The Plan: 10/03/2040

Little man; Tomorrow you'll be two years young. You've already brought boundless joy to the lives of your mother and father and all four of your grandparents.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Goal for Year 77

Several weeks after your first birthday last year, as pledged in the post above, I began a project for you - modeled after one I started for your mother when she turned eight - recounting my most cherished memories of some things we'd shared in the year that had just passed. My current plan - on your 16th birthday in 2040 - is to present you with a book much like the one I gave to your mother on her 21st birthday. Along with pictures from each year of your precious life will be all the hand-written letters I wrote to you, beginning with the one finished late last year. I'll begin my second letter sometime over the next week, i.e., what we've shared in the year between your first and second birthdays. 

On October 3, 2040, I'll be seven weeks away from my ninety first birthday. Here's what I hope will happen that day:  

* With your grandmother by my side, the three of us will take a walk to a local ice cream store, your book in hand. 

* The three of us (or five if Mom and Dad join us) will enjoy our ice cream while reading parts of the letters and looking at the pictures of you as you grew up.

* We'll laugh a lot. Then we'll walk home.     

I'm excited. 

Jeeps

#78: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Fresh on the heels of reprising my course on the Beatles - entitled The Magical Musical Mystery Tour - I decided the time was right to finally go on record with my Mt. Rushmore of Beatles songs. Without exaggeration, landing on just four songs from the Fab Four's catalog has taken me months of serious reflection. And I can hear your snark from here. Get a life, Pat. Sometimes - with respect to my veneration of the Beatles - I feel a bit like those Trekkies that William Shatner famously made fun of in that classic Saturday Night Live sketch many years back. 

Still, denying what the Beatles music has meant to me for over sixty years would be dishonest. So here they are, the four Beatles songs that have consistently meant the most to me, in alphabetical order. I don't claim these are the best Beatles songs; that's a fool's errand. Their catalog is too impossibly rich. Construct your Mt. Rushmore any way you wish. My only request: Please give me a rationale for your choices, i.e., what specifically moves you when listening to your Mt. Rushmore of Beatles songs? Because even writing about these four makes me vibrate. Honest. 

1.) And Your Bird Can Sing: Without question, the least well-known song on my monument, released in England on Revolver. Truth be told, not the best lyric John & Paul ever wrote. But put that aside and revel in the guitar harmonies - way before their time in popular music - and the way those three voices blend like blood. My goosebumps-guaranteed moment? The last verse ("You tell me that you've heard every sound there is ...") with that unmistakable Beatles-disguised-as-the-Everly Brothers descending harmony line. Musical alchemy.       

2.) If I Fell: The world would be an unquestionably smaller place without this jewel, a perfect pop song, if ever there was one. An eight-bar intro that nods toward Broadway, a unique musical ending for three of the four verses - including that exquisite tag - and two-part harmony from heaven.   

3.) In My Life: Where do I begin? With the lyric, indisputably one of the best end-to-end from the Beatles oeuvre? Ringo's subtle cymbal work? Which part? His syncopated hi-hat hits or the chiming quarter notes that ring off the bells of his ride cymbal? George Martin's elegant Baroque-style solo? Again, maybe those harmonies? The two-part stuff, i.e., John with Paul, or in those magical places where George briefly joins in? 

 Reflections from the Bell Curve: On The Record: The Beatles At Their Best

4.) Rain: When my blog was less than a month old, I published the post above, being careful to say at the time that this was the "Beatles at their best", not the "best" Beatles song; there is no such thing. This under-played gem has everything. I wouldn't change a word I wrote over fifteen years ago any more than I would tell the lads to change a single thing they did when they wrote and recorded this timeless treasure sixty years ago.   

I'm waiting. Don't let me down, Beatles geeks. (Get it?) Give me your Mt. Rushmore, please

Majestic Moments

Reflections from the Bell Curve: #72: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Had I seen Michael Keaton's extraordinary turn in The Whisper Man before publishing the post above, there's no question he would have been one of the four actors I enshrined on iteration #72 in my most enduring series. Keaton's work in this recently released Netflix film is the personification of a well-known actor playing against type. 

Given its creepy premise, The Whisper Man is not for everyone. Robert DeNiro is predictably excellent playing a haunted retired police detective. And both Adam Scott - as DeNiro's estranged son - and Michelle Monaghan, playing a detective investigating a series of brutal crimes, hold their own alongside the master. But Keaton's three scenes - the first with DeNiro and Monaghan, then one with DeNiro alone, and the last, an indescribably perverse scene near the end of the film - feature him at the peak of his craft. I would willingly watch this disturbing movie a second time just to re-experience Keaton's artistry. The closest recent analogues I've had have been after finishing Daniel Woodrell's The Death of Sweet Mister (2001) early this month and re-listening - for perhaps the 1000th time - to If I Fell while preparing to teach a class on the Beatles in August. In these majestic moments, my life is immeasurably enriched. When have you most recently been transported by great art, no matter the medium?     

     

Although I suspect I'll be disappointed, I'm still hoping Keaton gets a best supporting actor nod when next year's Oscars are announced. If you watch The Whisper Man, I'm curious to hear your reaction.

Words for the Ages: Line Forty-Two

"We live our life in chains and never even know we have the key."

Beginning with the first iteration of my blog series entitled Words for the Ages, I've asked for your help identifying lyric phrases like the one above. The criteria have remained the same for almost ten years - terse enough to be easily recalled, able to stand alone (i.e., not dependent on a rhyme before or after to complete the thought), and expressing a timeless truth. Today's gem - from Already Gone, a song made popular by the Eagles and written by Jack Tempchin and Robb Strandlund - is the second lyric a reader helped me to re-discover in this light. Thanks to PB. (Honest - this person has the same initials as me.)

I suspect some folks may find "We live our life in chains" too extreme a metaphor. But who can reasonably deny that we often get in our own way and then remain stuck - sometimes too long - trying to extricate ourselves from a mess we've either created or stepped into? Toxic relationships, soul-crushing jobs, unhealthy habits are not actual chains but knowing we hold the key that can release us? Isn't that knowledge a large part of our life's work? Therein lies the timelessness of these fourteen words for the ages. Please: Help me discover or re-discover others. Because ...

When recently asked to act as guest moderator for two writing groups I belong to, my robust collection of these pithy phrases helped to set the folks in those groups on fire. I started by reviewing the forty-one jewels I'd previously featured in Words for the Ages, culled that large group down to fifteen, and then asked my wife to select five from the fifteen. The five phrases she selected - under fifty words total - I subsequently read aloud to the group without revealing the source of any phrase. Some sounded familiar to some folks, some did not, but because each contains a stand-alone thought, without musical context, it's the thought that lands, much like the one at the top of this post. From there, using only words for the ages as their prompts, what some of these aspiring writers created exceeded my expectations. I was thrilled watching what people extracted from these words and then re-purposed into their own writing. I was especially pleased that I helped catalyze their creativity.   

So, please...

Giving Oxygen

Recently, I listened as a friend recounted a jarring adolescent experience. After my friend finished, another listener reacted to the story with a comment that struck me as flippant, even mildly dismissive. My friend didn't outwardly appear to be put out by the comment, but the scene has re-played in my head ever since.

I think it was Stephen Covey (author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) who I first heard say that listening deeply to others is like giving them oxygen. When I hear someone sharing a story about their pain, a trauma, or even adolescent discomfort, my initial instinct is to lean in. More than a few times, I've heard others ask, "What good does it do another person if I sympathize with them?" Of course, the answer is it does no good at all. The past is past; pain cannot be undone.  

But that question ("What good...?) always strikes me as beside the point. A better question might be "How can it hurt me as a listener to let someone tell their story?" Good listening often requires little response; it costs nothing to be silent. And silence after someone has told their story is preferable to drawing glib conclusions, making judgments, problem solving.

What kind of listener are you? I have an old friend who I've heard tell stories of mistreatment he endured as a young boy in school. Each time he tells it, the pain of the memory is apparent. I hope I've been a good friend by giving him the oxygen he needs.

The Posse Delivers Again

Among the first thoughts I had upon finishing The Rest of Our Lives (2025) was how fortunate I am to have several discerning readers in my life. Yes, I could've somehow stumbled across Ben Markovits's charming, well-crafted novel on my own. But isn't it equally likely it might have escaped my attention if not for the sharp eye of one of my reading posse?

"All that was thirty-five years ago. At a certain point with these family dynamics, you'd think the statute of limitations would run out."

Throughout this captivating quest are sharp observations like that. Tom Layward's first unplanned stop on an impulsive westward bound trip - after dropping off his daughter at Carnegie Mellon - is a visit to his brother Eric in South Bend, Indiana. How often do you reflect on family dynamics, the sibling division in particular? And when did you most recently wonder about that statute of limitations? For me, that observation landed with a thud. Except in my case, over sixty years have elapsed with few answers in sight. 

"Real money but not like philanthropy money, where you can spend the rest of your life playing with world problems."  

Markovits also has a sly and edgy sense of humor - as both that sentence and the one concluding this post amply demonstrate - and an almost unerring sense for the way ordinary people, particularly those struggling through crisis, tell their stories. The numerous phone conversations Tom has with his wife Amy while on the road felt so real that sometimes I felt like I was eavesdropping on a couple in therapy. 

If you're looking for an immersive and thoroughly contemporary reading experience, end your search. Pick up The Rest of Our Lives. After you race through it and thank me, I'll pass on your gratitude to the reading soulmate who directed me to this incisive and taut winner.   

"When you talk to crazy people, they're all expert in their particular brand of craziness."

We're Patiently Waiting

Given the in-between years don't have the cache of the milestones, I'll permit a bit of wiggle room about what you send our way tomorrow when my wife and I celebrate our 43rd anniversary. However, being that no rubies - or the monetary equivalent - appeared on our doorstep (or in our bank account) three years ago on our 40th, this post should be your guide about our 45th on September 17, 2028. Sapphires, please. Those sapphires needn't be blue; save those for our 65th anniversary. But bigger is better. And please: No complaints about the timing; you've got two full years to save.

In the meanwhile, what precious stone - or its monetary equivalent - is crossing your mind that is commensurate with your esteem for your favorite blogger and his better 2/3? Bitcoin = a non-starter. But we're otherwise reasonable people. Given the longstanding tradition, something more lavish than rubies but not quite as lush as sapphires seems about right, wouldn't you agree? 

Although we'll be gone for the day celebrating, that needn't interfere with your generous gesture. Our bank routing number is available upon request and there's always Amazon. Be sure to insure. 

Gushing, Continued

I realize I've gushed before about the gifts this blog has given me, but I trust you'll indulge me this time because today's gushing is about you, my readers.

Most recently, a reader fairly new to my blog paid me the highest possible compliment. Without any egotistical prompting from yours truly, this person - in a group setting - encouraged folks to enroll in a campaign I use that sends an e-mail to folks each time I publish. To say I was humbled by this promoting of my work is insufficient. I was speechless. Imagine, if you are able, a speechless Pat.

A few weeks before that incident, I was searching through my blog archive for something. And, as has often happened in the past, I was struck anew by several reader comments on posts I hadn't read since publishing them, in some cases, years ago. Those comments - insightful, vulnerable, and funny in nearly equal measure - reminded me, again, how fortunate I've been to have readers, not all of whom are related to me, faithfully commenting here for many years. I've repeatedly thanked all of these folks - bless their hearts - for their stalwart support. But I can never say thank you too many times to them or to any of you, frequent, infrequent, or have never commented aside. 

Just knowing you're out there energizes and sustains me. Thank you, again.