My Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech

Tonight, thanks to my beautiful and resourceful wife, we’re headed off to see Mr. Bob Dylan at Meadowbrook, and it’s got me thinking about the first time I saw Bob in concert and the great advice he gave me that night about my Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance speech.

It was the fall of the year 2000, and the world had not come to a screeching halt due to Y2K dysfunction and I was feeling high on life due to the fact that I finally had everything utterly and completely in order. Due to the impending doomsday, I had dotted every “I” and crossed every “T” in my life, and I was eager to move on to future projects.

Just an interesting note here, but I still have everything completely in order, and now I’m organizing my daughter’s lives. I’m narrowing in on a husband for both of them and names for their children. I’m leaning towards Jack, Diane Mick and Keith (in the true spirit of rock and roll).

That night back in 2000 I managed to sneak back stage after Bob’s set (how many hallways must a man walk down you ask? About three.) and knock on his dressing room door.

He graciously asked me in (the room service cart and venue name tag I just happened upon helped a bit) and I explained to him that I had just started playing guitar the month before and I was concerned about my eventual and future need to give a speech at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance dinner.

Bob was very gracious and admitted that he too had had these fears when he first picked up the guitar back in 50’s era Minnesota.

We talked for a while over dinner procured from the food service cart and at the end of the hour he said “we should call Bruce to weigh in on this conversation. He is due to be inducted any day now and he must have some good perspective to offer.”

So using his giant cell phone (remember those?) he dialed up Bruce Springsteen and handed the phone over to me.

The Boss was very kind, and though he was simultaneously lifting weights and writing new songs, he gave me some sage advice.

He explained, that much like rock and roll itself, it’s important to look cool and detached while accepting any award. You may be so excited inside that you want to giggle like a school girl, but it’s important to stay calm and unemotional up there.

He then said “it’s been great talkin’ with you kid, but the person you should really chat with is Willie.”
“Willie Nelson?” I said. “Isn’t he in the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

“Willie’s so cool that he is in both Halls of Fame” replied Bruce.

I knew that this was not true (he was thinking of Johnny Cash), but I did not question the Boss; after all, he got that nickname for a reason.

Willie Nelson was a bit foggy on the phone (must have been the time difference between here and Texas) and kept mistaking me for the exterminator who had not shown up at his mansion (since reposed by Uncle Sam for back taxes purposes) that day.

But he did give me some great songwriting advice, and tips on how to get rid of red Texas fire ants in your kitchen.

I then noticed Bob check his watch (I was after all on a long distance call on his gigantic cell phone) and politely ended my conversation with the Country Music legend.

After a call to security by Bob, I quickly thanked him for his time and hit the road with lots to think about.

I promptly made my way back home and wrote an epic song about the whole affair.

All that was left to do was make a few classic albums and play cool venues like the Great Wall of China and the Eifel Tower (with a few coffee shops and street corners thrown in for good measure).

Thanks for your time Bob; I’m looking forward to seeing you again tonight.

Has anyone seen a stray food cart and an ID?

A Friendly Open Letter To Internet Scam Artists

Dear Nigerian business men, European lottery winner announcers and various and sundry other internet scam artists. (Especially the one used my email last week and purported to be me)

How are you? How is the weather there in Eastern Europe or Central Asia, or any other place where statistics say that you reside. The weather here in New Hampshire has been pretty hot recently, but then again it is summer here.

What season is it where you reside? (Really, I’m not trying to help the F.B.I. track you down. Seriously!) Is it hot where you are, or perhaps it’s the rainy season? Maybe you could just tell me the first letter of the country you live in.

I just realized that you may not even speak English. The poor grammar and misspelling of my name in the emotional plea for money you sent from my email account might suggest that you are not a native speaker. What greeting should I open this letter with? Namaste? Perhaps the Czech word “nazdar” or the Estonian traditional greeting “tervist.” Please let me know which greeting you would prefer.

I’m really fond of going to the ocean in the summertime. Is there an ocean near where you are or are you in more of a land locked place? Really, I’m very curious.

Do you enjoy the Olympics? During the march of nations in the opening ceremonies does your country march in the stadium in the beginning of the procession or towards the end? Where were you in the medal count in the last Olympics? Does your country enjoy more success in the Summer or Winter games? Again, it would just be nice to get to know the things that are important to you.

If I was to spin a globe and my hands just happened to come down near, say Uzbekistan, would I be anywhere near your neck of the woods?

I was actually so moved by your hard luck story of being mugged and penniless in the UK (even though, in your story you were pretending to be me to all my friends and acquaintances in my contact list) that I would like to send you some cash to get a flight home. To what address might I send the money?

Oh, wire it to an undisclosed location you say?

That’s no good as I have just withdrawn the money from an ATM and the banks are now closed. I love to send it directly to you though. How much postage will I be needing? Will I need a customs receipt?

Or maybe you can have me bring it to your embassy here in the states. Surely your country has one of those. (At general assembly of the United Nations does the representative of your country sit to the right or left of the speaker? Just wondering.)

You know, it’s funny. Since you hacked my account and sent out that message I have been in touch with all kinds of folks that I had not heard from in years, but who it appears were still in my data base. My old high school math teacher says “hi” and that guy who lived down the hall from me freshman year of college, who’s address I had in my account because I once asked him for a ride to the airport also suggested that we get together sometime when I’m in Kansas City next. It has been quite a ride!

Actually, I have been very moved by all the wonderful folks I know who called me immediately upon receiving the email. The avalanche of phone calls at 7 am (by the way, what time is that where you are?) let me know just how many folks I have in my life who care about me, including the roughly 200 or so wonderful people at my church (some of whom called the American embassy in London on my behalf) who’s concern for me was life affirming. I am still fielding concerned phone calls days later. Each frantic phone call and email response is a little bit of heaven, because now I know that if I was ever actually mugged and penniless in Great Britain there would an army of help available to me.

I have also learned to take internet security seriously. No more three letter passwords for me!

So it turns out that I have a great deal to thank you for. (Is it sir or madam?) I’d love to send you a thank you note.

Where should I send it?

How to Make Small Talk in Four Easy Steps

According to a 2005 Stanford University study that I read recently (I intermix the reading of academic studies with old issues of The Rolling Stone and X-Men comic books), the measure of success in the business world for graduates of the school’s MBA program was not so much the grades they earned in college, but the student’s ability to make conversation in social situations like a mixer for new employees or a business convention.

In other words, a student’s ability to make ‘small talk” (or “shoot the breeze” in other parlance) was worth more than a 4.0 GPA.

Making small talk is a time honored tradition and the practice has been around since the dawn of man. I can see those early Mesopotamians sitting around their fires and saying things like “Hey Thag, this sure is a hot fire, how do you get it so big?” (To which Thag replies, “Sticks my friend, sticks!”)

But participating in small talk is anguishing to some folks, causing them to rush through transactions at the store, face the wall when riding in an elevator and avoid dinner parties all together. We have all been in a place where we were tired, or in a hurry to get somewhere and someone else wanted to make small talk and it just wasn’t the time for it.
And, with the increasing isolation of technology (“Hmm, what should I do this weekend? I know, I’ll stay in and stream all eight seasons of Magnum P.I. on Netflix!”) the art form of small talk is in danger of being phased out all together.

There are little things we do as individuals that may inconvenience us for a minute, or not make sense right away, but add immeasurably to society around us. These are things like letting a car turn in front of you if said car has thirty vehicles waiting behind it (make sure to make a friendly wave if a kind soul does this for you), tipping a morning or holiday wait person a little more and picking up your dog’s leavings so the next person along the way doesn’t have an unpleasant few moments with his shoes.

I would add small talk to this list.

Some folks have to work a little harder at this, but it is worth doing because believe it or not is does add to the overall community feel of where you live.

I was fortunate to have great teachers in High School who believe it or not held classes in how to have a conversation, complete with a final exam which consisted of you and the teacher having an informal chat in front of the class on a subject of the teacher’s choosing. (I got the subject NASCAR, which I still know nothing about, but I asked the right questions and low and behold a conversation appeared! Perhaps this is what led me to a career in journalism.)

In that spirit I offer a few tips on how to get the old conversation ball going:

The weather: This is probably the most common starting point for people everywhere because it is the thing that affects absolutely everybody, and it is almost full proof when it comes to starting chit chat. Since we are currently in a massive heat wave in this part of the country, it’s a safe bet that everyone has some opinion of the weather out there. Don’t be afraid to start here. Embrace the cliché’, but don’t stop there.

Questions: Don’t be afraid to ask questions. This is tough because some folks are embarrassed to show that they don’t know something, but I say embrace asking questions as a life style. (I know my daughter Princess Supergirl sure does.) If that teenager selling you your coffee and sticky bun is wearing a scary rock and roll t-shirt ask them about the band. (“So what does a clown on fire riding a unicorn have to do with music? Ohh!”)

Compliments: It’s amazing how a small compliment can lighten up a whole situation. If your elevator companion has electric blue hair, let her know that it’s “really unique”. Be thoughtful here, because it’s easy to get into trouble quickly (“Ohh, that’s not a cat but really a small dog. My mistake!”), but don’t fear saying something positive to make someone’s day.

Observe: Just a small glance will let you know that someone is perhaps a Harry Potter enthusiast or a passionate kayaker. People love to talk about what they are passionate about (just ask me about my kids sometime), and one or two quick observations can get the conversation snowball going full speed down the mountain.

So go ahead, start that small talk today. You will make someone’s day, contribute to your community and according to the bright folks at Stanford University (they brought us social networking after all) make you more successful.

So, how ‘bout this heat wave?

I'm Under the Cooking Curse

Maybe I have watched one too many Disney movies recently, or perhaps my Harry Potter excitement is finally getting to me, but I think I’m under a curse.

I can’t cook a thing, and it’s getting worse.

It would seem by some form of osmosis or just plain luck that someone my age should be able to master a few dishes by now, but the simple process of mixing, mincing, chopping, flambéing, broiling, par-boiling, sautéing, grilling, or baking ingredients together is so far beyond my scope of abilities it boggles the mind.

Even the basic skill of boiling something has eluded me. (“Here Tincan, boil this egg…ahh, call the fire department!”)

There are a few things I can do well, like play the guitar and write songs (I play a killer ‘G’ chord), shoot a basket ball (I’m an utter failure at the other aspects of basketball, like dribbling, passing and playing defense, but watch out world when it comes to playing H.O.R.S.E.) and write, but when I enter a kitchen I break out in cold sweat like a horse passing a glue factory.

This makes me feel like I’m an exhibit in one of those old fashioned traveling freak shows. (“Step right up folks and see the man who can follow the directions on the box or recipe down to the microgram and still have his food taste like it was prepared on the backside of a baboon!”)

The other night I butchered a batch of macaroni and cheese and though the look on my two daughter’s faces said it all, my five year old (Princess Supergirl) tried to make me feel better about my caveman like culinary skills.

“Dad, this is really good. If there was some kind of cooking contest you should enter this.”

When a five year old is taking pity on you and trying to make you feel better you know two things: you have a fantastic kid and you really need to see someone about this (like, perhaps a witch doctor).

This culinary inability extends even to making coffee.

Both my beautiful wife Special Sauce Caldwell and the creative wonder that is my mother have tried to teach me how to do this, showing me the proper water-to-scoop-of-coffee ratio that is best for a robust cup of morning java, but no matter how many scoops I do or how exacting I am in following directions, my coffee is always inferior and bland.

Recently while on vacation the curse briefly lifted and one morning I tasted my coffee and almost died of shock right there in my pajamas.

It was delicious.

My extended family all agreed that I could not have possibly made this pot of coffee, and when the video evidence was reviewed and the startling truth was revealed joyous phone calls were made and faxes were sent: “The curse has been lifted!”

The next morning I confidently scooped out coffee grounds while whistling We Are the Champions and when I smugly put the coffee to my lips a wave of disappointment hit me as the same old bland taste had returned.

The curse had found me while on vacation. It took a day or so to track me down, but like a GPS device the signal had finally came through.

Conversely, my wife has a magical touch with food. She could make a gourmet meal out of tin foil.

After ten years of marriage I’m still amazed at what she can concoct out of the basic elements of food or whatever leftovers are around. I’ll be convinced that there is nothing in the house to eat and on the phone with the Chinese food place down the street and she will calmly serve a fantastic meal that I’m convinced was created by mysterious forces that hide in our pantry.

So needless to say, there is a distinct division of responsibilities in our house, and I will, till the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, happily take out the garbage, scoop the cat box, do all the driving and remove all the headless mice and frogs our cats drag into the house if I can but enjoy the sumptuous meals she serves.

Right now she is currently out of the country finishing up some schooling in Spain and no doubt whipping up a batch of tapas for her roommates, who are no doubt saying the same thing I do (only in Spanish of course). “Wow, how did you make this out of the dust bunnies that are in our cupboards.”

Please hurry home dear; the girls can only eat so many hot dogs.

No Stuffed Animal Left Behind

Planning and packing for a trip takes 99% of the roughly 8% of my brain I am currently using.

There are some things you can do without even thinking about it, things that comes as natural to you as mouth-breathing was to a caveman.

For some athletics come easy; they have been catching balls or hitting slap shots since infancy and the desire to do so was always kind of around.

Some folks were born organized. The desire for order and structure are ever-present and they were probably organizing their own diaper bags(“Let's see, daytime diapers go here, overnights go right here and my selection of color coded pacifiers fits nicely here“) and writing memos to their mothers about the water-to-powder ratio in their formula mix (“Just a teaspoon more of Perrier water should do the trick mother“).

It’s not to say that there is not work and effort involved in being a truly great athlete or an organizing guru with your own line of self help books and a cable access TV show, it’s just that the original spark was there in most of these folks and absent in the rest of us.

For me, being creative always just sort came easy. I was making up stories since infancy, and thanks to a wonderful mother with a distinct collector’s gene, I have every story and scrap of creative idea that I ever had gumption to put down on paper. (Including the Pulitzer Prize worthy first grade story “Mighty Mustard and Crazy Catsup Fight the Evil Mayonnaise Man”, a story so profound and insightful that my teacher wept openly and sent it straight to the White House to be awarded a medal of honor.)

I have friends for whom public speaking or other creative endeavors are truly stressful ordeals. They sweat for weeks trying to come up with an original idea for a ten minute presentation. It takes everything they have.

But not this cat, I could write this column in my sleep. (Don’t tell my editor this, please!) Being funny and creative come pretty easy to me. (Of course the “funny” part is much more subjective than, say, the ability to shoot a basketball well, and depends greatly on the audience. I am considered a comedy genius in parts of the South and in the country of Korea, but people in Idaho and Russia have expressly told me to find another line of work.)

But what I find incredibly difficult is organizing my life, say for something like packing for the vacation I am currently enjoying on a beach in a certain state north of here. (Incidentally, the sand just now is warm and the gulls are circling overhead. Circling, circling…Oh no, everybody put up your umbrellas!)

Packing for a vacation that involves children takes about as much planning and forethought as the D-day invasion of France, only those brave soldiers never had to worry about running out of diapers on the turnpike in 100 degree weather.

I have learned that if I spread out the packing over the course of, say, five days, life is much easier.

Of course with five days to go till V-day my brain says to me “take it easy big guy; there’s plenty of time to make that checklist.”

Then, with less than twenty hours to go the panic button deep in the recesses of my subconscious finally gets pressed and it’s time to start thinking about what the family will need while “relaxing” somewhere.

Because if there is not a bit of forethought you will spend all of your precious beach time running from store to store trying to find that elusive item that you have ten of at home, yet here you are buying the eleventh one (say a child’s bathing suit or a cell phone re-charger). Also, that money you are spending on the fourteenth pair of flip-flops could be better spent on a novelty t-shirt that says “Maine, The Ninth Best Place To Live In America“, or “Maine, Now With Indoor Plumbing!”

And don’t forget that precious and beloved stuffed animal that your child can not sleep without. It would be better to forget the first aid kit or the tooth paste than this critically important and ragged ball of cotton with eyes on it. (“Is that a sheep or a monkey sweet heart? Oh, it’s a camel!”)

I call this whole packing and planning activity “Operation ’No Stuffed Animal Left Behind’.”

I can say with full confidence and swagger that this particular vacation I’m on was pulled off nicely and it helped that I put every single stuffed animal in my house in a garbage bag and brought them all along.

Now if you will excuse me, I think I spy an ice cream stand on the boardwalk.

And since I didn’t have to buy those flip flops, I think I’ll get a chocolate sundae.

Porta Potty Anxiety

“The 4th of July, when a man’s thoughts turn to freedom, family and porta potties" - Thomas Jefferson


There are four heroes of the summertime.

The first is the ice cream man.

This brave young man (usually a college student or roaming hippy) lures the children of my neighborhood out to the street with the tinkle of sweet music and then attempts to not run them over as they stream towards his moving vehicle.

This whole process could use a slight overhaul.

The second great hero of the summertime is the lifeguard. Without this stalwart guy or gal (again, usually a college student) sitting perch over the beaches of our fair land, parents could never go to sleep on their towels whilst their children frolic in the surf and eat sand.

The third is the camp counselor.

I myself spent my teen years (just before college) gloriously marching campers around in formation and playing epic games of Capture the Flag.

I greatly enjoyed my camp counselor years (the rugged conditions, the low pay, the spiders in my sleeping bag) and without them I would not know how to march my own children around and I would have missed learning the great song “There Ain’t No Flies On Us.”

The forth hero of the summertime is the guy who empties out the porta potties of the world (usually a recent college graduate who majored in Communications).

In the past decade many states have passed regulations that stipulate that a porta potty must be emptied at least once a week.

Thank your lucky stars if you live in one of these states.

My question when it comes to common sense issues like this is “if the modern porta potty has been around for, say, about fifty years, who was the porta potty owner that was so irresponsible that he forced a state to come up with a porta potty statute.”

Actually, I think I once used that porta potty in the summer of ‘83. (It still haunts me.)

I am pleased to report that the porta potty has come a long way since that fateful day at the state fair in the early 80’s.

The modern porta potty boasts such amenities as a mirror on the door, hand sanitizer dispenser (usually bone dry) and, new this year, a working lock on the door!

I have two strict policies when all other options fail and porta potty use cannot be avoided. These are “no staying inside for more than 30 seconds and absolutely no sitting.”

When you see a porta potty portrayed (a fun sentence to type) in a movie there is always a character sitting inside a sparkling clean unit reading a newspaper.

This is absolute nonsense. There is not a human being I’m aware of that would spend the time necessary to read anything while sitting casually inside a porta potty. The human survival instinct to too strong.

My two firm and fast porta potty policies (again, really fun to type) were sorely tested this past weekend while at a local festival.

I have made it 34 years in my life without sitting in a porta potty, but that particular afternoon it became plain to me that I had eaten some “fair food” that was causing me some distress and as I stood facing a neat row of units (otherwise known as the “porta potty party pack”) I questioned my sanity as I prepared to sit inside for the first time in my life.

But fear not dear readers, I was saved by my intricate knowledge of all the available bathrooms in the tri-state area (ranked in order of cleanliness, availability to the road and whether or not you need to ask for a key).

My bathroom knowledge index paid great dividends this day, and I remembered a nearby facility that saved my heretofore unbroken streak.

I highly suggest that you make a similar list for yourself. Go do it now. I’ll wait.

Are you back?

Great, you will thank me someday. (I take personal checks now too.)

I’m thankful for the gift of indoor plumbing, for I was told every day by my parents while growing up about the “outhouse days” of yore when a midnight urge necessitated a trip outside in the cold and dark.

And we won’t even talk about the disastrous “two story, double-decker” outhouse invented by the above mentioned Thomas Jefferson for use at his home plantation of Monticello in Virginia.

Is anyone feeling the need to excuse themselves for a minute?

Happy 4th of July everybody.

The Legend Of Sleeping Daddy (A True Fairy Tale)

Morning people run the world and night people entertain them.

Raise your hand if you are a morning person.

I see those hands.

If your are indeed one of the many who actively enjoy the morning time (I have never actually seen any of you as I am usually still asleep), then you are most likely reading this column while nursing a steaming cup of coffee that is no doubt subtly backlight by the early dawn light gently wafting in your kitchen window.

But if you are like me you are reading this delightfully amusing missive by the glaring light of noon while sipping coffee your beloved spouse brewed hours ago and eating a slice of last night’s pepperoni pizza.

I believe that Francis Scott Key, the writer of our beloved national anthem (which I would hear as a teenager late at night when the TV channels would go off the air, remember those days?), was a morning person.

The evidence for this is in the first line of the Star Spangled Banner, which says “O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light.”

If I had been on that British ship in Baltimore Harbor that day and had written this fantastic ode to our flag it would have gone like this, “O say can you see, by the hazy midmorning light as I stumble sleepily around the quarterdeck trying not to fall into the ocean before I can score a cup of grog and a rock-hard biscuit for breakfast.”

It’s not that I’m not a morning person. I’m simply a “night person.”

I’m tired of defining myself by something that I’m not. I don’t define myself as a man by saying “I’m not a woman” or as a married man by saying “I’m not single”, so why do I refer to myself as a night person by saying “I’m not a morning person”?

I’m proud of my identity as a night person. Some of the best writers and thinkers in history were night people.

I’m told that King David, writer of the sacred Psalms of the Bible, was a night person, and that his first foe Goliath was a morning person. This was one of the great “morning person-night guy” conflicts in history.

Score one for the night guys.

Also, I’m told that Hemmingway was a great night owl, and that he wrote A Farwell To Arms while frequenting Parisian all-night coffee shops. He was tagged as being a grumpy person by all of the old school editors of the time who insisted on meeting with him about his manuscripts at lunch time. This is why he spent his last years in Cuba. It’s way too hot there to go out in the daytime.

Incidentally, Paris, the city of light and culture, (the lights are tremendously important for a population that only comes out only at night) is the home base for us night guys, while I believe the home base for the morning people of the world was the old U.S.S.R.

Okay, that was too harsh.

I shall attempt to convey my feelings about the morning in the following parable…

Once upon a time in the far away kingdom of Snoozalot there was a prince born in the royal castle and the king and queen named him Prince Daddy.

This greatly confused the population of Snoozalot, but they were used to strange pronouncements from the castle, so they just went with it.

As Prince Daddy grew he enjoyed a great many naps and late mornings.

In the summer time when many in the royal household would arise early to watch the sunrise from the castle walls Prince Daddy would enjoy the sunset as he drank his royal chocolate milk or later, his royal coffee.

Then one day Prince Daddy, while proficiently playing bass guitar in a local band, spied Princess Morning Person across the performance hall and was captivated by her smoky voice, beautiful face and lovely green scarf she was wearing which reminded Prince Daddy of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany‘s.

After a brief courtship the Prince and Princess married and greatly enjoyed each other’s company, though they could only communicate well between the hours of 9 am and 8 pm when Princess Morning Person turned into a pumpkin and had to go to bed.

Despite this difference, the Kingdom greatly rejoiced in this pairing.

And then Prince Daddy became an actual daddy, and his two princesses were no respecters of Price Daddy’s inability to think or make rational decisions in the morning. They would inexplicably be hungry at 7 am, forcing Prince Daddy to prepare food in his sleepy state.

"What vexes my children so that they desire to wake up a the ungodly hour of 6 am" he wondered over and over to himself.

But Prince Daddy greatly loved his royal family, and got up exactly at 7:30 am (after a great deal of coaxing from all of his princesses) and greet the day.

“Someday“, Prince Daddy would say to himself, “this will become easier to do.”

It’s up to you dear readers, to decide what parts of this parable is true and what indeed is a fairy tale.

Just don’t ask the night people to do it before 11 am.