Barack Obama wants. . .

. . . to have dinner with me.

You see, the subject of his email was: "Raymond, can we meet for dinner?"

But you know what? As I read on, I realized that he was asking me for money. Well certainly a lot of people ask me for money. I'm sure lots of folks ask you for money too. But there's something tawdry about this proposal.

Don't get me wrong. I like Barack Obama. I think he is a decent, principled man trying to do what is best for his country. He is a politician though. That part I don't like as much, but he must act the politician in order to be successful; and to be elected (or as presently, re-elected).

But back to dinner; it's one thing to ask someone to dinner. But to ask for money just for the pleasure of my company at dinner, well, it makes me feel . . . cheap.





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Let's all get 'raptured up'. . .

. . . paraphrasing a hitherto, unnamed blogger, but real nonetheless. (Is this like being 'ratcheted up'?)

"I can't wait to see what the Lord has planned for this world and my church. I love my church. It's something I can always look forward to. I can't wait to go to heaven. I wish there was some way to get everybody saved and then just go. I'm tired of this world. . . [Same guy. Apparently not well-adjusted.]

“I had a mother last night come up to me here in Tampa, Florida, after the debate, she told me that her little daughter took that vaccine, that injection, and she suffered from mental retardation thereafter.” [Presidential candidate Michelle Bachmann exhibiting a bit of gullibility.)

"Like so many of life’s varieties of experience, the novelty of a diagnosis of malignant cancer has a tendency to wear off. The thing begins to pall, even to become banal. One can become quite used to the specter of the eternal Footman, like some lethal old bore lurking in the hallway at the end of the evening, hoping for the chance to have a word. And I don’t so much object to his holding my coat in that marked manner, as if mutely reminding me that it’s time to be on my way. No, it’s the snickering that gets me down. . . What do I hope for? If not a cure, then a remission. And what do I want back? In the most beautiful apposition of two of the simplest words in our language: the freedom of speech." (Christopher Hitchens, journalist, author, philosopher, recently diagnosed with esophageal cancer.)

“I regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail… There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark” (Stephen Hawking, educator, scientist, author)

"The best way to lose all is to cling with desperation to that which cannot possibly be sustained literally. Literalistic Christians will learn that a God or a faith system that has to be defended daily is finally no God or faith system at all. They will learn that any god who can be killed ought to be killed. Ultimately they will discover that all their claims to represent the historical, traditional, or biblical truth of Christianity cannot stop the advance of knowledge that will render every historic claim for a literal religious system questionable at best, null and void at worst." [Bishop John Shelby Spong, Episcopal (Anglican) Bishop of Newark, NY, in Resurrection: Myth or Reality?)




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If only. . .

. . . or should I ask "when only"?

The New York Times
Sept. 13, 2011
". . . A year ago, when chemotherapy stopped working against his leukemia, William Ludwig signed up to be the first patient treated in a bold experiment at the University of Pennsylvania. Mr. Ludwig, then 65, a retired corrections officer from Bridgeton, N.J., felt his life draining away and thought he had nothing to lose.

Doctors removed a billion of his T-cells — a type of white blood cell that fights viruses and tumors — and gave them new genes that would program the cells to attack his cancer. Then the altered cells were dripped back into Mr. Ludwig’s veins.

At first, nothing happened. But after 10 days, hell broke loose in his hospital room. He began shaking with chills. His temperature shot up. His blood pressure shot down. He became so ill that doctors moved him into intensive care and warned that he might die. His family gathered at the hospital, fearing the worst.

A few weeks later, the fevers were gone. And so was the leukemia.

A number of research groups have been trying to do this, but the T-cells they engineered could not accomplish all the tasks. As a result, the cells’ ability to fight tumors has generally been temporary.

The University of Pennsylvania team seems to have hit all the targets at once. Inside the patients, the T-cells modified by the researchers multiplied to 1,000 to 10,000 times the number infused, wiped out the cancer and then gradually diminished, leaving a population of “memory” cells that can quickly proliferate again if needed.

The researchers said they were not sure which parts of their strategy made it work — special cell-culturing techniques, the use of H.I.V.-1 to carry new genes into the T-cells, or the particular pieces of DNA that they selected to reprogram the T-cells. . ."

Hell of a thing, don't you think?!





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So "Doc", I say. . .

". . . I know I don't usually act like this during my checkup but man, life is too short to go to every doctor's appointment all nervous and anxious because let's face it man, who wants to go to a doctor's appointment anyway. And besides, this is so much more fun. I mean, I'm actually looking forward to that finger thing you do now. I only hope it's as good for you as it is for me."

If this was a movie, the expositional scenes would have endeared you to me and I'd be just so goldarned lovable that this drunk scene at the doctor's office would only evoke either sympathy or at the very least, understanding since my life has been so milktoastedly mundane and I am searching for meaning and intellectual fulfillment.

But in real life, who in their right mind would go to their semi-annual physical in a state of inebriation???




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"Old friends. . .

. . . sat on their park bench like bookends . . . A newspaper blowin' through the grass. . ."

Digital technology and the resultant social media sites have made it easier than ever to become reacquainted with old friends, at least if your old friends are computer savvy and inclined to take advantage of these developments, a qualification used by people my age because there are in fact many of us WHO, unfortunately, are not and/or do not care to become computer savvy.

Anyway, I am trying to contact some old friends and plan to meet with one unique, dynamic, upstanding citizen from my early college days (neither of us is, by the way, anywhere near 70, as in the song) working at the school's radio station toward what I'd hoped would be a career in broadcast media. He was the news director at the station which was actually more than an on-campus, closed-circuit operation. It was a community station which continued to grow long after our departure from its staff and continues today as Baltimore's premiere classical music station. The station at the time aired a variety of music, talk and news shows and I was actually (as Porky Pig said) a r-r-radio annannannann, a r-r-radio annannannann, a DISC JOCKEY. My friend went on to establish, and continues today, a successful career in the communication arts and sciences.

Happily though, my experience at that college radio station was my initial and comprehensive introduction to jazz, an influence which once exerted has never been, nor will ever be, absent from my system and my music. And now, better late than never, I continue working towards achieving a modest and personal level of 'success' in playing my music for you.





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Music, fun and more . . .

Music, fun, abundant work and money were ours. Good times, as they now say. Our repertoire had evolved and developed during this period to include Bungle in the Jungle, You're So Vain, Games People Play (Jethro Tull, Carly Simon and The Spinners respectively). But then, in what seemed to be a not very long time later, Bruce (our drummer) resigned (abdicated his drum throne?). My sister, who at the time worked for the state, had become acquainted with a young man at the office who, in addition to charming all the ladies there (including her), was a drummer. Not only was he a drummer, he was a drummer who was receptive to the idea of joining our little musical organization. His name was Jeff.

Jeff 'auditioned' and was quite impressive on a technical level; at least to our plebeian musical sensibilities of the time. Not to slight Jeff's ability to be sure. He had a powerful touch, yet not without the ability to sensitively accompany a slow ballad. While not subtle, his drumming was strong, steady (relatively) and something of a departure from his predecessor. While we missed Bruce both personally and musically, we welcomed Jeff and enjoyed the markedly different rhythm keeper and dynamic, debonaire character that had become our drummer. Not only was Jeff a Ladykiller, he was such a charismatic personality that I suspected he could quite possibly be bi-polar. I more than the other members of the band began spending additional amounts of personal time with Jeff enjoying his captivating stories, his outrageous personality, his knowledge and appreciation of musical styles. Jeff and I visited many and varied drinking and eating places after gigs and I'd found that not only had the band acquired a fine new drummer, I had found a fun and fascinating new friend.




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Everybody wants to be a star. . .

. . . ain't it the truth? Well, maybe not exactly.

I would not summarize my situation as such. I've certainly met my share of guitar-playing-vocalizing-pour-my-hear-out-singer-songwriters in my time. Many times hearing them makes me want to, like them, sing my own vocal compositions while accompanying myself on guitar. But then I stop myself. Of the GPVPMHOSSs I've encountered, many were actually very good; others- not so. Then of course, viewing things objectively, of just about all of them I can say some good things, meaning only that all of them have talents of one sort or another. But to be a really great singer/songwriter, many things have to gel to make them a 'star'. Many truly great S/Ss have not or will not become stars due to mere bad luck.

I have concluded awhile back that while I find my writing to be particularly strong, lyrically and musically, I lack the vocal delivery skills necessary to be a real, badass S/S. But I do have great confidence in my skills as a writer and instrumental music performer, and producer - may I say without sounding excessively egoistic. So therefore, I feel this is the artist I must market.

And now, as I am no youngster, I know without a doubt, that I must make my music to the point that some may call music my obsession. But obsession or not, music is the one thing in life that brings me such pleasure, not only in the act of producing sounds themselves, but communicating something of myself to others in these sounds.

'Success' is relative, to be sure. In one way, I have achieved a certain 'success' already in that I know well who I am musically and what I must do. In this fact I take great comfort and find much satisfaction. Irrespective of adulation, notoriety or monetary reward, I can and will continue to do this until I can do it no more.





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