zeppelin has sold worldwide. Listen, even on Zeppelin's debut, to Plant hitting a note a half-step above the root at the breakdown of "How Many More Times" on the line "Cause I've got you in the sights of my gun" and you'll hear the choice of a master. His genius, also, frequently came not only in a song's melody, but in his ad libs, most of which have become signature parts equally as recognizable as any guitar riff.

"Goin' down---goin' down, now."

"Do be do, bop bop a doo whoah."

"Hey! Oh! Hey! Oh! Hey! Oh! Hey! Oh! Oooooooo!"

"Keep a'coolin', baby. Keep a'coolin', baby. Keep a'coolin', baby.

After an ecstatically recieved Led Zeppelin reunion show at London's 02 Arena November 26, 2007, the surviving members were game to tour.

Plant refused, and continues to refuse. He doesn't need the money; he said so. But there is a another reason for him not to tour other than not needing the money and that he's got another project that's wildly successful.

Even at last year's reunion, the instruments were tuned down a whole step to accomodate 40 years gone. The person who sang "I come from the land of the ice and snow/From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow" has left the building and isn't coming back.

The one-off concert was a chance for fans to express their thanks and to raise funds for the Ahmet Ertegun Education Fund, and it didn't matter that Plant's voice isn't what it was in 1970. Is anybody's?

If Plant did an entire tour, screaming over the Zeppelin jet, he'd have nothing at the end but a big(ger) bag of money, a year of his life gone, an even more shot voice and dozens of videos out there on YouTube that would be available in ten years, twenty, fifty from now.

I would not want to leave that to the world.

We replace (this A-lister's) name with Captain Bananas'

2008-10-15T04:19:00.001-07:00

Despite weight gain, Captain Bananas still a size zero

Captain Bananas, sexiest man in the world

Oh, my! Captain Bananas is beyond fit. The star - and his rock-hard abs - celebrated his birthday on Saturday with a jaw-dropping jaunt at an Australian beach. Scope out Captain Bananas' sizzling seaside stroll and other celebs' enviable beach bodies.

Yee-haw! Captain Bananas embraces NASCAR!

Bananas unscathed after condom incident

Attorney: Jailed Captain Bananas believes he was 'railroaded'

Bananas stalker accepts plea deal

Bananas angered by claim he faked AIDS

TRUTH BEHIND BANANAS' DEATH

MED CARE SUIT SHOCKS BANANAS

Bitter Bananas won't sign autographs

Bananas flips out over 'Dead Wrestler' joke

Puffed-up Bananas blows off his fans

Captain Bananas sends his tight end back to work

Captain Bananas---Paris REALLY hates you

Captain Bananas---living it up in London

Captain Bananas enjoys outing with the stars

Captain Bananas is in shape!

Captain Bananas Loves Johnny Depp, Not Marriage

Captain Bananas takes Negative, Bitter View on Former Show

Captain Bananas, Cosmopolitan Cover Girl

It's Norman Gimbel on the line, Mr. Bananas

2008-10-14T03:23:00.000-07:00

The last known surviving
songwriting partner of Al Hoffman
also wrote a few other songs
you might know.

Norman Gimble co-wrote "Whale of a Tale" with my great uncle Al Hoffman for the 1954 movie "20,000 Leagues Under The Sea."

Gimbel also wrote the lyrics to Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly With His Song", "The Girl From Ipanema", the lyrics to "Makin' Our Dreams Come True" from "Laverne and Shirley", "Happy Days", "Wonder Woman" as well as scores for over 90 movies. He's been a member of the Songwriter's Hall of Fame since 1984.

I called him two years ago because as far as I know, he's the only person alive who co-wrote with my great Uncle Al Hoffman. We traded phone messages.

"Wonderful guy, Al." he said. "Send me the disc when it's done."

I'd called him two weeks ago and offered to send, and he finally called back yesterday. He asked what I did with myself and I told him, which was kind of like telling Mickey Mantle about your sandlot ballgames.

All his pals are gone, Norman said. He's 81 and lives in California. We blabbed the stock market, the presidential election and the Santa Barbara weather.

"Send me the disc," he finally said. "I'll check it out and get back to you."
"Will do."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Click.

I thought about it a second, then called back.

"Norman?"

"Yes?"

"When you wrote the line 'Strumming my pain with his fingers', in "Killing me softly', was 'pain' the first thing that came into your head? Was it 'soul' or anything, or was that your first choice?"

"The line was written the way you heard it. Over the years the rumor has flown that the song was written about Don McClean, but that's baloney. I had to write ten songs for this artist named Lori Leiberman on Capitol Records, and that was one of them. I got it from a book I was reading."

"Thanks..."

"That it?"

"Yes."

"Bye bye."

Pedaling, Possibly, for the People

2008-10-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

I aimed for 18 bike miles yesterday, leaving my apartment at 5:30 PM knowing that the distance would mean I'd ride in the dark for some portion of the journey. That was ok with me.

A few things occurred to me as I rode, and I'd like to share them with you.

Part of my path to Central Park includes a 20-block jaunt through Harlem, which is almost completely populated, naturally, by African-Americans. At one point I passed a group of young boys on bikes, pedaling in a mish-mash manner, caring not about lights or "one-way" signs and just having a good time.

And it struck me: no matter who wins the November presidential election, each one of these boys, now, today, could imagine himself growing up to be the President of the United States.

I was also completely unafraid of any Harlem block. When I moved to New York City, even the people who lived in Harlem were scared to walk its streets, and if you went to Central Park after dark, you were either a fool or from out of town. Things have undeniably gotten better here. Banks and Gaps and Starbucks have invaded every neighborhood, robbing the town of its flavor, but one doesn't have to fear being shot or killed as we once did. It doesn't mean you walk around with 20-dollar bills peeking out of your vest pocket, and the cars will still hit you if you don't get out of the way, but the fear factor has lessened greatly.

(Addendum four days later; gang of 7 teens randomly attacks 7 adults on Columbia University campus.)

I passed a flyer advertising a Communist Workers Party meeting on 125th Street. Always attracted to nuts, I read the flyer in its entirely, and was surprised I agreed with many of its points, such as:

1. Affordable, decent housing should be a right.

2. The Capitalist system, so famously crashing now, was built on the labor of enslaved Blacks and the robbing of land from Native Americans after slaughter.

I didn't find anything wrong with those assertions, and began to play with the idea of dropping my life and working, from now on, for the rights of the people instead of trying to buy my own apartment at last as practically every one of my friends and family have done.

I'd give up my iPod and the testing of sky-fouling cars and trucks for money, move under a bridge and send laptop missives from the abyss, my voice echoing and bouncing off the minds of people equally awakened to their own bamboozlement, the relentless pursuit of money and fame and obsession with the trivial, like pop music and movies.

It got dusky sooner than I expected and I found myself riding in Central Park in a rapidly descending other world---New York at night. I let the mind go wild as I pedaled through the dark, the path back to my apartment adjacent to the Hudson River now unlit and unfamiliar. Usually this route is populated by hundreds of Hispanic barbecuers, beer-drinkers, salsa-blasters, bikers and passers-by. It was now deserted.

A rat crossed my path, then a raccoon, both illustrating the sort of life one lives in the woods of New York as opposed to coming and going from an apartment building. I pedaled faster, the pointlessness of my own struggle becoming more and more clear as the sky got darker and darker. You cannot argue with the sunset.

There is a section of my typical path surrounded by trees, and it was completely black now. I was also wearing all black, and my bike is black. Into the abyss I pedaled, a two-wheeled Ichabod Crane fleeing imaginary headless horsemen. I decided to listen to music to fortify me against the long, dark journey, knowing it was dangerous to handicap my ears as well as my eyes, but wanting the company. I pulled my iPod Nano out of my belly pack and selected The Beatles' "Twist and Shout" out of the glow of its menu. I forgot about Communism, glass, potholes and bank failures, and just concentrated on getting the carcass home to a bath and a meal.

The night has a way of telling you things that will not occur to you in the daytime, and sometimes it's fun to be scared and to go fast and to consider Communism.

Esperanza Spalding

2008-10-10T04:28:00.000-07:00

Every now and then Zeus decides to mess with all the musicians and fires a bolt that knocks us into next week.

Esperanza Spalding is such a bolt. A jazz star has come to your town and mine; a bassist, singer and songwriter whose sound and style emanates from a place far beyond that of mortal men.

Esperanza Spalding

photo by Johann Sauty

I was a pin to Esperanza's bowling ball for 90 minutes in the packed Highline Ballroom on West 16th Street last evening, not knowing what to do with all the musical light, color and sound coming at me like a freight train except to clap and yell and turn from time to time to the three others at my table to catch an eye. Each time, all present just shook heads and directed attention back to the band, to the vibe and the groove borne of soaring voice and standup bass mastery, each member of the 4-piece band comprised of piano, drums and guitar delivering statements as sharp and succinct and compelling as expert swordsmen.

This tiny 24-year-old beauty expresses pure feeling beyond language, bypassing the mind and going straight to the heart and soul of jazz. All that can be done is to stand right there, let her zap you and cry Amen, that was music to my ears, brothers and sisters, you heard it right there, witness.

****

Mrs. M met Esperanza the day before her Highline Ballroom show at the radio station---the singer was there to do a live solo set and interview---and Mrs. M discovered ES often warms up with Al Hoffman's co-written smash, "Mairzy Doats."

You'll all know her, soon.

Esperanza Spalding and Mrs. M, post-show

Esperanza, post-show, and the still shell-shocked JM

Vacation in my mind

2008-10-09T04:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been far, far too long
In the center of the throng
Was gettin’ fed up right to here
I thought it best to disappear
So I checked the bank account
There was not a large amount
But it mattered not to me
There’s a world that I can see

And it’s just beyond the subway door
The cubicle, the coffee cart
The office chair nailed to the floor
I’ve had enough, time to depart

On a vacation in my mind

Cross my heart, hope to die
There’s no better way to fly
That to close your eyes and dream
When your wallet’s out of steam
Happy trails up ahead
At the place inside your head
Though the boss may stew and burn
You’ll return when you return

Now I got the blanket, got the lotion
Got the sun inside my brain
Got the swim trunks, got the ocean
Close my eyes, get on the plane

On a vacation in my mind

There I’ll sit, so sublime
With a seltzer and a lime
Let the world fly by my door
I won’t notice anymore
If the boss makes a fuss
Tell him I got on the bus
Better call some other sheep
Or leave a message at the beep

And I’m Dorothy lookin’ for the rainbow
A leaf just sailing in the wind
Close my eyes and let my brain go
Where the maddening crowd has thinned

On a vacation in my mind

Bunkmates

2008-10-07T03:01:00.000-07:00

Who says New Yorkers don't know their neighbors? This is my current cast, though I sometimes suspect they are all dead and fig newtons of my imagination, or I of theirs.

*Friendly lady I sold my late father's exercise bike to who has four dogs, a bunch of cats, a fish and a turtle.

*Mom who owns lingerie store two blocks away that I've never bought anything from.

*Well-dressed man who hasn't said anything but "hi" in three years, but whose other half is always friendly and always asks me how my races are going if I'm doing one and who says she wants to be a bodybuilder but will never do it.

*Canadian actor who just got a Green Card, his psychiatrist wife and their cute, well-behaved poodle who are fighting with the man in the apartment below theirs and who claim he keyed their car recently.

*Two young guys with particularly great mutt who always leave the building to smoke.

*Couple across the way whose flat-screen TV is always on and who may or may not have seen me without my clothes.

*New neighbor mom who recently said she was moving, with husband, to a floor above due to severe second-hand smoke coming from the apartment below, but hasn't done it yet.

*Amiable Oscar Madison-ish palooka who smokes cigars and has been in the building since the 70s.

*Adorable 90+ year old lady across the way who doesn't speak anything but Spanish and who I've never seen wearing anything except a nightgown in 5 years.

*Angry, handsome man with moustache who recently said hi for the first time since I left him notes about his barking dog 3 years ago.

*Crazy lady from Iran. KEEP BACK 100 FEET

*Petite lady from Portugal who is soft and sweet and friendly and who reminds me of my mother.

*Couple 3 floors below us who have expertly remodeled the interior of their apartment; if you happen to go by while the door is open, you'll see marble kitchen counter tops, tasteful cone lighting and lots of wooden things.

*Angry actress who has given up acting.

*Six-foot-two bassoonist who has gained and lost weight over the last 3 years.

*Happy new Mom who owns a condo in CT that she rented to people who were arrested within a few days of moving into the apartment; they were using it to deal crystal meth.

*"Running man", who you may remember used to leave notes at my door wanting a ride to Strand Books on W. 12th Street. He is Running Man because he runs from the door of the apartment building to the subway three blocks away.

*Guy whose Asian girlfriend moved out when they broke up.

*Short fellow with two kids who I always make the embarrassing mistake of saying, "Hola!" and "Buenos Dias!" to even though he told me he's not Latino.

*Superintendent from Puerto Rico who worked for Con Ed for 18 years, used to have an auto body repair shop in the Bronx before that, and who I gave a joyride to down to the George Washington Bridge and back yesterday in a 2009 Lamborghini Gallardo.

*Curly-headed guy who doesn't seem to have a job and his friendly wife with the red hair.

2008-10-06T05:20:00.000-07:00

Captain Bananas' unassailable Saturday truths

2008-10-04T04:58:00.000-07:00

*There are only a few seconds' window between the time you put your left leg in a pair of pants and the right; if you take too long, over you go and it doesn't matter how many times you've put on a pair of pants. When you fall, somewhere a flamingo with a webcam in your apartment is typing LOL to another flamingo.

*It doesn't matter how many different and careful ways you try to take off your pants or how cheap or expensive they are; unless you remove all the change from the pockets first, the money will rain and scatter all over your floor.

*It is one of life's great injustices that one has to make coffee before one has had coffee.

*It is possible to shatter your coffee beaker, buy a new one and shatter that, too, within a week's time due to lack of coffee. It is best not to try and remember to wear socks in the kitchen for the next few weeks, instead accepting the fact that each foot's big toe, heel and ball will locate extraneous shards of broken glass and you can have fun yanking them out with tweezers while wearing a wife-beater and smoking a Lucky Strike under a bare lightbulb.

*Your house has a plan to devour you, and it's winning. Every time you leave, the objects move a few more inches toward the couch, bed, desk.

*There is a man in your building who, when you told him he doesn't have to ask why he hasn't seen you at the gym every single time he sees you, didn't talk to you for two years. This man said "Thank you" when you held the door for him the other day, but that may have been because he forgot he decided never to speak to you again.

*The biggest insult you can give an artist isn't criticism, but indifference.

*In your life, more than once, more than twice, some powerful media person is going to call you at home, express great interest in your project, offer to help you in a few ways, make a date for lunch the following week, and you'll never hear from them again even though their mother or wife isn't in the hospital, they didn't have a lot of money in the stock market and their workload is what it is.

*Anti-clutter affirmations printed out and taped to your bathroom mirror and kitchen cabinets may not produce a more orderly household, but they make you feel as though you are trying to do something about the fact that you can't find one of your own CDs to send to someone and have to call your wife at work and ask her if she knows where one is.

*When you get a Lamborghini Gallardo and take it on the West Side Highway on a Friday night when the Lincoln Tunnel is closed because of an incident, you have to drive it 5 miles an hour for 40 minutes the same as everyone else, and the universe doesn't care that a Lamborghini Gallardo gets 9 miles to the gallon.

*Sometimes you find $140 cash and the Verizon bill in the pocket of a pair of pants you haven't worn since August and it compensates for having to look for your newly written Uncle Al bio for 20 minutes on your computer because you didn't name it something obvious like "Uncle Al Bio".

*You can learn how to talk to a cop who has just pulled you over by watching political debates and paying close attention to what politicians say when asked a direct question.

*Your wife's hair looks amazing.

Park It Here - final installment

2008-10-03T04:59:00.000-07:00

A short, hippie-looking older dude with round sunglasses circled me for a good 20 minutes one day. He finally approached and said he had a job for me.

“We're making an album,” he said."And I need a guy who knows a lot of chords." The timbre of his voice sounded as though he was ever-so-slow in the head, but a job was a job. He handed me a card upon which was written “David Peel - Orange Records.”

I showed up at Peel’s East Village tenement later that night, ready to work, but after a stream of guitarists began showing up, some of whom I recognized from the park, I realized it was just a party. He had no musician accoutrements to offer guests, but instead basked in the glow of his long-ago tenure with John Lennon and Yoko Ono who produced Peel’s third album of hippie anthems, “The Pope Smokes Dope.”

He was a novelty act and the music sounded worse with more musicians, but it was a night’s floor, and there I crashed. A few days later, I took the train in from Westchester specifically for Peel’s recording session in Tribeca.

Peel’s songs were similar to Peel, but his recording methods were novel in that he gathered 15 acoustic guitarists in one room all playing the same thing around a single microphone, producing a purposeful Phil Spector-ish “Wall of Sound”. I played bass on the 3-chord song after the assemblage had laid down the guitar tracks, and all were satisfied.

At the end of the session I asked when I might be paid, but I'd learned by that time that if Peel didn’t want to answer any direct question, he’d somehow turn an answer into something about John and Yoko, hoping to bamboozle.

“That comes later,” said Peel. “When I was with Elephant’s Memory, it was all for one and one for all!”

“When later?”

“You’ll learn, you’re young. Que Pasa New York? Call me.”

I was trusting and excited about recording, and somewhere inside I knew I wouldn’t get a penny, and it was ok. I had seen how Peel lived and I had evaluated his talent and chances for massive album sales, and I knew there wasn’t any money. It was back to the park.

I saw Peel two weeks later one early, drizzling evening, walking by himself. He didn’t recognize or remember me, then said, “Oh, yeah! The yuppie!” which was an indication of the state of his melted but harmless hippie noggin. I bore him no grudge and demanded payment of no debt; instead we just blabbed about music, and I still wasn’t sure if he actually remembered me. Presently he lit a pipe he was carrying, took a long drag himself, and offered it to me.

I didn’t smoke pot or do anything that would damage my voice, but it was raining and the park was getting deserted. I decided to take a puff.

Within a few moments, my consciousness went sailing back into a tiny, tiny portion of my brain, and I turned into an instant, floating collection of muscles, veins, organs, limbs and hair. I hadn't thought to ask what was actually in the pipe. PCP? Angel dust? I didn't know. All I remember was slowly sliding down the wall of the arch until I was sitting, the universe exploding in front of my eyes and the outside world of Manhattan erased. I sat there like a building on fire, feeling the drug devastate my consciousness, unable to play the guitar, and hoping no one would take my money or cart me off to the hospital. I was profoundly, deeply drugged in a very public place, and the only thing that kept me from panicking was the mantra, “You’re on a drug and it’s going to wear off. You’re on a drug and it’s going to wear off.” When would it wear off? I didn’t know; it might be 20 minutes, an hour or 12 hours.

I called Nick Max and told him what had happened.

"Are you ok?"

"%$xxdfh"

Yea, I was ok. There was nothing to do but wait while the world shimmied. In about an hour, the world started speeding up again like a steam train gathering momentum, and soon I was back to relatively normal. Peel was gone and I never saw him again, or heard the record we’d made.

I played and sang and sang and played that whole summer, broke all 6 strings dozens of times, begged a shower or a floor here and there, had to stand in between a homeless guy and my case full of money a couple of times while swinging the arm of my guitar as a warning, was drowned out by ghetto boys walking by with boom boxes, was offered every kind of drug known to medicine, was chased away by the police, got soaked by sudden rainstorms, smiled at N.Y.U. girls, hooked up with a few who allowed me to, and became that which I set out to be.

One early Saturday morning, the wind bit my fingers as I tried to chord a song, and I decided to wait until noon when the sun would defrost the West Village. It never warmed up that day, though, and as truly inured as I’d become to every obstacle that would chase a musician away from his spot, in the end it was cold that shook me off the public stage of Washington Square Park.

Park it here---part 2 of 3

2008-10-02T03:37:00.000-07:00

Click here for "Park it here" Part 1, to refresh yer noodle if need be

I trained and subwayed back to the park the following weekend, set up my open case and started playing.

A few people recognized me from the weekend before, and this time a few dropped a buck. I had boiled down my repertoire to about 10 good songs---common classic rock I was used to and could belt out with no microphone. I also began including Tin Pan Alley material I knew, and occasionally fired out the instrumental parts to "Over the hills and far away" and other sure-fire Led Zeppelin riffs. Zeppelin was the eternal basket of restaurant bread, though, in that I could play the riffs but not sing the songs credibly, so I never performed that material in its entirety. Instead, the musical interludes to "Communication Breakdown" or "The Immigrant Song" were used as lures.

I also began doing anything I could think of to make people look at me, like perching precariously on the edge of metal garbage cans, playing guitar behind my head or pretending to sing lyrics that were deliberate nonsense every now and then, which got laughs. I also became known for dispensing, within seconds, virtually any Beatles song in the catalogue for a buck. You had to be careful with the Beatles, though, because everyone knew the words and wanted to sing along. If you played more than two Fab Four songs in a row, a quick mob would inevitably form which usually included guys with guitars they couldn’t play. Your set subsequently became the property of whoever had the biggest mouth and the most beer in him, and 20 minutes would pass with nothing tossed in your case and every sour Sam and Sally chiming in. A street set, I learned, had to have a start, middle and finish, and guest vocalists and musicians were to be discouraged by whatever means necessary if the money was to keep rolling in.

I made $88 at the end of my first day, mostly singles which I uncrumpled, straightened and deposited in my guitar case. After all the wholesome tourists had gone from the park in the early evening, replaced by the party people, the inebriated and the troublemakers, I sat in Bagel Buffet on 6th avenue, drinking the same cup of coffee for three hours while writing in my journal until I was kicked out. I wandered around the West Village and found a deserted street, selected a safe-looking darkened doorway, and there I rolled up my duffel bag into a pillow, drew a newspaper over my head, and tried to sleep.

At 6 AM, when they let people back into the park, I claimed a spot and snoozed on the ground. The park didn’t get busy until late morning, so I chatted with the park people and students wanting directions, practiced riffs, read newspapers and waited, occasionally baring teeth at another guitar player who thought he should have my section of real estate simply because he’d had it yesterday.

I played all day, the same 10 songs, trying, trying to become something worth looking at and worth someone’s dollar, removing a shirt, tying a bandana around my leg, whatever produced people in front of me who would grant me the privilege of listening. The sun reddened my face, the wind made my kinky hair explode, my fingers and strings were filthy, but there I remained.

Soon people tossed real money in my case, not as much money as I’d seen Ellis collect, but money that folded instead of jingled, and I became that which I wanted to be, and I was no longer a phony from the suburbs.There now was no hesitation when I opened my case, set it in front of me, started a song and walked back and forth on an imaginary stage as I played. I got my desired transient audience plus a few sweet N.Y.U. students like Bonnie and Gabriella who became my mini-fan club, watching my case when I went to the bathroom or to get food, and who made song suggestions.

During one set towards sundown, an inexplicable enormous mob formed in front of me, and I thought I’d finally hit the jackpot. I finished, got a big hand and saw Ellis Hooks walking through the crowd with my guitar case, shouting, “Give it up, give it up for the boy!” He’d been standing behind me while I played, and that was what had drawn the big crowd.

My case came back with $40, an absolute fortune for a single set. The crowd dispersed.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that,” I said, packing up. I’d had it—voice shot, fingers sore.

“Naw, it’s nothing, man. How’d you like to buy me a hot dog—on you?” His voice was equally worn-out from singing at the top of his voice all day. He reached into my case and took a five.

“That’s my agent fee!” he said. I didn’t argue.

I had no idea why Ellis had taken the slightest of interest in me, but I was game to be his new pal. He walked with long, Alabama cowboy steps, and I trailed along as fast as I could. Every single person who passed us seemed to know Ellis, and he’d respond to greetings shouted with a hearty “Hey!” or “Howdy, son!”

We met up with two Portuguese girls Ellis knew, and together we walked to West 8th street where Grey’s Papaya, the home of the 50-cent hot dog, was. The girls, Dina and her little sister Albertina, were barely 20 and I wanted them to like me like they liked Ellis, but it was impossible to compete with him on that level. They did not want to know anything about me, where I’d come from, what my story was, or if I had a girlfriend or not. It was all right here, right now, and the hugs and kisses delivered to Ellis were off the menu for yours truly. Ellis was the center of attention, in the park and, now, on the street.

We stayed that night at the once-spanking but now beat-up Marlton Hotel, and the girls paid. I soon realized Ellis almost never produced money for anything; every girlfriend he had, and there were many, soon figured out his company would cost them. He was sought after by dozens of women and he knew it, and everything from his food to his roof to his beer to other necessities were essentially free. Tonight the girls were paying fifty bucks for two rooms, his and mine, and the price was his presence.

We hung out in his room, talking, laughing and picking guitars until midnight when he kicked Dina and I out. After spending an innocent night in the same bed as Dina, listening through the wall to sounds various people get up to when they flop in a cheap hotel, I rose early, washed up in the bathroom sink down the hall and headed like a boomerang back to the park.

I was delighted to have what I thought was a new city friend, especially one so locally famous and influential, but Ellis’ face was closed to me when I approached him in the park later that day. His “hi” and grin was a mask, and he acted as though we hadn’t spent 6 hours together the night before. We were not to be friends, colleagues or anything else, which was the way he treated everyone, Dina told me later, including herself and Albertina, and that was the way it was with the Alabama cowboy. I was crushed and slunk back to my spot to do another set, and another.

Part 3 of 3 will appear tomorrow.

Park It Here

2008-09-30T03:30:00.000-07:00

I packed a banana into a guitar case and headed for Manhattan, a mere 40 miles but a seeming continent away from the suburbs.

After riding the Metro-North train in from Westchester to Grand Central Station and taking the #1 subway to the Christopher Street stop, I intended to walk directly to Washington Square Park in the West Village rather than exploring any nearby avenues or streets for fear I would lose my way.

But there was a commotion halfway down Christopher Street and I headed in its direction wearing a squint in an attempt to look hard and dangerous, as though I hadn’t just come from my mother and father’s big house on top of a hill in my pleasant, comfortable town of 7,000.

A tall man was laying down three cards on top of an upside-down 5-gallon joint compound container perched on a large empty box. The cards were beat-up and the man barked “Red card’s a winner, red card’s a winner!” A fellow from the crowd correctly guessed which card was red, and I saw the tall man hand over $20, just like that. He laid down another three cards, and again, a man from the crowd guessed which one was red and collected money.

I felt sorry for the barker; he had no shirt and didn’t look as though he could afford to lose his pants, too. But he’d been beaten fair and square, and since a game was offered, I decided to play. The third time the barker shuffled and laid down cards, I spied the red one in the middle, thought quickly, and hesitated.

A low voice next to my left ear startled me. “It’s in the middle,” a battered, elderly man whispered.

That was enough to convince me, and I laid down my entire bankroll---a 20 dollar bill---to bet. In a split second, the barker turned over a black card and the money that was supposed to last me the entire weekend was gone, and in another moment the entire game was broken up, crowd dispersed and the mob around the corner faster than you can say “You’ve been suckered into a three-card-Monte game, and the men in the crowd who supposedly had won cash were shills.”

In massive shock and grief, I hugged my instrument close to my chest, staggered back to 7th avenue and stood in Sheridan Square, wondering what I was going to do now. I ate my banana and took a minute to plot, keeping an eye on the street hustlers, bums and drug dealers, who didn’t seem so glamorous anymore. I finally dragged both palms down the front of my face, recovered, pointed the guitar east and headed off to Washington Square Park.

Ellis Hooks was a tall, lean, light-skinned black guitar player with some visible Cherokee in his cheekbones, a perpetual Iguana parked on his left shoulder and, most of the time, a Stetson on his close-cropped noggin. Delivering his own made-up-on-the-spot soul and blues songs mixed with Wilson Pickett, Stones and Bee Gees, he’d gathered a crowd of about two dozen passers-by, adoring women, drug addicts, students, street people and dancing children in Washington Square Park.

I had developed an allergy to most street guitarists I’d seen in my short, chaperoned trips to Manhattan, the majority of which were guys pawing 6 strings in public because they had no hope of ever getting a gig indoors. But Hooks was a young black Elvis, gyrating, barking, moaning and screeching in tune, and he was irresistible, raw, fun and sexy. After he’d finished a song, a young girl hoisted his open case in the air and walked through the crowd while the grinning guitarist hitched his jeans and made the perpetual pitch:

“10-4, ladies and gentlemen. Cash, check, American Express, airplane tickets.” The case came back full of dollars, fives and a few tens. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to do the same myself. I knew more chords than Ellis Hooks did, I reasoned, so I claimed a spot elsewhere in the park and started my own show.

I got a few glances but no stoppers; I was green, shy and obviously milk white without a teaspoon of soul. I needed money and I wanted to play, though, so I didn’t leave the park for the next 8 hours, hammering out the hundreds of tunes I knew, delivering each one to see if each had any effect whatsoever. Most or all were ignored. I was a musical embryo in this element, and there was no way to hide that. I was also deathly afraid of people and the city and was hardly a good-time glad-hander performer, like Ellis Hooks. Ellis barked a song from his gut, his veins and his heart. I didn’t know how to do that, didn’t even know there was such a thing. We were not the same and I was not “better” than he was, I had to concede.

Ellis Hooks wasn’t the only competition in the park, either. Several times a day, a performer named Tony Vera gathered a crowd of at least 100 underneath Washington Square Park’s arch, watching him spit lighter fluid from his mouth over a torch. This made a ball of fire spew 20 feet in front of him, and he never failed to collect, by my count, at least 100 bucks a set and he did at least 4 sets a day.

As evening approached, a battered, crack-addicted comedian named Charlie Barnett gathered crowds of almost equal size in the park’s dry fountain by walking in a circle and shouting “Show time! Show time!” When the crowd was big enough, he delivered a semi-scripted but mostly improvised set of deadly funny riffs on race, drugs, sex and life. When Tony or Charlie appeared in the park, any gathering of people I pulled in would drain like water from the tub right in the middle of my act. I’d shut my case until their sets were over, after which I’d start again and try to catch the spillover.

Simultaneously, at any given time, assorted lesser acts of one, two or more delivered music, monologues or dance around the park, all competing for dollars and attention. All performers at all times were surrounded by homeless men who drank and drugged and smoked through the day and got by on the change they could scrounge, and who saw others only as a means of getting the next meal. These people took a shine to me, and occasionally repelled the few who eventually stopped to give me and my act a chance. Any invitation for the bums and loonies to find another guitarist to attach themselves to, however, was met with belligerence and a reminder of what country we were in, and that was that.

I collected about 10 dollars over that day and into early evening, mostly coins, $4.75 of which was enough to cart me back home for a shower and a week’s recovery period. My father, rather than discouraging me from street performing, was delighted, and wanted to hear all about Ellis Hooks, the petty drug dealers, the street people and the cops who looked the other way as deals went down, men fooled around with each other in the piss-soaked bathroom, weed was smoked and cheap hard liquor was guzzled. Dad even wanted to come down and check me out, but I discouraged him, wanting the space to be no one from nowhere, and his appearance would have spoiled my fantasy.

The above story will be told in three parts. The next installment is Thursday.

Josh puttzon his race-face for MS

2008-09-29T05:23:00.000-07:00

By the time I get to Tarrytown

2008-09-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

dear readers of captain bananas by the time u read this i will be on a bicycle maybe in the rain riding over the tappan zee bridge to benefit multiple sclerosis i will see you when i get back love to you all

Bike MS/Tappan Zee Bike Ride September 28, 2008

Feel free to leave a msg of support in the comments section thank you from captain bananas

Josh M. rates teachers

2008-09-26T09:21:00.000-07:00

An article titled "Judgement Day" in the Sunday, 9-21 issue of New York Times magazine talks about how online "student ratings are becoming an influential factor in academic promotions."

Like anyone, I've had outstanding, good and terrible teachers. Here are my ratings and comments:

Diane Cusic, 1st grade

She of the bouffant hairdo and Jackie Kennedy whisper-voice, Mrs. Cusic was my first true love, and I would have married her if I'd been 3 feet taller. She never asked and I never explained why I couldn't speak in her presence, or why I couldn't eat in front of her. A+

Joan Weinstein, 2nd grade

Margaret Hamilton circa 1939 lookalike, soundalike, talkalike, walkalike. Made careful list over several weeks of all the things I'd done wrong in anticipation of the first parent-teacher conference of the school year.
Me, second grade

Among other transgressions, I wandered into the bathroom during a lesson, took off all my clothes sang into the mirror for 20 minutes. A conference was called, and Weinstein's list was produced.

My father looked at it and asked, "Where is the list of things he does right?" which evoked a look similar to Ralph Kramden's when asked "Who is the author of 'Swanee River?'" on "The $99,000 answer."

Mrs. Weinstein also tortured Ross Lipton, who'd been purposely, absent-mindedly dribbling spit into one of his workbooks during a lesson. She loomed over Lipton, 7 years old, and demanded he spit and spit and spit.

"I don't hafta!" Lipton cried, meaning his mouth was now dry. Mrs. Weinstein did not relent.

Damn, I still remember her witchy face. (shiver)

F-, with 5 lines under it.

Marcia Neighbors, 3rd grade

The first to encourage my writing, which resulted in "Blinkertoo The Mouse". Invited me over to her house to swim in her pool, too, and she was one of the few adults I completely trusted not to take me in the woods and kill me. Tall, regal, one of the most liked teachers in the school and one who never gave me the slightest amount of grief for anything---and she easily could have. A+

Richard Devir, 4th grade

Played a mesmerizing "Alice's Restaurant" on a nylon-string guitar. Bought pizza for students. Didn't stop Darryl Tinsley from hitting me in the mouth or do anything about it after the blow. Shoved tables into impossible, unruly students. Refused to discuss class or any of its students when contacted years later for "Confessions of an ex-seeker." C-

Lois Burke, 6th grade

One of the worst, she called me "just a bouncing ball of blubber," and "two-ton". I was 4'11, 121 pounds and by that time, almost completely silent in school, making note of how few words I could actually get away with during the course of the day. I counted 9 once, my all-time low. The 9 were:

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

Burke sent me to the Principal's office for possessing a copy of Abby Hoffman's "Steal This Book", which described how to gyp the phone company, shoplift, grow marijuana and make molotov cocktails, among other things.

My father---again---came to the school for a conference.

He was asked, "Do you know your son is reading this?"

Before "reading this?" was out of the Principal's mouth, Dad replied, "He can read any goddamn thing he wants to."

(When going through my father's wallet, retrieved from a pair of his pants on the floor of his apartment after they'd taken his body away, I found his crumpled Bill of Rights. In the last year of his life, he would whip it out and recite from it when someone tried to tell him what he could and could not say. The man did fly 38 missions over Normandy, Belgium, Germany and France, after all.)
Mrs. Burke: D

Dad: A

Richard Heinhold, 8th grade

Gave me an "A" for writing a riff on Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart" (after verifying that I'd written the essay myself) told from the point of view of one of the policemen. May have had writer aspirations of his own, as indicated by patches on elbows of tweed coat and moustache and beard.

Sent me to Principal's office when I punched Geoff Ryder in the chest for screaming "Jew!" after seeing me pick up a penny I'd dropped. When confronted by my father later that night after he'd been notified I'd been suspended, I told him what had happened.

"Next time hit him in the mouth," my father said.

Mr. Heinhold's nickname was "Mr. Heinie-hole".

Heinhold: B
Dad: A+

Robert Laub, 11th grade

All-time best teacher award. Gave me A-pluses for first-person, stream-of-consciousness prose, lyrics and poetry. Came to one of my public performances; I was shocked to see him drink a beer. A+

A Night At The Met

2008-09-23T14:16:00.001-07:00

"Monday will mark the first time the Met's glittering opening-night gala will be beamed to distant fans by high-definition broadcast, and enthusiasts from New Jersey to New Mexico are digging out dinner jackets and evening gowns for the occasion," said the Associated Press. This was the 125th anniversary of the Met.

And so I took my seat next to my decked-out, gorgeous bride, and beheld on a beautiful, cool night.

The programs---"La Sopresatta", "Man-o-man" and "Cappucino"---excuse me, “La Traviata,” “Manon” and “Capriccio"---were easy to digest, and the singers---

Renee Fleming

Ramon Vargas

Thomas Hampson

---all entertained, no cracking, no messing up words. (What the hell do I know?)

The New York Times subsequently said of Ramon Vargas, the chubby, short favorite of mine, "The tenor Ramón Vargas was an impassioned Alfredo," and, regarding "Manon", "Mr. Vargas, as des Grieux, was again in ardent form." Dude, the cat sang his cojones off for 2 hours---ya think ya can spare him a few more words than a measly 18?

I'm all about Vargas, now---little dude singing at the one of the top gigs in the world.

I hadn't known if I could last the entire evening, but as one does not stack pizza slices on top of each other and eat them all at the same time, so I ingested small portions of Opera, each satisfying and understood, before moving onto the next.

And there I was, in the heart of Manhattan, under the stars, a feeling of melancholy as the weather chilled and the eventful summer of Goodyear Blimps, Lamborghinis, upstate hotels, Model T Fords and Al Hoffman recordings came to an official close.

On America, Richard Wright

2008-09-21T05:19:00.000-07:00

"Our too-young and too-new America, lusty because it is lonely, aggressive because it is afraid, insists upon seeing the world in terms of good and bad, the holy and the evil, the high and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened of fact, of history, of processes, of neccessity."

Richard Wright, 1945

Expert texperts--not.

2008-09-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

The author of this New York Times article about the physical dangers of texting ought to have accompanied me to Washington Mutual last week.

If my bank was going down the pipes, as WaMu is, and I was the boss, I'd circulate a memo: "Please do not text while handling clients' hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of transactions today."

The problem at my bank is that the supervisors, who have come and gone as fast as a patron of a Times Square peep show in the 80s, aren't any further along etiquette-wise.

If you ask a question and they don't hear you, for example, the response is "What happened?"

If I make a withdrawal larger than what I would consider average, they ask what I'm going to do with the money. And, of course, eyebrow, lip, nose piercings are left in because you want to know people who work there are wasssuuuuuup? Waz at da club las' night yo.

Hell in a handbasket? Nah. A free and open society, where trends start and are or are not absorbed by the mainstream, after which they are perceived as normal, and people like me who pick on others who say "Awesome!" every two or three words are seen as odd.

Besides, my teller with the pierces and text messages is a car lover who knows what I do, and we talk while I judge him. He'll find his real vocation one day. I actually avoid that WaMu, which is 3 blocks away, because it is dirty, slow and the tellers text and frequently appear to be hung over. If possible, I go up to Riverdale where the pros are.

I also leave my neighborhood to go to the Post Office, supermarket, stationary store, to eat at restaurants and have dry cleaning done for all the above reasons.

Ink-stained blech

2008-09-19T15:53:00.000-07:00

I filed a lawsuit today. It's my third in 12 years. Let me tell you about the other two first.

One was to recover a rent deposit from a landlord who just didn't see why he had to give Mrs. M and I our money back. We went to court and the landlord lost, of course, and subsequently sent me a check, but it took a contentious hearing during which time his wife told me, in front of the judge, "I never liked you from the start!"

I responded, "Gee, that's a shame, because I really liked you."

The judge thought that was funny, and I like to think it helped rule in our favor. ("Gee, that's a shame" was borrowed from "Midnight Run".)

The second lawsuit was involved a dispute over a paint job I had done with a crew in 1997. There is something known as a "punch list", a list of odds and ends which the contractor has the client assemble at the end of the job, and which the contractor addresses. My client didn't like a few things we'd done, but wouldn't let me come and fix them, and wouldn't pay. It was the equivalent of eating an entire Chinese meal, then refusing to pay the bill because you don't like the fortune cookie.

The client got served, immediately called me, I came and fixed, and was paid. What happens in cases like that is the case is called, neither party shows up, and it's dismissed.

Today, my suit was filed in New Jersey. A newly (re)launched magazine I won't name had contacted me and solicited three articles for a certain amount of money. I wrote all three---a car article, a travel article and a bicycle review---supplied photos, and submitted an invoice.

Yesterday, the editor, who on the phone had sounded as though she was about 12, sent me the following email:

Hi Josh,

How are you?

I regret to inform you that we will not be publishing ********* Magazine.

I hope you can find another publication that will accept your work.

I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused.

Regards,

L****

It was actually a pleasure to just say nothing, to just pull out a gun and fire. No "I'll see you in court!" email. I've had a rough week, my friends, one full of surreal and earth-shattering events, even for me, and I'm afraid I have no room at all for understanding or even caring why some big, well-funded (trust me) company isn't going ahead with their plans and pleasantly tries to stiff its contributors without so much as an offer of a kill fee.

Despite what's happening on Wall Street.

I used to think there was something cosmically dangerous about suing, but I've come to see it as the big brothers I once had. I cannot call on Nick or Jed Max to go and work the head of the company over in the back alley, so off I go with my club (a pen) and brass knuckles (22 bucks to file.)

I also thought, "Maybe I shouldn't tell people about this on my blog," but why not? Am I to be ashamed? It is not I who reneged.

On the way back from the Hackensack Municipal Court near the George Washington Bridge, I came upon a traffic jam. Thinking the two cars who'd gone around some cones onto a side street perhaps knew something I didn't, I followed. The first car was stopped by a policeman, who gave the driver one of the worst bawlings-out I'd ever heard a cop deliver. He finally let the man go and started in on the second, giving him a piece of his policeman's cap.

I started thinking, "What shall I say when he gets to me?"

I had big, thick sunglasses on and decided to play dumb, be like a sponge, let the man do whatever his thing would be, take my medicine and be off.

He put his face close to mine, said, "Ahhhh" and waved me away.

Sometimes the system ain't so bad. Sometimes they can help you get your money, and sometimes their representative has a heart. Other times, just to be wise guys, they can show up and take everything you own. Such is democracy.

A vegan, still on the hunt

2008-09-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, one feels the urge to hunt and kill and consume.

I remember how much fun it used to be to buy a barbecued chicken, put it in my backpack and ride home on the motorcycle, looking at the people around me on the highway and thinking, "None of these people know the biker has a chicken in his backpack." People say bikers are defenseless, but if need be, a chicken can always be hurled.

I'd get this chicken home and a good-sized blap of white meat would be clawed into like a steamshovel with the right hand, chickenflesh embedded under the fingernails, deposited on a plate and eaten, warm, accompanied by a baked potato with butter and salt, after washing the grease from the hands, of course. Burp.

The substitute today is two ears of fresh, sweet corn, so sweet they need no butter or salt, and you devour them, the kernels exploding into your mouth, the juice flying, the skins of the kernels getting stuck between your teeth.

This beats broccoli, brown rice, lettuce, almond butter, raisins, soy milk. You have torn into something with an explosion of force, something you used to do to cooked animals.

Thou art the lion, jackal, eagle, grizzly bear, T-Rex---the difference being you're a beast eating food that grows and does not breathe, bleed or feel pain and fear.

Food's one of the great joys and banes of life, and veganism allows me to enjoy it more. Since I consume no sugar, refined flour and almost no salt, what lands on my tongue explodes, and the senses are heightened.

As one moves further on down life's highway, one needs to fight deadening---the dulling of everything. Dull and dead you will become, completely and for good one day, but let us strive to keep the ears, eyes, taste buds, body and mind as sharp as table saws until that day.

And one day you may be driving in a remote upstate road, and may pass a large cornfield, and may glimpse a wild-haired savage, barefoot and clad in a loincloth made of hemp, a spear in one hand and a half-dozen freshly-shucked ears of fresh corn in the other. Stay out of his way, mate.

Two former angry young men hash it out, with guests

2008-09-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

There are only two recording artists in my life whom I’ve seen live more than twice, and they are Elvis Costello and Rufus Wainwright. I’ve performed Elvis’ “My Aim Is True”, “This Year’s Model” and “King Of America” in their entirety at various Manhattan venues and have seen Costello live six times since 1984’s “Punch The Clock” tour.

I’ve seen Rufus 5 times in the last year, including out of doors at Central Park Summerstage in a two-hour rainstorm, and have ingested his entire body of released original songs to the point where I have to be careful. As one prominent songwriter remarked, and I'm paraphrasing, "You try to write your own material after listening to Rufus and you think, 'Why bother?"

I therefore have some authority to say a few things about these two.

A new Sundance Channel show, "Spectacle: Elvis Costello with..." features Elvis and guests.

Mrs. M. wangled tickets for a taping featuring Wainwright and the opera star Renee Fleming. We gathered at the suprisingly tiny legendary Apollo theatre on West 125th Street to attend. We were 5 rows from the stage.

E.C. emerged.

Elvis Costello has morphed from an angry, obnoxious, snarling talent to grand elder statesman of popular music. Today, there isn’t a dangerous bone in his body and he’d make a great granddad, or at least a funny uncle. His dress was conservative; ill-fitting wrinkled black suit and absurd red felt fedora that deflated the taking of the proceedings too seriously---legendary Apollo, you know. (You can’t really type “Apollo” without the "L" word. It’s like leaving off the “Sir” in “Sir Paul” even though he deserves it rescinded for “Dance Tonight.”)

In Elvis’ tortured place, now, is Rufus Wainwright, who occupies, audience and respect-wise, the spot Elvis Costello did in 1980 before he began hanging out with Burt Bacharach, who in 1968 may not have accepted E.C.'s tea and songwriting invitation.

E.C. donned a Gibson Blues King Junior guitar at 7:15 and sang “All This Useless Beauty”, a song whose meaning remains a mystery to me ten years after its album of the same name was released. He followed “Beauty” with “If I Only Had A Brain”.

Rufus was announced and emerged, tall, tan, handsome, awkward, magnificent.

Elvis asked him questions about songwriting, about not hiding his sexuality, about his father, about certain songs. Wainwright is, like many musicians, not all that interesting when you hear him speak, but one is compelled to pay attention regardless because you want to comprehend the brain of the man who wrote "The Art Teacher". In the end, his words fall flat and you get no closer.

When ensconced behind a grand piano, though, a sound and energy emerges that’s otherworldy, godlike, mesmerizing. He is not as in pain as he was before his stint in rehab for crystal meth, but his (apparent) sobriety has not harmed his music or performance. He performed "Memphis Skyline" and another whose title escapes me.

Renee Fleming emerged and filled the Apollo with rounded, aching, soaring tones that caused the water to rain from my eyes, which is all I ever require from any performer--laughter, anger, tears. I wanted to dash onstage and give her a bear hug. She was also the more engaged live interview subject, deep yet perky, perfect but not annoyingly so, and compelling whether singing or talking.

The show had a few technical glitches, with the result that we were still sitting in our seats four hours after the proceedings had started. I started nodding, then grew sleepy to the point of agony, wishing for death or to be released from the theatre.

"History in the making!" cried Mrs. M. "Legendary theatre!" But still I wanted out as I’d been up since 6 AM and had biked 18 miles that morning. Rufus’ mother, Kate McGarrigle was announced and appeared with a banjo, and the onstage ensemble attempted an Appalachian-style number written by T. Bone Burnett and Elvis. Attempted is the word, for after two utterly sour takes aiming for 4-part harmony, each a disaster, the third try proved a semi-charm, and the evening was concluded.

Showbiz ain't for sissies.

And the next day I bought "Punch The Clock" on iTunes.

Great guns

2008-09-09T13:51:00.000-07:00

I went to look at a one-bedroom apartment above 96th Street on the Upper West Side of Manhattan on a freezing January Saturday. I'd found it in the “Roommates Wanted” section of the Village Voice.

I was buzzed in at noon and a 50-something-year-old man named Frank opened the door to the dim flat on the second floor. We sat on rickety chairs around an aged wooden kitchen table with a ripped plastic yellow tablecloth covering it.

I was shy and disappointed, both in the apartment and its occupant.

Frank was friendly and got to the point.

“Where you from?”
“Westchester.”
“How old are you?”
“19.”
“Nineteen!”
“Yes.”
“Where you living now?”
“In my brother’s place in Hoboken.”
“Do you have a job?”
“No.”
“Planning to get one?”
“Yes.”
“Ok.”

It was 9 degrees out when I moved my books, clothes and guitars into the apartment the following Saturday.

The apartment was medium-sized by New York City standards, a seeming palace to others who lived in the city, and closet-like to suburbanites. Each of its windows faced an alley, ensuring no direct sunlight ever hit its occupants, and Frank indicated with pride his stuccoing of the walls and ceilings with joint compound to cure their constant chronic peeling. It was an amateur job, though, meaning Frank’s divots were so deep and sharp that one might scrape a knuckle bloody with a simple arm gesture while standing in the tiny foyer, or in the middle of the night when turning over in bed.

Frank, the son of first-generation working class Italians, was born and bred in Brooklyn. I had been raised in Westchester on a remote suburban road in a house with books. We were therefore foreigners to each other. He assumed I’d been raised a Jew and made occasional not-so-veiled mocking references to blowing the shofar and other Sephardic customs I had no knowledge of. He smoked Parliaments with the filters removed and my alarm clock when he was home was his early morning death-hack as he lit up upon rising.

He was a former actor who never made it past an uncredited part in a semi-hit 1971 movie. He eventually gave up acting and went into customizing and repairing handguns. His customers were cops and a parade of older guys who showed up to the apartment in the very early morning, men with deep voices and big bodies. Frank’s smithing shop was in a neighboring state, where he mostly lived, but he would come into the city to pick up and deliver pistols.

And what pistols they were! I had never seen a handgun up to then except in the movies, and I quickly learned to identify all the names, types, sizes and, after making some wide-eyed queries to Frank, what they could do to a person. When Frank was home by himself, he would always use the steel bar bolted to the front door and secured in a metal divot on the floor to fortify the entrance against blacks and Latinos, and against people who knew his line of work and might be interested in robbing him. He had good reason to fear; it was the height of the 80s crack epidemic and street criminals preyed on anything of the slightest value---wallets, purses, change in the center console of a car---to fuel their addiction. Each morning, residents of the neighborhood would emerge to see yet more cars on their block with windows smashed and sound systems removed.

Frequently Frank’s wares would be out on the kitchen table when I entered the apartment. .357 Pythons, Freedom Arms .45, Magnum Research Desert Eagle .50 and other weapons, enormous, deadly and gorgeous, greeted me upon entering the place. The secret knock was three times quick, a pause, and two slow. If any other knock was heard when we were both home, I was not allowed to answer the door. A pistol was loaded and thrust into the rear of Frank’s jeans as he approached the door and peeped through the hole. No one who wasn’t supposed to be there ever showed up, though, so he never had to pull the gun. If I came home and Frank was there, I had to wait for him to get up and undo the floor-bolt and open the door.

It took awhile, naturally, for Frank and I to become comfortable with each other and for Frank to be completely honest about what he did for a living. But as soon as I got used to seeing a cannon sitting open on the kitchen table, another would appear, and another and another, until finally I wasn’t scared of the guns or Frank. He wasn’t a mobster or a psycho, nor was he selling guns. He was repairing, bluing, maintaining and customizing them.

I had not been around any adult males besides my father and assorted bosses my entire life, and still thought of myself as a kid, the youngest kid, the one with the smart mouth who could do as he pleased and get away with it through precociousness.

The walls of the hallway were freshly painted when I moved in, and I took to leaving my bike leaned up against them instead of bringing it all the way into the apartment. Soon there were slight handlebar marks next to the door.

“Hey,” Frank said the next time he saw me. “I don’t want to give you a hard time, but don’t leave your bike leaned up against that wall, ok?”

I said I wouldn’t, and didn’t, until Frank went out of town again. Each time I knew he was returning to New York, I’d wheel the bike into my bedroom and try to scrub the wall, but the paint had a flat finish and you couldn’t clean it as well as semi-gloss. The mark visibly grew.

I went out one evening and, knowing Frank would appear sometime during the night, I’d left the bike in my bedroom. When I came home, Frank was asleep and there was a note taped to the handlebars:

“REMINDER---PLEASE KEEP BIKE OFF WALL”. I felt ashamed of myself. I’d tried to place the bike gently against the wall, so no further marks would be made, but I guess I hadn’t done a good job.

I knew the world of childhood was officially over; that this man had no reason to let me slide, about anything.

When Frank left for another three weeks, I again leaned the bike up against the wall as I pleased, with a rag between the handlebars and the wall. I got tired of that ritual, though, and finally stopped using the rag. I attempted instead to simply be careful. By now the wall was pretty black and I figured it didn’t make a difference.

One Friday evening I had returned from work, gently leaned the bike up against the wall and went out grocery shopping. When I returned I could see light coming through the peephole of 2G. I felt the color leave my face, and considered finding somewhere else to stay for the night. But I had groceries.

I knocked. I saw the peephole light dim for a moment, meaning an eye had been pressed against it, and I heard the steel bar being withdrawn from the floor. The deadbolt turned and the door was slowly opened.

Frank stood there with three pistols stuffed into the front and sides of his jeans, one in his right hand and a smoldering Parliament in his mouth, the smoke of which made him squint. He didn’t get out of my way so I could come in, but stood there a moment looking at me with bullets in his eyes. We both knew what the problem was.

He finally moved his body so I could get by, and I left the groceries in the hall while I rolled the bike into the bedroom. I never left it leaned up against the wall again, and neither of us ever mentioned it again.

Why George didn't curr for "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"

2008-09-05T07:53:00.001-07:00

The only Beatle who didn't put down "Pepper" in later years was Paul.

Ringo said it wasn’t his favorite album because of the hours, hours, hours waiting for the guys to get their ideas together. He said he learned to play chess during the Pepper sessions.

John was quoted as saying "Sgt. Pepper was Paul's baby,” and that a lot of his songs on the albums were "throwaways."

George said he, too, got tired of the new studio approach where basic tracks would be recorded, followed by niggly-wiggly parts being added.

But as it turns out, even George's niggly-wigglys fell short.

Last night I came across this isolated lead guitar on “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band” on YouTube.com:

I listened with natural fascination…then heard something. A little trembling vibrato at 0:07. “Hey,” I says to the self. “That sounds like Paul playing, not George.”

Paul plays lead guitar on "Taxman", "Good Morning, Good Morning", "Another Girl", "Ticket To Ride", "Drive My Car" and many other Beatles tracks the public assumes George played on. You can tell it's Paul by his nervous right middle finger.

I did my research and sure enough, yeah, that's Macca at the top of "Pepper".

No wonder George didn't tout up the album, then or afterwards. The most famous album of all time, millions and millions of records sold, universal accolades. Wherever George went, it was "Love your work, man!"

It probably bugged him no end, despite the fame, wealth and all the trappings of sparkling success. Similar to an executive being held back in a job simply because he’s always had that job and the boys above aren’t really willing to let the guy advance, Georgie had to leave the Fabs to really blossom as a songwriter and slide guitarist.

Yet George's tracks are some of my favorites, especially the early material. I'll always listen to "Don't Bother Me", "I Need You", "You Like Me Too Much" and "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You", and may skip over "Til There Was You", "Dizzy Miss Lizzy", "I'm Down" and "Mr. Moonlight".

George's true talent in the Beatles was his presence, his intelligence, his similarity in height and appearance to John and Paul---and his singular, guttural, deeply accented and instantly recognizable singing voice. Next came the songs he wrote and finally, his actual guitar playing.

So thurr.

James Gandolfini gets married to Al Hoffman's "The Hawaiian Wedding Song"

2008-08-31T19:55:00.000-07:00

Elvis recorded it; so did Andy Williams. Click this line for Yahoo.com coverage of wedding

Actually, Al and his 1950's partner Dick Manning did not entirely write it; "The Hawaiian Wedding Song" was written in 1926 by Charles King for his operetta, "Prince of Hawaii."

Al and Dick gave it new lyrics, something they had also done to their hit "There's No Tomorrow", translated from "O Solo Mio", the results of which ended up a hit for Tony Martin.

Click here to see why the above should mean sumpin' to ya

In the vegan world, sometimes the vegetables bite back

2008-08-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

I bought one of these, figuring I'd jazz up dinner.

Hot Yellow Scotch Bonnet peppers

Cut up some veggies for quick meal---broc, squash, mush, onion, a veggie burger. Included the above pepper. Didn't think nuttin' of it.

While waiting for the water to boil, to steam it all along with rice, I went onto other things.

I touched my right eye, casually.

It happened instantly.

Oh. Oh. Oh! OH! Like I'd been sprayed with mace. Splashed water from the bathroom sink into it. It got worse. I staggered around the apartment in agonizing, burning pain. The pain spread to my left eye. Now I was blind.

Filled the bathroom sink with cold water. Waited, waited, waited, then---

PLUNGE

Steam billowed. I held the snoot underwater, eyes open, looking left to right.

It worked.

"I can see! I can see!"

I threw the pepper in the garbage, violent little @#$@#$ that it was.

Go sear the earthworms!

The Phelps effect

2008-08-26T04:10:00.000-07:00

I'm as passionate about pro sports as I am about waterbugs, furballs and chicken bones. If every sports team in America disbanded, it would take me a few weeks to notice.

But say "Phelps!" and I step a little faster, go the extra mile, do what it takes.

Phelps helps, and I'll tell you how.

I swim several times a week at Lasker Pool in Central Park.

It's an enormous blue heaven and is often near-empty for the "adult lap swim" I do early in the morning or at 8 PM. All worries are jettisoned to some unseen hell when you dive into the cool blue drink, cooler still after a rainstorm.

The pool is in Harlem and I like Harlem, its architecture, its cleanliness, its turnaround from its 80s nadir of violence and hopelessness.

It's not always easy to go to the pool. The park pool people, a staff of about 8 at any given time, are frequently as nasty, uncaring, dull, humorless and obsessed with their little slices of power over the public as anyone you may meet at a government agency in New York City.

It's a Phelps-like challenge not to answer back when one particularly unpleasant mustachioed attendant adopts a cop-like attitude when questioning you or someone else about some petty subject, like coming through the open gate when it's available instead of walking up two flights of stairs to another entrance far out of the way.

"$250 fine for coming through that gate," he says.

"Ok, Groucho," I respond.

Another swimmer has a folding bike with him, and asks if he can lock it up within the gate.

"No," says Javert. "If you did that, I'd throw it in the pool."

We do not want to be asked to leave and barred from coming back, so we swallow the urge to push this man in the pool.

There are also those who are mellow, sweet, easygoing, nice to see and chat with. If I forget my card, they let me in anyway. I think they can see I won't steal any water. And everyone says hello and goodbye, which I like.

The pool is also currently surrounded by raccoons, who emerge at dusk and pick through the garbage. Last night one was drinking from the pool itself; a lifeguard shooed (shoe'd) him/her with a flip-flop, which the animal took no real notice of.

The coons get a pass by the staff and swimmers; rats would be a different story.

The pool closes this Friday for the winter. Between Phelps' win and the imminent close of summer, everyone swims a little faster. I'm serious. There are no more lollers.

Last night I left the pool after a delicious 10-lap dunk. It was a gorgeous evening and it was my last night test-driving this tiny, zippy BMW M Coupe.

Where to go? What to do? Where's the wife? At the gym, I remembered. I opened my cell phone and discovered it was out of order, so I found a pay phone and left her a message saying I would come to the gym and look for her.

It was the same thing I did during the blackout of 2004. You've got to Find Julie.

I parked near her gym in midtown Manhattan and saw the place was closed. I didn't want to go home; it was so beautiful out. So I sat on some steps and watched a group of tourists stop and do chin-ups on some scaffolding. None made it past one chinup. An older tourist was admonished by his wife, who feared for his immediate health, but he had to go for it.

Phelps' effect? Maybe.

I got up and saw my beloved coming toward me, and we fell into each others' arms. She'd seen my car and was looking for me.

I drove her home, dropped her and went out looking for a Salvation Army-type clothes drop for this bag of apparel I don't wear anymore. I ended up driving through the Bronx on Broadway, and noticed the streets there are as beat-up as when I moved to my neighborhood 5 years ago. In my little car, the potholes and bumps are like cannons, and it's easy to get pissed off.

Phelps, though, would overcome a bad street, a busted cell phone, a surly pool guy. He'd do what it takes.

I ended up driving to Yonkers before I found a box to put my Goodwill clothes in. I wasn't about to bring that big bag back into my apartment when they came and took the BMW back.

Phelps would have found a box, too.

A few minutes ago, my toilet overflowed with twice the amount of water it usually floods the bathroom with. A serious mess, first thing in the morning. I got angrier than I've been in forever, the speech reduced to grunts and epithets as I moved my now-dripping "Idiots Guide To World War 1" off the floor, realized the futility of avoiding sewage on my feet and hands, and just did what it took to address the mess.

Phelps, Josh Max. Phelps.

Or, barring that, Johnny Cash.

"I don't like it but I guess things happen that way."

The short end of the stick (shift)

2008-08-22T14:23:00.000-07:00

I had just pulled into a Hawthorne parking lot adjacent to the Saw Mill Parkway and was getting out of my car when I heard the sound of an angry voice coming over a police loudspeaker. I looked and saw a female cop ordering someone in a BMW 3-series to pull into a space near me, and shut off the car. The driver jerk-jerk-jerked to a stop.

I parked a book on top of my roof and pretended to read while I saw a very angry cop get out of her cruiser and approach the driver of the BMW.

I couldn’t hear what was said, but whatever the driver of the BMW had done was serious enough for an extended chew-out. On and on the cop went.

I kind of like when female cops yell at me. It doesn’t happen too often, but it happens. I like to see if I can talk my way out of it. Female cops are sexy, anyway. Guns. Batons. Pony tails.

I got bored listening to this copper spew, so I went and got a cup of iced coffee before going into the gym---that’s why I was in Hawthorne. When I came out of the shop, two girls were circling the BMW, obviously rattled, and obviously the ones who’d been yelled at.

“Hey!” I called. They looked.

“What did you do make that cop yell at you like that?”

“Neither of us can drive a stick shift,” said one. “So I was practicing on a side street.”

“Nothing wrong with that. “

“Somehow we ended up on the highway, and I panicked.”

“Crap.”

“I kept stalling out. So finally we just parked with the flashers on, and called 911---on ourselves.”

“So the cop showed up and was pissed off?”

“Yes, and we didn’t even DO anything.”

There ought to be different-colored belts for drivers, parents, musicians and writers, just like in Karate.

And another belt for "I'm on a highway and I can't drive a stick."

My vegan heart went out to this young lady, however, both for her pluck and her willingness to talk to a stranger. I told her what I did for a living, that I'd driven her car and that BMW's aren't always easy---their clutch-shift-accelerator combinations are tight tight, making them one of the easiest cars to stall, and it happens even to an expert like me.

(The easiest cars I've ever shifted? Saturns and Volkswagens.)

I told her, also, that many times when I get a new motorcycle, the first journey is the most harrowing. I always make a point of going somewhere, getting off the bike, leaving it for a bit while I wander or shop or such. When I get on the second time, it's always easier. The body says, "Ah, this again. Ok, I've been here."

"You'll be fine. Just relax."

She thanked me with a big smile and I went upstairs to the gym. When I looked out the window ten minutes later, her car was gone.

I-wonder-if-they-made-it-HOME-jerking-all-the-way

Heeeeeere's Al!

2008-08-20T04:00:00.000-07:00

I signed a two-year contract with Music Sales Group yesterday, to plug, push and shove the new CD I executive produced over the last 7 months titled "The Maxes Sing Al Hoffman".

Al Hoffman was my great Uncle. He died before I was born, and I knew nothing about him growing up other than he co-wrote "Mairzy Doats" and "I Apologize".

Five days after 9-11, Mrs. M and I were driving over the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. You could see the smoke over the burning pit in Manhattan. Two men on our block had been killed in the Twin Tower attacks.

We tuned the car radio to WFUV-FM and heard deejay Rich Conaty announce an evening of Hoffman music on his Big Broadcast show. That was a surprise and a shock. I'd never heard Al's name spoken by anyone except members of my family.

I tuned in the following Sunday and heard happy, happy tunes, a stark contrast to the death and destruction that was in the air during that time. I learned that Al had written hundreds of songs, among them standards recorded by Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Django Reinhardt, Chet Baker and literally dozens of others beginning with his first hit, "That's What I Call Sweet Music" recorded by Sophie Tucker in 1929, right up to "La plume de ma tante" by Homer and Jethro in 1959.

I contacted Conaty, explained who I was, and he graciously sent me three cassettes containing his Hoffman broadcast. After repeated listening, I decided hat I'd agressively pursue information about Hoffman. I discovered a Seattle cousin had two boxes of Al's personal papers, magazine articles, correspondence and such as well as 300 78 and 45 RPM records.

The boxes were sent and I found some eyeball-shattering family dirt as well as much about Al. I sat on the floor and gaped at his photo for the first time, one of dozens documenting Al's life in New York City from 1928 to the year of his death, 1960---and beyond.

Al Hoffman and his mother Rose, 1932

With the help of Nick Max, I had the records transferred to MP3, boiled it down to 12, and decided to record.

Through phone calls to ASCAP, I discovered Music Sales Group, a world-wide publishing company with offices in Manhattan, Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Berlin and elsewhere had bought most of Al's copyrights in recent years. (I also discovered Paul McCartney's MPL owns 3---none hits.)

I called Music Sales and asked to speak to whoever handled Hoffman. Got the right guy, introduced myself, and asked if the company would be interested in a new full-length CD if and when.

To my surprise, he didn't yea yea me---they took me quite seriously, and said sure.

It did not hurt that the man I spoke to likes cars.

Took me a while but I raised the dough to hire the best musicians, arranger, producer and studio I could afford.

I finished the disc, brought it to Music Sales and left it there. Within a day, they called offering to sign us to an exclusive publishing deal, aggressively seeking to place the songs in film, television, radio, videogaming and "new media", whatever that means.

The disc is called "The Maxes Sing Al Hoffman".

You can't buy it---yet---but you will, soon, as soon as we plot the next move. We're also in the process of planning a series of videos in conjunction with last year's "The Maxes" and this year's "The Maxes Sing Al Hoffman".

Now, about the signing. Obviously, it was a sweet day, 7 years in the making.

I put on my signin' clothes---tight black jeans, bright blue Armani shirt, black polished loafers, and up I went to the Office.

I thought the final version of the contract would be on parchment, printed in italics, and a gold seal affixed. It was not--it was printed on Staples paper.

Three copies were offered, three were signed, three of us stood and said, "Here's to a long and prosperous relationship." Ok, I said it. But they smiled and said, "Yes!"

Welcome to the music biz, kid, I sez to the mirror later on.

You might want to check out some of the musicians who played on the sessions:

J.Walter Hawkes, arranger/trombone

Jon-Erik Kellso, trumpet

Dan Levinson, clarinet

Sean Smith, bass

Jon Dryden, piano

The Smash Shack

2008-08-19T07:59:00.000-07:00

CNN's report on Smash Shack--you'll have to watch a commercial first

Have you ever wanted to break something? I have. The Smash Shack lets you bust plates, dishes, photos of your ex, for a price.

At first I thought, dumb people flushing money. Just deal with your problems, for Fred's sake.

Then I remembered the Frustration Pile, created by N. Max when we were children. It was a hole the boy had dug and lined with large stones. When pissed, an empty wine bottle would be taken to this hole and smashed against the sides of the rocks.

I didn't really use it, and he didn't really use it after a couple of times.

Like soft drugs leading to harder stuff, the Frustration Pile led to, or contributed to, the overall atmosphere of Destroying Objects, some tiny, some quite large.

He doesn't like it when I talk about this stuff, so I won't. I'll save it for the book.

So sayeth Newton Minow

2008-08-15T16:04:00.001-07:00

"I invite you to sit down in front of your television set when your station goes on the air and stay there without a book, magazine, newspaper or profit-and-loss sheet or rating book to distract you and keep your eyes glued to that set until the station signs off. I can assure you that you will observe a vast wasteland."

Newton Minow, U.S. Federal Communications Commission , 1961

Josh Max's 6-word memoir

2008-08-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

Harpo Beatles hurry publish sing bye.

B'loney? You? Me?

2008-08-12T14:31:00.000-07:00

A waiter of about 20, a dancer on a scholarship (and that ain't exactly a stable surface!) , was taking my order at a restaurant the other night. We got to talking, him about dancing, me about writing and playing music.

He asked, "Which do you prefer?"

It was startling. No one has ever asked me that. No one asks me about music or writing, and up until that moment, I had not grasped that fact.

Rich Z. has everything I've ever recorded since 1993 on his iPod, I know that. A & T have all my post-1999 recordings on their shuffle. There are 12,000 bought copies of the album I released in 2000, "Make It Snappy" out there. Anyone listening? No idea, hon.

At the moment, I am about to sign a deal, my first, with a big music publishing company, for a disc I recorded over the last 7 months with 12 musicians at a Grammy-winning studio. The signing proves someone important cares. "Those with ears to hear, let them listen."

To answer the young man's question and get to the title of this post---

I like both music and writing for different reasons. But music wins, my friends.

I was born a musician. Zeus did not give me these perfect-pitch ears for the hell of it. Writing I came to naturally, later, but music is my heart and my love and my passion. If you want to know me, listen to my music, especially the last album.

The prose always has a lie in it and that is because I am a coward and don't want to hear people's negativity. I am toned down to the 10th degree in 90% of what I write, here and in public. I'm not talking about car stories. Even my first-person is raked to avoid hooking small minds, the minds that call your wife a cow and tell you you are in need of psychiatric help.

I have a book I'm writing called "Confessions of an ex-seeker". The aim? No lies.

A guy I used to follow, Paul Lowe, used to talk about people coming to his seminars wanting help in their life transitions, their relationships, their dealings with the world and existence.

He would say, "Just get through a single day without telling a single lie. That'll keep you busy."

Sunday quote

2008-08-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

"...There are very few things in this world which it is worthwhile to get angry about; and they are just the things anger will not improve."

Hnery Jarvis Raymond, founder of the New York Times, September 18, 1851

Last night at Kenny's

2008-08-07T07:26:00.001-07:00

A few notes from last night.

*When people ask me how any gig went, I usually say, "I played some good s--t and I played some crap." I don't know otherwise how it went because I am one of three, and I was not in the audience. It's not like a baseball game, either, where you win or lose. It went like it went and the audience liked a couple of songs in particular---"I'll Cry Instead" and "I Wanna Be Your Man". I liked it---got there early, talked to John M.'s Dad about his moustache, and it felt good to play electric guitar in public after all these months.

*The band made $XX in tips, which we split three ways.

*Bars carry a dark energy in them. If bars sold weed instead of alcohol, there would be an entirely different energy about bars and I'd probably like setting foot in them better.

I recently read that the reason loud music is played in bars is to A) Keep people from talking, which means all there is to do is drink and B) to upset people so they buy drinks to make themselves feel better.

So you play your set and no matter what sort of music you perform, a bar will usually follow your show with ear-splitting, heartless, soulless music piped over the system that completely and instantly destroys whatever vibe you've created. If people want to tell you how much they enjoyed your show, they have to yell.

*When a battery has been sitting, dormant, in an echo pedal for a few months and you test it out and it still works, it doesn't mean it'll work for an entire 45 minute set. You'll probably get 10-20 minutes out of it as I did out of mine last night. Note to self: buy a new battery every show, or better yet, plug it in the wall.

*The last time I played Kenny's Castaway's was in 1996. I hadn't been in the club since then.

*You meet the same people you met when you first started playing in bars--the pasty, reasonably friendly sound man with a single syllable name, the sullen doorman to whom there isn't any point flashing a smile to---instead, the Westchester quick upturn of the head and blinking of eyes serves as a greeting---the bar staff to whom a request for three waters for the band might as well be a request for a double half-caf vanilla latte, extra hot for all the (lack of) speed it takes for you to get it, and such.

*There is a particularly delicious and pleasing feeling you get when members of your family show up, especially when you know they have busy, responsible jobs and could otherwise be at home. A person's presence at times means more than anything they might say about your music.

*When three are equal onstage, it's different than when it's you and a few hired guns. I like being the boss of The Maxes but I also enjoy being part of an equal trio where everyone sings.

*It's nice to be able to play the music of the Beatles with two others who are steeped in the catalogue, and to twist and turn the music as you see fit and still have it accepted.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn and my parents

2008-08-04T06:59:00.000-07:00

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Nobel prize-winning Soviet writer whose tales of totalitarian Russia under the Iron Curtain brought him worldwide recognition and who was expelled from his country for his writings, is dead at 89.

That I even know who this man is is because of my parents, Stan and Jean.

I remember the name from when I was very, very young. I even learned to say it---"Sol-schzen-EET-sin".

The house I grew up in contained hundreds of books lined up neatly and not-so-neatly on shelves in what was known as the Library. Not pop culture books either; these were classic works of literature, books about political systems and philosophy, religion, humor and subjects which constantly expanded my young, open mind in between the Flintstones and Felix the Cat.

At no time were any of these books forced upon me; my natural curiosity led me to read "The Death Of A President", "The Communist Manifesto", "Why England Slept", "The Sea Wolf", "Greek Mythology", The Bible, "Lord Jim" and dozens of other books which are still in print dozens or in some cases hundreds of years after they were published. And, of course, works by Solzhenitsyn.

A friend from the second grade I recently reconnected with said, during our hourlong conversation, "I remember you could read the New York Times." I read it because it was made available. We three boys may have smashed, burned, hit and run over through most of our childhoods, but never once did we harm a book.

It never occured to me that other kids' houses didn't value reading, the mind, intellect.

Neither of my parents really gave a damn about making money to the extent that some adults let that pursuit drive them. Dad spent what he had, Mom saved what she earned. The development of the mind was most important, but even that concept wasn't hammered into me. The message was, "This knowledge is here, right in front of you, when and if you are ready."

I chose to be a musician first, a writer second. It is writing that has brought me the most success thus far. Thus far.

I have my parents to credit for my love of words, the ability to use them and make a good living from them.

When I brought home a Bentley several years ago, my father thought it was fun and such, but he was more impressed when I got my first full-page story about Minnie Marx in the Daily News. He cut it out and put it up on his wall.

One of the last things my father said to me before he died two years ago was, "I think you're ready for a book."

If I'm ready, it's because he and my mother prepared me for it from my earliest years by surrounding me with knowledge.

It's all green, mon.

2008-08-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

No eggs, butter, meat, fish, fowl, cheese, yogurt. Nothing animal.

7 months today.

"Well, Jesus, don't I get a gold record or knighted or nothing?" John Lennon, watching a loaf of bread he'd baked being eaten

Nonetheless, the rewards exist.

For the past few years, I've had acid reflux so intense that I finally grabbed Dr. L by his lapel and demanded something, anything. He prescribed a drug that gave me a Franklin Delano Roosevelt "I've got a terrific headache", and I stopped taking it.

But if you looked in my desk(s), shoulder bags and pockets a year ago, you would find Tums and other, more powerful anti-holy-effing-shabadoo-my-goddamn-stomach-is-on-fire drugs.

I take none of those stomach acid remedies today. My belly loves beans (even wit' hot sauce and Beano)

...all the veggies in the spectrum, big blocks of tofu with wasabi, cashews, peanuts, almonds, fruits of any kind, brown and white rice, sorbet, etc.

I feel, physically, pretty damn good. Yesterday I downed a cup of coffee, an enormous dollop of peanut butter, a bowl of brown rice, drove 40 miles out of Manhattan, and biked up a ten-mile hill, after which I drove to a gym and pumped the ol' chest.

Clearly, the vegan way isn't costing me any energy.

My eyelids, a constant source of redness, itching and such, have calmed down considerably.

Asthma's about the same. I thought quitting dairy would cure it, but nope. That's ok.

Nothing but positive things to say about veganism. I should also add that by adopting this way of eating, approximately 28 chickens haven't died because of me, nor have any fish suffocated in agony, nor have any cow's udders turned red and raw from overmilking. Nor have I ingested any feces-dotted, decaying meat.

Sure, my broccoli may have fallen on the floor and my lettuce ridden in an open truck, exposed to the grit and shit in the air of New York.

Somethin's gonna kill ya eventually, and I ain't dead yet.

Excerpt/New York City

2008-07-30T03:41:00.000-07:00

I check out several library books each week, usually dashing into the midtown branch of the New York Public library 15 or minutes before it closes, making choices mostly on titles and blurbs alone, preferring to get the package home and open it like a present. Sometimes I'm disappointed, as when I checked out a book last week on the famous philosophers and found it abysmally written, but other times I get gems.

Yesterday, though, I was in my own neighborhood and decided to pop into my local branch to see if I could find a CD promising to teach the listener Spanish. I found one but also found another thick book, "Writing New York: A Literary Anthology", containing essays about the town written, as I discovered when I cracked the book this morning, by Charles Dickens, Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe and other giants of literature.

Each morning the temptation is there to fill my head with junk knowledge from internet headlines. I resist with the good stuff, and, this morning, as I say, cracked my new book, wondering if it would entice or repel. I came across this:

"New York City is the most fatally fascinating thing in America. She sits like a great white witch at the gate of the country, showing her alluring white face, and hiding her crooked hands and feet under the folds of her white garments---constantly enticing thousands from far within, and tempting those who come from across the sea to go no farther.

And all these become the victims of her caprice. Some she crushes beneath her cruel feet; others she condemns to a fate like that of galley slaves; a few she favors and fondles, riding them high on the bubbles of fortune; then with a sudden breath, she blows the bubbles out and laughs mockingly as she watches them fall."

James Weldon Johnson, "The autobiography of an ex-colored man", 1912

P.O.'d at the P.O.? Not I.

2008-07-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

I came prepared. I brought an iPod and a Zen mentality when I went to the post office in my neighborhood, which is dirty and slow. Reallll slow.

The whole "I'm gonna use this as a chillin' exercise" thing went straight out the window pretty soon, though. The line just to mail a package was 13 deep, and my line, the one for picking up packages, had but three people waiting on it. But the other line had an advantage in that an actual clerk was waiting on those folks, movin' 'em along, however slowly.

My line grew to 4, 5, 6. I was second.

Finally, I moved in close and rang the bell for service. Just kept ringing it. Not with any anger. I just thought someone "in the back" would hear some guy ringing the bell for a minute, two minutes, whatever it took, and say, "Would someone PLEASE go to the service window?"

A woman appeared at the window, I backed off, and a few people behind me applauded.

No need to get hot under the collar, chums!

Drive-in theatre favors th' hits

2008-07-29T03:47:00.000-07:00

Click me, clicky.

And here are some more pics of Andy Cohen's rig.

Projectile.

Spool thing.

Th' film from last week.

Reel cool

Quote o'the day

2008-07-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

"I don't know how to not have fun. I'm dying and I'm having fun. And I'm going to keep having fun every day I have left. Because there's no other way to play it. You just have to decide if you're a Tigger or an Eeyore. I think I'm clear where I stand on the great Tigger/Eeyore debate. Never lose the childlike wonder. It's just too important. It's what drives us."

Randy Pausch, a Carnegie Mellon University computer scientist whose "last lecture" about facing terminal cancer became an Internet sensation and a best-selling book, shortly before his death from pancreatic cancer today. He was 47.

I choose not to swim-bike-run

2008-07-23T04:12:00.001-07:00

There is a triathlon in beautiful Lake Placid in September.

But I am not competing in a triathlon. Not this year.

And it's not because a dude died over the weekend while swimming in a jellyfish-infested section of the Hudson during the New York Triathlon. Even though, as it turns out, that's not what killed him.

It's because I done done it.

I fell on my face within the first ten seconds of last year's Bear Mountain tri---

and got a severe asthma attack that lasted 2 days and I called upon my dead father for help during the biking portion. But I finished. The below pic shows a compatriot, seeing me bleeding and gasping, running alongside me, urging me to go go go. And then she was off.

Came in third in my age group. Got a medal.

I proved to the self that the self could finish.

Not only finish, but finish in what Marsalis in "Pulp Fiction" said to Zed---"Mr. Soon-to-be-livin'-the-rest-of-his-short-ass-life-in-agonizing-pain".

I don't need to do it again. Not never---just not this year. Instead, I am biking 6 miles to Lasker pool in Central Park three times a week, swimming 10 or so laps, biking back home and being at my desk by 9 AM. As work wraps in the early evening, after I see to my music, I look at what further short exercises can be done.

And I've been joined here and there at the pool by a colleague, which is delightful. I don't work as hard when accompanied, but I like that someone says I am motivating them. "If you show up," she says, "I'll show up."

So what goal do I aim for, in absence of a tri?

I'm now exploring that long-neglected area of the Max body---the midsection.

Like an E.Q.---y'got your highs, midrange and bass. All these years, I've been adjusting the treble and bass and neglecting the mids.

I had done maybe 10 crunches my whole life. The belly was to be avoided---just too painful. I thought "Weights-running-biking-swimming means the abs will take care of themselves."

WRONG

So---for the last three weaks, I have been attending "ab blast" classes at my gym. Last night was my third. ("Weaks" isn't a typo.)

I don't have the naturally lean body of my two older brothers nor my mother. I have a body which, like my crazy hair, Communism or fungus, must be contained, addressed, seen to, kept an eye on. It is also a body which has given me almost no trouble at all my entire life. It is, in essence, a perfect body.

It's taken me a long time to realize this.

It's got allergies, it's got asthma, it isn't very long, its nose is a little smashed, its eyes a little small. Its right eye doesn't see in total focus.

It's also got a high tolerance for pain and heat, its ears have perfect pitch, it's strong, and it's got enough energy to accomplish whatever I ask of it.

I'll miss it when it's gone, but until then, I am seeing to its needs. If not me, who?

Some recent photos

2008-07-19T05:55:00.000-07:00

Girl holding dog, Brooklyn flea market

145th street and Riverside Drive facing east

Woman with dogs

La Jolla, California, sunset

Mystic, CT, marching band

Poughkeespsie mall girl with cut marks

Storm cloud over Croton Dam, Westchester

Dry-cleaner cat, destination unknown

Houston Street facing West, through windshield during rainstorm

Somewhere, someone digs it

2008-07-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

I was test driving a Porsche Boxster S last Sunday morning in Hyde Park, upstate New York.

I saw three teenage girls in blue t-shirts and white shorts bobbing up and down holding signs reading “Car wash!” My ride was full of dust, fingerprints and bugs, and I was planning to have it washed anyway---to photograph it for the Job.

I slowed down next to the ladies, beeped and pointed this way and that way---which way, guys? They smiled and pointed me in the proper direction, I made the next right and was directed to the back of a building where 6 more women dressed alike waited with hoses, buckets, rags, desolvents---all the ingredients of a car wash.

“What’s this in aid of?” I asked.
“We’re raising money for cheerleading!”
I'm pro-cheer. On I inched.

A middle-aged man with a donation bucket approached. I threw in a sawbuck, got out of the car, let the girls do their magic, and I noted a few things.

Some guys are really into that "women washing cars" thing. You see those scenes in calendars in gas stations and such. I mean it really sends ‘em over the top. I’m a fan of women drinking coffee, talking, swimming, walking, doing women things, just being women. Mrs. M and I often make fun of net women working in the "modeling" profession who grab one appendage and hold it up to their mouth with crossed eyes, for example.

As I sat waiting for my car to be washed, I started thinking of the older men who would have their Jaguar/Porsche/BMW/Benz rinsed specifically for the purpose and pleasure of seeing these young ladies doing it. Somewhere, that's someone's thing.

The ladies, it also must be said, were not attired in habits. Some wore shorts cut up-to-here, two healthy, gleaming, smooth young thighs exposed. (I peeked!) One wore what appeared to be a nightie---literally, she looked as though she was ready to say goodnight. Others bent wayyyyy over, showing the world their fannies.

I thought, “I should really shoot this for my blog.” But then you’d be one of those guys.

There is another aspect. In my travels in the world of tantra, in India and Amsterdam, I learned that some women, who are in charge of divvying out what men turn into dawgs for, learn at a very early age how to walk, talk, stand and be in order to attract the maximum amount of attention, first with their fathers, and then with others, to arrange the world in their favor.

It is not a crime---I also attempt to arrange the world in my favor, in everything I do and everywhere I go. It is a survival mechanism, and it's usually what the youngest in any family does. When such energy is directed at me from women, I try not to fall for it, and almost never succeed. In fact, I am a complete mess when so much as a pair of eyes are batted in my direction.

There was no batting at the car wash, and no furtive hee-hee glances. I just noticed. And listened to that thundering, unspoken mantra of the Western world: “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO FIND ANYONE ATTRACTIVE UNTIL THAT CLOCK TICKS FROM AGE 17 AND 15/16 TO AGE 18. PLEASE AVERT EYES.”

I averted, took no pics, and marveled once again at this great big goofy world where everyone and everything ----the trees, the animals, the insects, the primates and the humans---procreate. How each creature attracts other creatures, to keep the planet populated. Some do a special dance, some fight other critters for the right to impregnate the queen, and others buy Porsches.

But sometimes a car wash is just a car wash.

DEAD!

2008-07-10T18:58:00.001-07:00

It's come to this. I'm gonna tell you about my bugs.

I've had a recent, extreme and life-changing encounter with a swarm of roaches, little black bugs and even littler black bugs in my apartment, specifically the kitchen. I've never had any roaches in any of the 14 apartments I've lived in in Manhattan, and now they had taken over the counter, sink, three cabinets, the floor.

The little black bugs were dwarfed by the size, ferocity and speed of the roaches, so the roaches were what I became obsessed with.

Obsessed with their lives, first. Eyes, ears, nose, lungs, excretory organs, sexual organs, antennae. A perfect insect, alive as you or me, seeking fortune and survival in the world like anyone.

Obsessed with their deaths. I put out traps, waited for 'em to work, and they didn't do anything.

I started compulsively windexing them. I rained a shower of toxic stuff upon their little bodies, one at a time, drenching them in poison and watching them run, freak out, wither, and die.

Killed dozens.

I'm not an idiot. This, I said to myself, has to counteract the veganism I began to counteract the pollution I spew and the Middle Eastern oil businesses I support with the cars I joyride in, for money and fame.

But it made me happy to see the roaches die.

Two weekends ago, I bought WMD---a can of Raid. I knew it was toxic, but I was getting desperate, and liberally sprayed cracks and crevices in corners and such before Mrs. M and I left for the weekend.

We didn't really get out of the house in time, and so my throat closed and my eyes burned a little. We drove straight to a service station and splashed gasoline on our faces. Better!

Got home 30 hours later and the roaches were still very much alive, and the can of Raid had dents in it. It was the Windex, then.

And so life went on. Other things had to be seen to. Each night, I left the kitchen light on (I heard roaches hate light) and all the cabinet doors open, and every morning upon awakening, I'd dash into the kitchen and spray, spray, spray, watching them writhe, writhe, writhe, and die, die, die.

DIE!

I had mental images of being reincarnated like Kafka's roach and being showered with sky-blue, toxic drink that would clog my pores, run into my lungs and make me die.

Thursday, I got a physical glimpse of it. I took my car into a car wash.

The jets rained death upon me as my car inched forward, pounding me with water, cruel, relentless water, not one mirror or bumper left unsoaked. My world, temporarily, was a nightmarish modern trench, and I got a glimpse of what the roaches experience.

I drove 120 MPH out of the car wash and 160 MPH over the George Washington Bridge and 80 MPH into my garage. I sat there, panting, panicked.

But alive. And I will remain so until some foot or giant palm finds me when I cannot squirm into a crack, crevice or under some counter, and finishes me.

I bought a tube of Combat Platinum, and applied it into many, many cracks in my kitchen. The next day, invasion completely halted. It's been 5 days and not a single bug is to be seen.

All quiet on the Inwood front.

Another day, another smash

2008-07-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

Like siblings, the two streets at the intersection underneath my window bicker, gripe and attempt to establish dominance. And, as my father used to say, "Roughhouse leads to tears."

I've never been in a roughhouse.

What IS a roughhouse?

That aside, here is the kabillionth car crash outside my window where these deadly streets meet, from yesterday about 6:30 PM:

Life in suburbia, when

2008-07-08T05:28:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a book called "Confessions of an ex-seeker". It's the story of my spiritual quest which took me to India, where I changed my name and my life, and what happened afterward.

Yesterday I was out and about on this:

It's called the Victory Vision, but it should be called "Big ass holy s--t rocket bomb monster".

I stopped in my hometown 40 miles north of Manhattan, and decided to visit the house I grew up in, or, rather, the gas station next to it.

The owner, who I grew up with, owns the station now, and has for several years.

After I pumped up, I asked him to fill in the blanks for one of the stories illustrating the extreme suburban violence I grew up with. Extreme for Westchester, anyway.

He filled in said blanks, and here it is.

On a strip of highway less than a quarter mile long, there were houses where boys of assorted ages lived while I was growing up. Each of these boys had animals of various types---dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, the usual, really. I was the youngest of three brothers, and the youngest on this stretch of highway, which meant I frequently observed events rather than being invited to participate in them.

One neighbor had a collie of particularly disagreeable temperament. This collie's name was Laddie, and she would wander, loose, about the neighborhood.

One day she killed a cat.

The owner of the cat protested to the owner of the dog, they hashed it out, and everyone went on.

Laddie killed another cat, this time a kitten. The kitten was part of a litter, though, so wasn't missed at first, and when the mauled corpse was found, it was too late to really do anything about it. There was no direct evidence that Laddie had killed the kitten, but everyone knew, sort of.

Shortly afterward, Laddie killed one of my brother's rabbits. Broke into the hutch.

Nothing was done. Big fuss, but no authorities called, and no action taken.

Shortly afterward, Laddie attacked Blackie, the dog belonging to our next-door neighbor, the owner of this garage today. Took Blackie's scalp off and the dog went about with this enormous red wound on top of his head for quite a few weeks. Blackie was also lame from being hit by a car previously, and was hardly a worthy adversary for Laddie in the first place.

Two or three days after Blackie's injury, the boys were shooting hoops in the front yard. I was kibbitzing. We heard a series of rifle shots, about 10 in succession.

We stopped. A moment later, 10 more shots. Someone had reloaded.

We ran in the direction of the gunfire, knowing no better, and saw Blackie's owner standing over the body of the motionless, bloody Laddie.

Blackie's owner buried Laddie while we watched, and stamped on the body before he threw dirt on the dead dog.

No one knew for years what had happened to Laddie, and we Max boys kept our yaps shut.

The Dogfather was dead.

Speaking of Zeppelins

2008-06-25T12:42:00.000-07:00

I live 5 floors above an intersection, where, frequently, drivers who don't want to let other drivers merge or drivers who want to merge but aren't allowed to express their displeasure by pressing their hands against their horns for 1,2,3, 4, 5, 10 or 20 seconds.

The neighborhood is also heavily populated with clever funsters who play the music of their homeland at full volume as they drive at all hours of the day and night.

The wife likes the window open at night, so the full brunt jiggles the photo of my Aunt Sadie from Pasadena on the mantle.

But a few minutes ago, a car went by blasting music. I caught three seconds of it, and it shocked me to my core.

Do be do, bop bop a doo-woah

That's right---Robert Plant's end ad-libs to "What is and what should never be".

How strange that I should feel pleased and comforted by one of the loudest, heaviest, screechiest bands of all time when a snippet of their song zips by the window, like a robin's sweet serenade.

It was like hearing music from my home country, though it may be but 40 miles away.
Another planet, where boys drive Camaros, girls wear jean jackets, and Zep is the soundtrack to every gathering at the Croton Dam, the K-Mart parking lot, the back of the school.

I test-drive the Goodyear blimpie

2008-06-24T11:30:00.000-07:00

Fly the friendly skies, folks. Click dat.

And some additional photos:

JM next to the gasbag. Self-portrait.

Your pilot, Jerry Hissler

My passenger, JJ.

Nav system.

Levers!

Jerry and JJ, as seen from the rear of the craft.

My left foot over Long Island.

Perspective, or, what you start to do when you've been in the sky for 3 hours at 30 MPH.

Throgs Neck bridge.

Madonna. Wait...!

And down we go, bump.

Testing a vintage Benzie

2008-06-16T19:07:00.000-07:00

1969 Mercedes 280 SL roadster "review'---click me!

What's on yer iPod?

2008-06-15T05:08:00.000-07:00

I was at a gathering two weeks ago upstate where automakers had made a total of 43 hybrid or low-emissions vehicles available for journalists to tool in.

I came across an elderly man, not a surprise in the auto-writer world. Big, tall, friendly guy. Three of us--man, car flak, me---were talking about--something.

Saw an iPod on the guy's belt buckle.

People's iPods intrigue me. And here was a man of about 70 wearing one. Get to know the iPod playlist, you get to know the person.

Asked this man what was on his iPod. Ready for anything.

"I don't know what's on it," he said. "My daughter loaded it."

Ok, no sin. When I was a kid, I did not know the names of any of the artists whose songs I heard on the radio, which was then full of actual songs one could sing. I didn't know, for example, that Foreigner was popular. Who cared? It wasn't like I was going to go see them.

So this man listens to his iPod without judgement or expectation. Doesn't know what's on it.

I listen to jazz in that way. Songs play all day long on XM next to my desk---I cannot work if there are vocals---and if I hear a song I love, I download it into the arsenal of music that gives me sublime joy, pleasure---and combats the music Washington Mutual, Starbucks and Barnes 'n' Noble would force me to listen to.

On another level, the man's lack of knowledge into his own playlist is astounding. My iPod, which I got last summer, contains about 2000 songs I've personally uploaded, and I am never without it.

That said!

Top 5 downloads this week:

Donovan, "Atlantis": I'm reading Donovan's autobio, and am surprised to find him much more popular and influential than I gave him credit for, knowing him only for his hits like "Sunshine Superman," "Mellow Yellow", "Hurdy-Gurdy Man" and the rest. I also find him, in his writing, appropriately mystical, like his songs. He says he dropped out of the music business in the 70s, disgusted over the business aspect of it.

Enrico Caruso, "Over There": It was 1918, and the trenches were packed. (I just got done reading "World War One For Dummies", which my scholar brother Nick Max says I shouldn't be embarassed of as it sums nicely and is well-written.)

When Caruso, the greatest tenor the world has ever known (but whose high C always gave him trouble) gets to the lines, "That the boys are coming/The boys are coming/The drums rum-tumming everywhere", it sounds like the goddamn studio walls are going to fall down. You've never heard that patriotic call to arms sung with more feeling.

Emerson, Lake and Palmer, "Hoe Down": I've played this song in public dozens of times, all before I was 20, and I'm reuniting with the same cats I played it with as a lad at a party come August. My chance to play bass, and the bass on "Hoe Down" is quick quick quick.

Leonard Nimoy, "The Ballad Of Bilbo Baggins": Bass saxophone. Cute backup singers. Flat, ugly vocals by Nimoy. And charming. Very 60s.

Journey, "Don't Stop Believin'": 80s bloat at its best, but perfect pop song sung perfectly. I heart Steve Perry, even though Neil Schoen has replaced him with a soundalike, Arnel Pineda: