Using the Signs

How easy it is to become used to things that are all around us. But while driving recently it suddenly dawned on me - I can make better use of signs to remind me of important stuff needing my attention. 

STOP:  Being judgmental
YIELD: To others with a different view
CAUTION:  Ambiguity ahead

If I remember to apply this new concept only each third time I see one of these ubiquitous signs, I'm batting .333 - hall of fame territory. I'll be thrilled to succeed just that often. What other signs are worth paying more attention to? What would you add to the sign? I think I'm onto something here - join me.

Holding On

Twelve years ago, I began developing and teaching music courses for a robust lifelong learning program featured at a local community college. Although still not a foregone conclusion, at present it appears that program is wheezing toward its end. My time teaching at this college - the entree into an invigorating element of my third act - has been fulfilling from the start.    

What I'll miss most if this chapter of my life concludes - isn't this always the case? - are the people. Since 2014, I've had numerous moments of musical communion with many of the folks who have regularly attended my classes at this location. More than once, I've written of these moments here. Beginning my current class - which could be my last at this college - this past Thursday, I was once again rewarded when an astute student pointed out a lyrical subtlety in Don't Stand So Close to Me that had bypassed me despite having listened to that Police song repeatedly for over forty-five years.   

Have I had special moments like this at other places while teaching? Of course. However, knowing I may not have future opportunities to musically connect with some of these specific folks - a few have been with me from day one - gives me genuine pause. Label me sentimental; I've been called worse.

Good news to close. I've managed to build a bond with several of these repeat students outside the classroom. A few have joined my book club, several are now regular readers of my blog - one has become a prolific commenter - my wife and I have become close enough to one couple that we travelled with them early this year. The others? My plan is to collect as many e-mails as possible over the final two weeks of my current class in the hope that some of these folks may decide to attend a future course I'm conducting elsewhere. Completely abandoning a group of serious music lovers I've become attached to? No chance. 

Culling

Ever known anyone who didn't collect something? If I have, that person does not come readily to mind. Ever wonder when this nearly universal propensity in homo sapiens began, i.e., once upon a time was it necessary to occasionally de-clutter our caves?  

As my later-in-life culling project continues apace, my reflections about collecting are, unsurprisingly, front and center. And though my collections of books and music paraphernalia never got really out of hand, it's been harder to part with that stuff than I sometimes admit. If you're at a similar juncture in your life - you know it's time to let go so that your adult children are not burdened with doing the culling after you're gone - which of your collections has given you the most pause? What useful culling strategies have you discovered that you can share here with me and others?

As the time approaches to jettison a lifetime of journals, medication might be required. 

Words for the Ages: Line Forty-Three

"We all have wings, but some of us don't know why."

Of the several long-running series created for my blog, Words for the Ages - now in its tenth year - seems to light a brighter fire than others, especially with respect to reader comments. Special thanks today to JT, who recently reminded me of the terse phrase above from an INXS song entitled Never Tear Us Apart. Today is the third instance when I've used a sharp reader's input to help keep this series vibrant and true to its mission.   

Who can reasonably dispute that some people go through life without realizing their potential? This essential truth is delivered in the phrase above via the use of wings as a metaphor; simple and elegant. Eleven words for the ages; concise, able to stand on their own, timeless. Although not often cited for his lyrics, Michael Hutchence, the charismatic lead singer of INXS, clearly hit the mark this time. Got a lyric you think conveys a similar message just as succinctly? Please share it here. I'm confident I'm not the only one interested.  

I'm paying close enough attention all the time to know there's a finite supply of these aphorisms disguised as song lyrics. However, I'm pleased to report some astute readers have apparently been inspired enough by recent iterations of Words for the Ages that they have given me a surplus to work from over the coming months. So, stay tuned commenters. That gem you suggested could be next. And big thanks for your help.

To Return or Not to Return?

Not long after leaving the full-time work world, I realized I needed a method to help me decide which authors I'd return to, given the number of reading years likely left to me. And until quite recently, I was reasonably happy with the method I settled on, i.e., if an author disappointed once - no matter how many winners had preceded that disappointment - I was done.

But soon after a satisfactory - although not mind-blowing - experience with an author new to me, I recognized the need to alter my sixteen-year-old model. This newer iteration is more flexible while retaining the needed discrimination of the original. See if you agree.

Heretofore, authors will be placed into one of three tiers for this reading snob:

a.) Those I will not return to, under any circumstances. The names of those authors will never be mentioned on this blog. Private conversations? A different kettle of fish.

b.) Those I might return to, if the right situation presents itself. More info on tier "b" available upon request. The author alluded to in the second paragraph above currently resides in tier "b". 

c.) Those I will return to, until they disappoint, at which point that author will move to tier "b." The number of disappointments allowed before being relegated to tier "a"? An open question.

Although curious to hear your thoughts on my flawless method, I'm even more curious to hear how it lines up - or does not - with your own. No judgments, or at least, not that many. 

          

A Familiar and Sacred Place

Taking for granted the natural beauty of familiar places is easy and unfortunate. 

Few things serve to remind me as much of this all-too-human tendency as early autumn in my beloved and lifelong home state. While on a recent hike at nearby Hartshorne Park, the symphony of colors and breathtaking view from an overlook above the Sandy Hook peninsula and Gateway National Recreation Area reminded me again how fortunate I am to be proximate to such splendor. I was not surprised hearing gasps from several of my hiking companions approaching that overlook. Lots of pictures were taken. None that I saw captured a fraction of the magic. Visit this website for an idea of what I re-experienced.

 

Sandy Hook - Wikipedia

However, near the conclusion of the hike, our leader asked the group if anyone would like to take a few extra minutes and walk to the lighthouses that sit atop this magnificent spot. And though I'd been there before, the perfect weather, those majestic trees, and the fellowship of others who enjoy the outdoors capped off a peak morning. Though the picture below showcases a manmade vs. a natural feature, the cloudless blue sky enveloping that 1862 lighthouse brings back the wonder I experienced that day walking through a familiar and sacred place.

Anchoring (Etc.)

When trying to integrate a new practice into your life - be it something mundane like flossing your teeth or something more substantive like regular exercising or reading more - what strategies have you found effective in helping the practice take hold?

I can't recall either how or when I first heard about the power of anchoring in helping a practice take hold. However, I do remember over thirty-five years ago deciding that integrating a meditation practice into my life was important. I also recall how much trouble I had at the time finding a consistent place and time to sit and pay attention only to my breathing. My daughter had just been born, I had a full time and two part-time jobs, life was pretty hectic. 

But the one thing I did Monday to Friday that I knew would not change anytime soon was driving to my full-time job in the a.m. Somehow (had I read about anchoring somewhere? did someone suggest it as a technique? did I identify it as anchoring after landing on my solution?), I came up with meditating in my car in a remote spot in the parking lot of my full-time work location. I left myself an extra half-hour each morning - which also helped me get up earlier and beat most of the rush hour traffic - and, except for days either too cold or too hot to sit in my car for thirty minutes, that consistent place and time issue was solved.

Rather than sharing other examples of how anchoring has worked for me, I'd prefer now to hear your strategies. Perhaps you've never specifically connected your success at integrating a new practice to anchoring it to something else in your life that is a constant. Even so, try re-creating your success story - as I did above - and then share here how you got there. Anchoring or not, maybe your story will help others who have struggled to find an effective way of getting a new practice to take hold. 

  

Close to a Guarantee

Finishing The Correspondent (2025), my first thought was how could any open soul not like this book? Virginia Evans's debut novel is heartfelt, well-written, and totally engaging. Put aside its readability and humanness; it's also a bibliophile's dream. 

 

The letters sent and received by the protagonist - Sybil Van Antwerp - often refer to literature, one of her passions. In addition, Sybil is in the habit of writing to authors nearly as frequently as she writes to her brother Alex or best friend Rosalie. About halfway through this captivating novel, your favorite blogger - wearing his list making bibliophile hat - began keeping track of all the books and authors cited by Sybil and others, just in case one of you were to later wonder. The final tally? Around thirty-five. (Before you ask, yes, after beginning that list at the halfway point I did then return to the start to ensure the accuracy of the final number. Forgive me father.) 

 

Over the fifteen+ year history of my blog, I've published more than five hundred posts about books. And though every one of those five hundred+ met my sole criteria** - i.e., this book elevated me - for more than a few, I felt it necessary to provide a caveat, about language, subject matter, density, etc. There is no caveat attached to my recommendation of The Correspondent. I'm confident this novel will appeal to almost any reader.

** Over that same period, I've never published a single post about a book that left me cold. And there have been an ample number of those. 

Listening to Myself in Act Three

Although flying back and forth between coasts for years now has had clear downsides, for this film geek, having a wide selection of films to choose from while in the air has almost evened the balance sheet. 

On this trip, I was enthralled end-to-end watching Disclosure Day. The nicest surprise? Stumbling across this engrossing and intelligent Stephen Spielberg film with no pre-knowledge. How can this be the case for an aficionado, you might reasonably ask. Several years ago, I made a resolution to try and bypass reviews and any "buzz" surrounding new books and films. As much as possible in Act Three, I now attempt to arrive at my own unvarnished opinion of the literature and movies I'm exposed to. I've done so with music most of my adult life. Why then the struggle throughout Act Two with my two other abiding passions? 

I've never been fully satisfied answering that question. In Act One of anyone's life, it's predictive - maybe unavoidable - for our opinions to be influenced by many things e.g., parents, peers, mentors, others more educated and experienced than our young selves. As we become actualized adults, those influences begin having less impact. But in my case, although the influence of parents and peers became less of a factor in Act Two, the voices of cultural critics seemed to grow. And the more esteemed the critic - Harold Bloom, John Leonard, James Wood - the more I found myself occasionally parroting their views. Why? Again, I'm still trying to land on a satisfactory answer to that. 

Hence, my Act Three resolve re movies and books. I have no idea what the critics have said about Disclosure Day. Because it's a Stephen Spielberg film, I'm reasonably confident there has been plenty of buzz. My daughter in the film industry certainly knew about it and asked me what I thought soon after we got to her place. My buzz to her? Clearly worth two+ hours, especially to distract myself while in the air, in a cramped seat, having difficulty concentrating on my book. What would John Leonard have had to say about this movie if he was still with us? Not sure. Hope I wouldn't have paid him any mind. 

  

A Friday Sermon

Holding myself accountable for consistently blogging for over fifteen years has given me a newfound respect for many things, including a few professions. Given my longtime agnosticism, perhaps the biggest surprise to me has been how much I've grown to appreciate members of the clergy.

Have you ever thought carefully about the amount of effort it takes to develop and deliver a sermon or homily every single week? I ask you to consider the following: 

* You're often speaking to many of the same people each week. So, how soon can you recycle stuff?
* You're drawing your material from the same - admittedly rich - source material each time. 

* You're speaking in a very quiet space, which means that aside from an occasional crying baby, nothing ever interrupts you. Net result: Every mispronounced or misused word is heard, every lapse in logic or flow is noticeable. 
* You're the center of attention for 10-15 minutes non-stop AND you have to draw a compelling conclusion.

Look at that list. How consistently well do you think you could do this? I've been in front of people as a musician, teacher, and speaker most of my professional life. But when I think about meeting all the requirements on that list, it gives me real pause. There are additional parallels with blogging - staying fresh, remaining relevant, keeping people interested/awake. Thank goodness I don't rely on people regularly tithing to keep this gig.

My Journey with Julian Barnes

Because Julian Barnes has indicated Departure(s) (2026) will be the last book of his career, soon after finishing it, I began reflecting on my twenty-year journey with this modern-day master. 

That journey started upon receiving Arthur and George (2005) as a gift from a member of my reading posse, in this case, my oldest niece. I've lost count how many new-to-me authors have later been added to my unmanageable "must return to" list after one of my posse have turned me onto them. That novel - Barnes's 10th as it turns out - ensured him a spot on that list.

I got my second taste of Barnes's undeniable gift when the first book club I ever joined selected The Sense of an Ending (2011). This was not long after I'd left the full-time work world and started my blog. I've since re-read that jewel three times, recommending it to every discerning reader I know. Additionally, I've mentioned it here at least a dozen times, in varying contexts. In my opinion, it is a nearly perfect novel.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: The Sense Of An Ending

Barnes's second memoir - Levels of Life (2013) - made it three for three. Then Elizabeth Finch (2022) marked the first time in my reading life to that point that an author hit four home runs in a row. I knew right then that Barnes's back catalog was in my reading future.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Brain Food

Most recently, another trusted member of my reading posse - this time the moderator of that same book club, now a good friend for fifteen years - suggested Departure(s) for the book club of two we kicked off twelve years back. As soon as she mentioned Barnes, I lunged at the opportunity to return to him. I didn't know when I started Departure(s) about this being his last book. But after he knocked me out, again, my resolve to return to his back catalog was fortified as this reflection began taking shape.

 

I'd welcome hearing about a journey you've taken with an author. How and when did it begin? Which events from your life coincided with the literary landmarks on that journey? Where are you headed next with that revered author?               

 

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.

922 to 23

Current tally? 922 to 23. 

Though there's no chance my new grandson will ever catch up, I recently decided that for as long his time is being tallied in months, that's reason enough for me to do the same. Besides, doesn't saying I'm 922 months sound dignified? I'll let you do the math. 

Given what the little man is already up to at 23 months, I'm guessing he'll finish undergraduate school in under 240 months and have at least one master's degree by month 252, vs. when I got mine at the 576-month mark. Other milestones? If he follows in his mother's footsteps, he'll be walking down the aisle at somewhere around 402 months. His first child? If he follows his grandfather, he'll be about 470 months; his grandmother = approximately 416. Owning his first home? His Dad was about 476 months when he reached that milestone. My guess? He'll beat both his own Dad and your favorite 922-month-old blogger who was 403 - or thereabouts - before he was able to cobble together a down payment.

Now for the fun part with no parallels comparing my favorite 23-month-old with his mom or his dad, or his grandmother and Mr. 922:

* His first hit recording, using no AI or sampling, highly influenced by the playlist his grandfather began curating for him at birth: 216 months

* His first book published; a collection of essays featuring his inspirational family, especially his grandfather: 276 months. First novel: 12 months later. Main character modeled after: Care to guess? 

* His first Oscar, for supporting actor: 336 months. The role: A musician, bookworm, writer (mostly blogs), film devotee, social justice advocate, environmentalist, dashingly handsome, unnecessarily modest, devoted to his family.

With some luck, I've still got another 120 months to be by the side of my beloved 23-month-old as he begins what is sure to be a fulfilling life. 

The Death of Sweet Mister

After struggling to find a way in, I decided on bullet points as an effective method to capture the impact that The Death of Sweet Mister (2001) has had on me. If one or more of these don't persuade you to give Daniel Woodrell's disturbing modern-day masterpiece a try, I've missed my mark today.  

* I'm sure I'll never again read a coming-of-age novel as searingly rendered as this.

* I will not suggest this novel to any book club I belong to nor use it as a selection for my own club because hiding my disappointment over anyone's lukewarm response would be difficult. My partner of forty-eight + years - one of the most discerning readers I know - will be reading it soon to ensure the two of us can discuss its undeniable brilliance. I know she'll get it. 

* I'm literally dumbfounded this novel escaped my radar for twenty-five years. How has it not been included on any of the numerous "Best of the 21st Century " etc. lists I routinely run across? How is it that no fellow bookworm ever recommended it? How did it escape getting at least one major literary award?

* One hundred years from now, Daniel Woodrell's work - arguably anchored by this jewel - will be the way smart readers understand the Ozarks. As surely as Anne Tyler owns the suburbs of Baltimore, Dennis Lehane owns the streets of Boston, and William Faulkner is Mississippi, readers in 2126 will turn to Daniel Woddrell in order to live and breathe rural Missouri.         

I want to continue, badly. But to keep this post to my normal length and to avoid alienating any reader with hyperbole overload, I'll stop now, almost. In the thirteen years I've been using Goodreads, this is the first novel to which I've given five stars within minutes of finishing. And Daniel Woodrell - on the strength of The Maid's Version, Winter Bone, and now The Death of Sweet Mister - has taken slot #37 on my destined-to-never-be-completed list of 100 most cherished authors, i.e., writers who have hit it out of the park three times in a row. That list - along with the remaining bullet points left out of this post - is available on request.

p.s. Thanks to the owner of Farley's Book Store in New Hope, Pennsylvania for recommending The Death of Sweet Mister to me. Readers - Isn't it hard to imagine life without small independent bookstores?     

Take Two, With Joy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 116,799 To Go

In one of those weird mysteries that routinely occur in the blogosphere, several weeks back an anonymous reader stumbled across the relic above, published a little over ten years ago. I didn't give the mystery much further thought until a few days back when a significant event in my personal life prompted me to reflect on the precious commodity of time.

Using the same set of assumptions I developed back in 2016, the number of waking hours left to me are now approximately half of what they were ten years ago, i.e., 58,400. In addition, unless I exceed the optimistic number of years I gave myself back in 2016, there will be no third iteration in this particular blog series. Apologies for the morbid exposition.

Here are a few things at the top of the agenda for my 58,400:

* Lots more of the big three. Specifically, more public jamming with other musicians who enjoy playing jazz, continuing to expand my repertoire, creating and teaching music classes until I run out of ideas, i.e., hopefully, never. With literature: Seeking out more fellow bookworms and new authors, continuing with the canon, exploring the back catalog of my ever-growing-but-never-to-be-reached list of 100 most cherished authors. Movies? More documentaries and foreign films. With all the others - continue paying attention to the art of screenwriting to help me improve as a writer. 

* As much travel as my body and budget will permit. Highest priority: The remaining U.S. National Parks. 

* Family - especially that little man who currently lives in L.A. - and friends. 

Leftover hours after the above? Lots of writing and reflecting from the bell curve. Which reminds me: What will bring you joy in your remaining hours, number aside? 

 

Now

Grief defies easy explanation.

Tears switch to laughter, sadness is soothed by memories, pain is eased by hugs. Life feels irrevocably altered; life continues.   

"How are you doing?", well-meaning people ask.

"As well as can be expected", is the best I can offer now. Tomorrow? Grief defies easy explanation. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Not Today

Spreading the Word

If I can motivate just a few people to track down the July 8 issue of The Atlantic and read The End of Reading Is Here, I'll consider today a success. 

On my re-read of this astonishing feat of long form journalism, I was so overcome emotionally I knew what the subject of my next reflection would be. What essay - no matter its length - has ever had a similar effect on you, i.e., you felt a duty to spread the word, using whatever means was available to you?  

My initial attempt spreading the word came about a week ago, not long after first reading the piece. I scoured my e-mail contact list, looking for anyone with whom I'd ever discussed a book - any book, anytime. I don't recall the last time I sent an e-mail to more than a few people at once, let alone one with a lengthy attachment. The responses I've received to that e-mail have been uniformly affirming. However, numerous attempts to attach this remarkable essay here have been a bust; such is my technological ineptitude. Consequently, you're on your own. I sincerely hope my entreaty works. Disturbing as it can sometimes be, I'm sure you'll find tracking down this extraordinary article worth the effort. 

And Rose Horowitch is a name I've committed to memory. According to her essay she "...was born shortly after the dot-com bubble burst and entered first grade around the time the iPhone was released." I plan to read anything I can find written by this young woman almost half a century younger than me. Though it's improbable our paths will ever cross other than via the cherished written word, she is a soulmate. Kudos, Rose.             

American Rust

"I don't know what I think about something until I write about it."  - Joan Didion 

Although I knew Philipp Meyer's American Rust (2009) was a winner from its first page, it wasn't until I began writing my book journal entry that I was struck anew by Joan Didion's wisdom. The more I wrote, the deeper my admiration for this elegiac novel grew. Has this happened to you, i.e., you realized your thinking was getting clearer as you wrote about an experience?

I cannot readily recall the last debut novel I read that knocked me out as much as American Rust. The plot is straightforward; Meyer's approach is innovative and thrilling. His chapters effortlessly toggle between the point of view of six fully realized key characters. For me, the chapters featuring the precocious chatter inside the head of twenty-year-old Isaac English - on a quest to escape the dying steel town in Pennsylvania where he grew up - were among the strongest in the book.

"You borrowed from the planet, which borrowed from the universe. A short-term loan at best. In the eyeblink of a planet, you were born, died, and your bones disintegrated."

"It's just what we do. What has it gotten us, our difference from animals? Better rifles and antibiotics - they come together. Smart bombs and cancer surgery. Don't get one without the other; even our own nature keeps us in balance. Colonize Mars, it won't matter - babies and cheatin' hearts. Democracy and hemorrhoids. Preachers with syphilis."

I realize both those passages have a bleak edge. Avoid letting that put you off. This is literature of the highest order, well worth your time. American Rust will remain with you, long after most feel-good, happily-ever-after, every-bow-gets-tied-by-the-last-page book you've read has faded from memory.  

 

Today's Sweepstakes Winner

How routinely do you pay close attention to the amount of airtime you use when conversing with others? 

Having an honest and caring partner gives me a clear advantage in the conversational sweepstakes. When I've taken up more than my share of airtime, I can rely on her to subtly redirect a conversation, sometimes by asking a question of the glass-eyed person who's been listening to me ramble, other times via some unmistakable signal she makes to indicate I've gone on way too long.

OK, so maybe her re-directing is not always all that subtle. No matter; the end result is the same, i.e., I stop talking as much and begin listening better. And even if I'm defensive in the moment I'm being conversationally tuned up, I'm usually grateful later when re-playing my jabbering in my head. When I'm listening to someone who appears clueless about the amount of airtime they're using? Glad you asked. 

It was difficult to tune out a distinctly one-sided conversation going on directly behind me on a hike earlier today. After almost thirty minutes listening to what was essentially a monologue, a judgy, ungracious blog post began taking shape in the mind of judgy, ungracious Pat. Then, to my surprise, as the rest of my day unfolded, my clear advantage in the conversational sweepstakes kept returning to me.  Some twelve hours later, a less judgy and marginally more gracious post formed as I reflected on a few things. 

How fortunate am I having someone who loves me enough to assist me in improving this critically important skill? Isn't it unfortunate that some people have no such person in their life to assist them? Will I remember to ask myself these questions the next time I'm being tuned up or the next time I'm listening to someone using all the airtime?  Stay tuned. 

Words That Can Haunt Me: Opulence

opulence: wealth, riches, or affluence. 

Until looking up opulence in the dictionary, my brain had always associated the word with something far beyond what the average person - like me - might call wealth. In my head, opulence conjured mind-boggling riches, not just affluence.  

Such was my frame of mind back in March at the Royal Palace of Madrid. As our guide walked us through just a few of the 3,418 rooms, I flashed back to a tour I'd taken many years ago of the stables at Buckingham Palace. For me, these places of opulence can be awe-inspiring and distancing in nearly equal measure. On both occasions, I had to consciously remind myself that I was fortunate being able to visit and learn a little history. That conscious reminder was the counterpoint to the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach during both experiences. Where has your mind wandered when you've been exposed to this kind of unimaginable luxury?   

In the months since that tour of the Royal Palace, I've been reflecting on the discomfort in my gut and what it says about me. Is part of it perhaps connected to a wondering about how a life of staggering opulence might have shaped me? Would I have ever realized I'd been born on third base or would I have just reflexively assumed I'd hit a triple? Back to the Buckingham Palace stables for a moment. Was it churlish of me to wonder how anyone - monarch or otherwise - can think it's OK to have a stable for one horse that is both larger and more lavishly outfitted than the average home for six on London's east side? 

But wonder I did all those years ago. And so went my mind - and my stomach - back in March at the Royal Palace. I suppose that's a partial explanation why the word opulence can haunt me, despite my own relative affluence. I suspect at least a few folks reading this might be groaning at my existential angst by now. For those folks - and others inclined to be awestruck by manmade wonders (vs. this privileged blogger's overthinking) - directly below is the Wikipedia link for the Royal Palace. Enjoy.  

Royal Palace of Madrid - Wikipedia

Words for the Ages, Line Forty-One

"It's strange, what desire will make foolish people do." 

Can I hear an "Amen"?  Despite its simplicity, that terse phrase from Chris Isaak's Wicked Game (1989) captures a universal truth. And it stands on its own; no rhyming couplet is required. These are words for the ages, no matter how straightforward.

In fact, I would argue Isaak could have easily left out the word "foolish". Certainly, the things that desire drive us to do can be foolish. And the consequences of those things often make us look foolish indeed. But wouldn't you agree that even reasonable people do foolish things under desire's influence? How many people have you known who've had their life upended by desire? For just a minute, put aside the things those people did. What percentage of those people would you have described as foolish before their desire took over?

Perhaps Isaak's timeless lyric is directing us to chicken and egg land. That is, was the person who succumbed already foolish enough that desire was more easily able to do its work? Or was the desire a force so intense that even a reasonable person would succumb?

A Not-So-Simple Story of Simple Assault

Fifteen years ago today, I was arrested for the first - and I trust the last - time in my life. It was not the first time in my life I'd ever broken the law, the subject of perhaps another visit to the bell curve confessional booth in the future. But it was the first time I'd ever been caught. The charge? Simple assault. The story? Not as simple. 

My wife, our niece, and our niece's friend were sitting at the bagel shop located a block from our home, a place we'd patronized regularly since moving to our current home about eighteen months before. A man who we later learned was known to the local police approached the three of them and quietly but menacingly scolded the friend to "...get your filthy feet off the chair..." My wife was so astounded by this man's temerity and the racial animus she detected when he spoke to our niece's friend that all she could think to do was ask "What did you just say?" When he repeated himself with equal venom in his voice - but still so quietly that only the three of them could hear - my wife threw the little bit of coffee remaining in her cup at him. He said, "That's assault, I'm going to have you arrested!". She replied, "Go ahead and try!" then stormed out of the shop with our niece and her friend close behind.

Here's where hot-headed Pat takes the stage. I pull into the bagel shop parking lot and am not yet even in a space when I see my obviously frightened wife hurrying toward the sidewalk, our niece and friend on her heels, the sneaky coward right behind the three of them. My car still idling, I have barely a second to ask "What's going on?" before my wife has time through her fear and anger to say something to me like "That man just said something ugly and racial ..." I quickly reverted to a primal state. All I could think to say before shoving this bully to the ground was "How dare you!" or something equally innocuous. Would I have done the same had I known there were police officers sitting in the bagel shop witnessing my impulsive spectacle? Can't say for sure. But I do know a few things that happened next even if some details are fuzzy and it still remains unclear exactly when I realized that both my wife and I were being arrested.

Step one: Thrown to the ground and handcuffed. Read my rights? Don't recall. Step two: Taken in a squad car to the station. My wife was allowed to drive herself and be booked. Later: Fingerprinted and told the charges. Lots of unexposed film for much of the rest of this story. However, I'd been at this blogging thing for about six months when this all went down. Consequently, I do have one piece of irrefutable evidence about my state of mind the next day.  

As the first cryptic post below will show, on August 16, 2011, I was sure I was out of the blogging business. Given the disaster scenarios that had played out in my head over the previous twenty-four hours - following what I now call the $4,000 bagel fiasco - on August 16, continuing to blog seemed like a preposterously silly and frivolous pursuit. Obviously, my retirement from blogging ended up being as short-lived as the ones threatened many times by Ol' Blue Eyes, as the second post below (from September 1) will also show. Although it took me fifteen years to be ready to fully confess here that foolish act on August 15, I'm still uncertain what Pat - circa 2011 - thought he would prove pushing that cretin to the ground.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: That's All, Folks!

Reflections from the Bell Curve: He's Baaaack

Celebrate With Us

Early today, while preparing for tonight's discussion, I was temporarily sidetracked thinking about the celebration planned to mark the 100th book my club has read since our maiden voyage in January 2017. Tonight's book - #99 - was Tar Baby (1981) by Toni Morrison. As usual, it was a stimulating, enriching discussion. Book #100 - A Marriage at Sea (2024) by Sophie Elmhurst - will be discussed at our September meeting. Then, that celebration. 

Since realizing months ago that this milestone was approaching, I've been vibrating with excitement, thinking of ways to try to make the event memorable. But even if my planning goes awry, how bad can it be to commune for an evening with other bookworms about our shared adoration of literature? Five of the people who will be at the celebration - including my partner of 48+ years - have been in the club from its inception. (That book - in case you're keeping track - was Founding Brothers (2000) by Joseph Ellis.) The rest of the folks who may attend the event? Mostly hardcore bibliophiles. How cool will this be? 

Though I haven't kept close track (honest!) for the nine + years the club has overlapped with my blog, I'd estimate I've published at least twenty-five posts about books the club has either read or is about to read. After all, I only publish about books that have moved me, the same criteria used for putting a book in the queue for the club. Most recently? The two posts directly below highlight the selections for September & December. If reading these posts whets your appetite enough to read either or both of these winners - or even if you're just thinking about reading one or both - consider yourself an ex-officio member of the club. And celebrate with us from wherever you are.  

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Being Truly Tested

Reflections from the Bell Curve: The Bee Sting

My Rogue Scholar Tribe (Redux)

I didn't fully appreciate how much my fourteen Rogue Scholar travelling companions had brought to my life until recently as my wife and I finished a Shutterfly project commemorating our adventures together. Though mentioned on this blog several times since we all met in Alaska in 2015, considering the riches this community has bestowed on me, I cannot overdo the tributes paid to them here.

Soon after our 2024 reunion in Rocky Mountain National Park, the group decided a celebration of our years together was in order. Two of us worked on crafting several questions for everyone to respond to in writing. The responses were then compiled into a final document and distributed to all. (Sample question: How did our time together add value to your life?) It was in the re-reading of the responses to those questions - and deciding which select few to include as text in the Shutterfly project - that my appreciation for my soulmates grew even deeper. One celebration response included a mention of every person in the group - by name - and how that person had enriched the author during our years together. The time put into that one response alone reminded me - again - of how grateful I am to have made these Act Three friendships. As another person said in a different celebratory response - What a gift!

How do you celebrate the people in your life who have given gifts comparable to those my Rogue Scholar tribe has given me?

A Private Life

Although I didn't thoroughly scour my archives to be 100% certain, I'm reasonably sure the time between my last post about a movie and today is the longest gap of its kind since I began reflecting from the bell curve fifteen + years ago. My recent ten+ weeks of movie silence here is not connected to the number of films I've sat through since late May when a re-watch of Fargo inspired a post. But not a single film since then spoke to this unrepentant movie geek like A Private Life did. Cinephiles: Put this one in your queue. 

Aside from Jodie Foster's predictably excellent performance - speaking in French throughout - what sets this 2025 movie apart from some of mediocre fare I've endured these last few months is its incisive script. As the film opens, Foster is experiencing personal challenges as well as setbacks in her professional life as a slightly aloof psychiatrist. The director and screenwriters then imbue that straightforward premise with astute insights about the stories we often create in an attempt to make sense of the things that happen to us. 

"Irony can be an effective way to avoid dealing with fear." I'm accustomed to capturing sharp phrases in my journal while reading. But I cannot readily recall the last time a line of movie dialogue that did not come from a book hit me with as much force as the one directly above. I felt compelled to write it down, much like when I'm reading. When did a line of movie dialogue recently do the same for you? 

I recommend A Private Life without reservation.

p.s. How refreshing it is to see a sixty-three-year-old movie star who looks sixty-three. On a parallel plane, not long ago I read a NY Times article about Jodie Foster. In that article, I recall her comment that having a personal assistant struck her as "... like having someone else living your everyday life ..." or words to that effect. Is it possible she is carefully curating a down-to-earth public persona? The cynic in me would be inclined to believe that but those lines in her face tell a different story.

Native American Day

Cinco de Mayo, Christmas, Columbus Day, Juneteenth, Martin Luther King Day, St. Patrick's Day, Veteran's Day, Yom Kippur. How is it that a day acknowledging the native people of this land of ours - with or without closing schools and the post office - has yet to enter the public conversation in any meaningful fashion? In my view, having to share a day with Columbus - although well meaning - is not adequate in redressing the egregious way native people have been treated here in "America". 

I'm as clueless about this long-running oversight as anyone. After all, on every August 1 since 2012 I've used my tiny spot in the blogosphere to promote the idea of celebrating something on this date to mark the otherwise barren month of August. But until earlier today the idea of a Native American Day did not occur to me.    

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Still Closing the Gap

In my meager defense, I can only offer the gaps in my education. And though I've tried to surmount some of those gaps in recent years - the subject of the 2023 post above - doing so will remain a work in progress for all the time left to me. 

I've had fun dreaming up ideas for a national holiday on this date for fifteen years. National Book Day, National Gratitude Day, and last year's National Technology Turnoff Day are a few of my whimsical favorites from earlier iterations. Today's notion to mark August 1 as Native American Day is more earnest. I know I'm not alone in thinking an acknowledgment of this kind is long overdue. Join me.

A Pledge to Respond in Kind

Thinking back on your life, what have you accomplished that continues to give you significant satisfaction? For the purposes of today's thought experiment, I'm requesting parents put aside - just this time - the most obvious answer, i.e., your children. What might be the next thing that comes most readily to mind?

Although the years spent teaching guitar to my youngest nephew is not the next thing that comes most readily to my mind, the sense of accomplishment I get listening to him play is up there. I suspect the fact that he's getting married this coming weekend contributed to this Act Three-ish reflection popping up recently. I mean, it's difficult imagining someone still in Act Two - that is, someone not likely to have a twenty-something youngest nephew - spending much time on a thought experiment like this. After all, while in Act Two, most of us on the bell curve are still working at the big stuff, aren't we? But when we're in Act Three - or like me, quite a bit along into Act Three and watching the youngest members of our extended families starting adult life - isn't it predictive for us to be looking back at accomplishments, at least occasionally? 

So, when this reflection first began percolating weeks ago, the first thing I did was capture in my journal several things that came to mind, including that time spent teaching guitar to my nephew. Next, I did what I almost always do. I asked my ideal reader and partner of forty-eight + years to respond to today's thought experiment. Though unsurprised that her instinctive response was our daughter, I asked her to dig deeper, just as I'm asking you to do. Her "secondary" answers gratified her and reminded me of significant pieces of her legacy. I'm guessing the same could be true for some of you. I hope a few of you will share something here. To anyone who does, I pledge to respond by sharing a different accomplishment of mine, another from that same journal entry, the petri dish for this post. 

The Bee Sting

Over my reading life, I've enjoyed a fair number of novels that exceeded 500 pages. But I can readily recall only a handful that held me end-to-end like The Bee Sting (2023). Weeks later, I remain astonished that Paul Murray was able to sustain enough narrative momentum over 643 pages that I was never once out of his spell. His tragi-comic tale of a family trying to find its way is a literary marvel.

"...and she feels a kind of worn happiness like they are normal."

Given her dire upbringing, Imelda Barnes has always yearned for a normal life. Her husband Dickie has spent his life struggling trying to land on what is normal, a struggle that intensified the day he and Imelda were married, her face marred by a mysterious bee sting. Their teenage daughter Cassandra envisions normal life as something to be found in Dublin, living with her friend Elaine, far from the small town where both of them have lived since childhood. And twelve-year-old PJ's vision of normal toggles from the virtual world of video games to a texting bond he's formed with someone who wants to show him around Dublin to the bunker he and his father - along with a cranky survivalist - are building in a clearing on the Barnes's property. 

I offer that taste hoping it might tempt some reader(s) to try the full meal. If you do, please remember to check back in with me when you finish. I sincerely want to hear your thoughts about this book.

In the meanwhile, tell me this: What was the last novel of over 500 pages you finished that held you like The Bee Sting held me? 

p.s. Thank you to Ann Patchett - via her weekly podcast - for directing me to this winner. 

Another Skirmish with Technology

It's been a week since my latest skirmish with technology. Though I acknowledge the benefits modern technology can deliver, the snafus that routinely occur using it can be infuriating. What happened in your most recent skirmish? I hope you were alone when things went technologically awry. I was not.

 

The day before sound-check went smoothly. And looking around the auditorium before beginning my presentation entitled The Magical Musical Mystery Tour I felt prepared, comfortable in a nice space that I'd used previously, and pleased to see at least fifteen familiar faces scattered throughout the nice-sized audience. 

But as the first stanza of Please, Please Me played, I could hear something was off. I've listened to that jewel more times than I can count and immediately noticed that both the propulsive rhythm guitar interlude between the first two lines of the stanza and George Harrison's brief guitar obbligato preceding the first refrain were seriously muted over the house sound system. I said nothing to the audience and quickly discounted it as a fluke with the first song. Twenty-three more Beatles gems still to go - with plenty to point out to the audience about each - over the next ninety minutes. Things would work out.

If only. By the middle of the second song, it was clear to me - if not to most of the audience - that this glitch was going to be with me, in varying degrees, for the rest of the night. In several cases, I was unable to make the pertinent musical distinctions I wanted to make because those distinctions were lost somewhere in the technological void between the playlist on my phone and the house sound system. In Rain, Ringo's explosive drumming was nearly inaudible. In Fixing a Hole, the harpsichord accompanying Paul McCartney's vocal was totally inaudible. Piano for the entire length of While My Guitar Gently Weeps? Missing. As you can probably guess, I could go on. 

Though all of this was out of my control, I apologized several times and was later admonished for overdoing the apology bit. Most of the people who spoke with me afterwards - or since - were kind, saying they enjoyed the presentation despite my difficulties. Others assured me they might not have noticed the glaring sound gaps had I not drawn attention to them. Am I evolved enough to say those kindnesses and reassurances - true or not - have helped me extract a lasting lesson from this fiasco? I am not. Above all, what remains with me a week later is an abiding frustration with technology. 

Catnip

Had someone asked me weeks ago if any reader of this blog had ever noticed a thematic similarity between any two of my posts, I would've laughed. I was reasonably confident any redundancy of mine would bypass even faithfully attentive readers. After all, having published almost 2700 posts since March 2011, there have been several instances when I could not recall something I'd written about until some relic had somehow been disinterred from my archives. I suspect the same may be true for anyone who has been at this blogging gig as persistently as I have. Though I use the search engine diligently to help me avoid repeating myself, every tool has limits.  

So, when a recent comment pointed out overlap between two recent posts mentioning my current East vs. West Coast dilemma, what happened? In a span of minutes, I was chastened I'd covered similar territory in a matter of weeks, flabbergasted someone had actually picked up on it, and finally, thrilled that same someone was paying attention. Fragile ego? Guilty as charged. In my defense? Name a single writer - famous or not - who doesn't want their work to reach people, however marginally. Catnip.

Special thanks to that reader for the comment; made my month. 

Focusing on Hope

Although it can be easy to get demoralized about certain aspects of modern-day life - e.g., climate change denial, the mainstreaming of hate by divisive celebrity pundits, the disinformation assault of social media - in the end, doing so is a choice. Isn't it vital to continually remind ourselves that making a choice to focus on things that give us hope is much healthier - for us, for our loved ones, for the world? What did you most recently focus on that lifted you? 

No matter what kind of day or week I'm having, each time I see a streetside lemonade stand being run by a group of children, my heart fills with optimism. How can anyone resist being touched by those handmade signs? How about the way the kids beckon cars and cyclists for business by waving or sometimes even shouting? For me, this kind of innocence is infectious. Even when I'm running late or not thirsty, I try to pull over. Almost always, while doing business with them, I'm beguiled by these young entrepreneurs. And I drive or ride away smiling.

 

My sisters and I had more than one streetside lemonade stand when we were kids. My daughter set one up right in front of our first house when she was in third or fourth grade. Her business partners were some of the kids from the neighborhood. When some kids across the street from my current home began setting up their stand recently - with the same kind of folding table you see almost every time - I began re-living both my own experiences and my daughter's. It felt wonderfully familiar and reassuring. I purposefully avoided listening to the news that day.

It's Complicated (Even with Limited Rainy Days Left)

What word or expression would you say most closely describes your relationship with money? For me? It's complicated. 

My complicated relationship with money began, in part, thanks to an incessant parental refrain I heard from early childhood through adolescence - "Be sure to save for a rainy day!" There's no blame attached to this recollection. Given what my parents endured as teenagers at the height of the Great Depression - hardships I cannot begin to comprehend - their rainy-day mantra was understandable. But when combined with their oft-repeated claim that their biggest disagreements were about money - specifically how to stretch each paycheck while raising four children - the messaging I internalized was bound to complicate my attitude about money. I was also taught - as I'm confident many of you were - that talking about money, especially how much you make, was impolite. More complications. 

Inheriting the legacy of my parent's dire experiences living through an economic apocalypse was only the beginning. With that foundation, I moved into my undergraduate years in the late 60s and, for better or worse, embraced the ethos of anti-materialism that suffused much campus life at the time. Over those impressionable years, I found myself most drawn to folks who treated money as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. All my tribe knew we would eventually have to make a living but we spent more time, more energy, and had a lot more conversations about how to make a life and how to avoid having our things own us vs. the other way around. That idealism informed my decisions back then and continued doing so for the coming decades. A by-product of that? More complications, as mature adult life and the necessity for making enough money to support a child into her young adult years became my highest priority. Included in that equation? A pledge that she would finish college with no debt. More rainy day saving, minimal spending on self, complications.  

At 76+ years old, I want for nothing and can afford to do much of what I want.  And the number of potential rainy days left to me to save for is no longer a factor. Why then does my relationship with and attitude about money still bedevil me? What prevents me - aside from stubborn habit - from spending money on myself whenever the spirit moves me? It's complicated.

Challenging the Big Three, Work, & OPS

How many times have you found yourself in a conversation about food at the same time you were sharing a meal with somebody? I'm not necessarily talking about the food you were eating at the time, but just about food in general. Given the critical social role food plays in our lives, it's predictive for conversations to often go this way. Think about your last five conversations. How many - sharing a meal aside - have touched on food at some point? 

Soon after this exact thing happened recently while having dinner with new friends, I began reflecting on other predictive conversational topics. Asked to estimate, what percentage of the conversations in your life would you say have NOT involved either food, the weather, or family? Which topic would you say occupies the next highest spot after those big three? Work, perhaps? I suspect work could be up there, especially for those of you having a higher-than-average share of troublesome colleagues. I know during my full-time working years - particularly when I supervised people - talking about work happened more frequently than I wanted. 

With my full-time work years behind me and Act Three well on its way, I'm confident in asserting that ailments have taken the place of work as a reliable - if tiresome - conversational standby. Still, there's no question in my mind that ailments of every stripe - what my wife calls OPS (i.e., Old People Shit) - continue to lag behind the big three. How about some of you from my Act Three cohort? How regularly do your conversations travel mindlessly down OPS Road? Have your complaints approached or surpassed the big three for conversational airtime? 

Final questions. Which conversational topics would you welcome being more regularly introduced into your life? The topics you select don't necessarily have to supplant any or all of the big three - I'm guessing that scenario is highly unlikely - but wouldn't you welcome shifting that percentage around a bit? What prevents any of us from doing the introducing?  

A Perpetual Gift

Of the benefits connected to my reading life after retiring, being newly exposed to a large number of great authors clearly tops the list. I'm most indebted to one individual for this significant enhancement in my reading life - the moderator of the first book club I ever joined. Over the sixteen years I've known her, only a handful of authors she has introduced to me haven't earned a spot on my list of keepers. And I've returned to several from that list - William Boyd, Louise Erdrich, Colm Tóibín - multiple times, without being disappointed. Readers: Have you got someone like this in your life? If yes, when did you most recently acknowledge the perpetual gift that person gives to you?

Which brings me to Lauren Groff. Strictly speaking, it was a different reading soulmate who first pointed me toward this prodigiously talented young-ish (born 1978) author. But from there the story repeatedly circles back to my friend of sixteen years. When I mentioned to her my admiration for Groff's 2016 novel Fates and Furies, she suggested we immediately slot it in for our next 1x1 book discussion. Turns out she'd read several of Groff's short stories in The New Yorker and admired them, much as I'd admired Fates and Furies. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 21st Century Couples

Five years later, for the first time - at my friend's urging - we violated a norm we'd established at the inception of our book club of two. We picked a novel by an author we'd previously read - Matrix (2021) by Lauren Groff. Wow, what a ride that was. Since then, Groff's name has surfaced several times in our book-soaked interactions, including me attending a short story class my friend taught, extolling Groff as a modern-day master of the form. Did I mention my friend's evangelism compelled me to pick up Groff's collection of stories entitled Florida (2023)? Holy shit. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Delayed Empathy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Darn Her, Anyway

At this point, I'm guessing you'll know who crossed my mind a few weeks back when still another bookworm offered to loan me Groff's latest collection of short stories - Brawler (2026). And as I was being pummeled by Groff's gift, again, who did I think of? If you've got a fellow bibliophile who has brought as much to your reading life as my friend has to mine, I sincerely hope you'll let them know. 

Upcoming Semi-Compulsory Viewing

If you're the kind of viewer who enjoys following a mini-series from its outset, be on the lookout for the debut episode of Ride or Die - starring Octavia Spencer and Hannah Waddingham - streaming on Amazon beginning Wednesday July 15. If you don't mind jumping into a series after it begins or you're not much of a TV person, I urge you to mark Wednesday August 19 on your calendar. That's the night episode #6 of this new series will be shown, if you decide not to binge beforehand.  

I'm drawing your attention to this in the hope you'll celebrate with me as the top name - of three - scrolls by in the opening writer's credit for this particular episode. Like most, my daughter's career has had its share of victories and defeats. And this series - her first experience working in a writer's room after her move to LA a few years back - was frustrating and satisfying in nearly equal measure.

But the sequel to this story is happy enough to make this crowing father even more obnoxiously proud. Today, my daughter and her writing/directing partner started work on season two of Ride or Die, already renewed before season one begins. Keep your fingers crossed for syndication, please. In the meanwhile, I'll keep you informed about which episodes in season two will have her name at the top of the writing credits. Count on it.   

     

Where My Heart Is

"LA's fine but it ain't home, New York's home but it ain't mine no more."

Early in my young adult years as an itinerant musician, I took up temporary residence in Los Angeles, the only extended period of my life when I've actually lived outside of New Jersey. For several reasons, LA and I were not a good fit, which made my return to my beloved home state quite welcome. My unease with LA life in the early 70s also helped to permanently cement Neil Diamond's clever phrase from I Am, I Said into my lyric-addled brain. 

More than a half-century later - with visits to my new grandson in Los Angeles a regular occurrence - that lyric now fits me even more snugly. I like it OK out here - that tired and anodyne adjective "fine" is perfect, actually - but I still have trouble picturing myself feeling settled in LA. Great weather, nice vibe, ocean nearby, what's not to love? And if that hoary cliche is at all accurate and home is where the heart is, at present, LA holds many of the winning cards. 

Still, hard to predict if the desirable elements and those winning cards will persuade us to re-locate. In the meanwhile, this week the little man and I are perfecting drum interludes from Wipeout, analyzing the cinematography of Citizen Kane, and translating The Odyssey from the ancient Greek. Stay tuned for regular updates. 

Dear Edward

It would be reassuring to know my circuitous journey with Ann Napolitano's 2020 novel Dear Edward sounds even marginally similar to a journey one or more of you have had in your life with a book. If that's the case, please make a comment here or otherwise reach out to me. The story of my journey with this book will make this post longer than my norm. I hope you'll indulge me. 

June 2: I'm drawn in immediately by the intriguing epigraph, then fully immersed for over 100 pages. I stop reading just before Act Two begins, although the book's three act structure is not clear to me until my subsequent sittings on June 3 -5. (Important: As has been my practice for over sixteen years, before starting, I'd read no reviews of the book and purposefully avoided even glancing at the book jacket or reading the blurbs on the front or back cover. My intent since beginning this new-to-me practice in 2010: To enter every reading experience as a tabula rasa so that my opinion of what I read is - as near as is possible - entirely my own.)

June 3-5: The masterful way Napolitano executes the central conceit of her book - toggling between a flight from Newark to LAX vs. Edward's life from twelve-sixteen - captivates and propels me through all three acts over four consecutive reading days. The author's muscular but unshowy prose prompts me to copy numerous passages. Particularly poignant are the "Dear Edward" letters that Edward's uncle had been hiding from him, letters that Edward discovers about halfway through the book, thanks to help he gets from his friend and next-door neighbor Shay. As I finish the book on June 5, I'm uncertain about the epilogue. I decide to postpone writing an entry in my book journal or publishing a blog post about the novel until I'm closer to deciding how the epilogue has landed with me. In the meanwhile, I give it the highest possible rating on Goodreads, i.e., five stars. 

Early a.m., June 12: Still unsure about the epilogue, I begin - but don't complete - my book journal entry. A few excerpts = "...a moving and straightforward novel; one of the best of its type I've finished in a while...", "...I was riveted without exception...", "...excellent...".

Later a.m., June 12: Book in hand, I attend a meeting and unexpectedly run into a friend whose taste in literature I hold in high esteem. I mention having recently finished Dear Edward and ask if she's read it; she says no. But her unfiltered flip dismissal catches me off guard. "A book club book, mainstream". The plot now thickens a little. Given my lingering uncertainty about the epilogue, I start questioning myself, wondering if five stars was premature. Did I perhaps miss some glaring author missteps or overlook some cliched bestseller/mainstream tropes?    

June 13: Book journal entry - part 2 - starts when I copy the jacket, adding my usual {bracketed} asides to help cement key plot points in my mind. And then a peculiar thing begins to happen. I start finding flaws in the novel, ones that did not occur to me as the propulsive page-turning story swept me along. There is little doubt that my conversation on June 12 is contributing to my shift. This troubles me. Am I that malleable? My book journal entry remans incomplete. Final sentence that day: "Unsure where I'll go next when I attempt to finish this (now) ambivalent entry."

June 24: It's now been almost three weeks since I finished Dear Edward, with my waffling continuing to block me from completing my book journal entry. But the story and Napolitano's delivery of it will not leave me alone. Each time I re-read a copied passage or sentence, I am moved anew.  

A.M. June 25: I meet that same friend and discerning reader for a discussion about a different book. When the notion of time as a construct arises in our discussion of that book, Dear Edward comes back to me full force. I vaguely recall the final sentences of Napolitano's novel - in the epilogue - which takes place when Edward is nineteen. Didn't this gifted author skillfully allude to that same construct in the closing? I re-borrow the book from the library just to be sure. And here it is; we're now approaching the end of my circuitous journey:

"Shay is the girl wearing pajamas with pink clouds on them the first time he entered her room, and she is the woman who will give birth to their daughter ten years from now, and she is the young woman, her face wide open, offering him everything. Edward hears his brother's voice inside him; Jordan tells him not to waste any time. Not to waste any love. He watches Shay lean in his direction, and when she kisses him, she blots out the entire sky."  There's much more where that came from; I plan to share more with you in a near-future (and shorter) blog post about this exceptional book, one I've now concluded is worthy of the exclamation accompanying a five-star Goodreads rating: "It was amazing!"    

P.M. June 25: Book journal entry completed. A book club book? I'm still unclear what that actually means. Mainstream? Perhaps, but who cares? Would this unapologetic snob - one who fancies himself a fan of literary fiction - recommend it? Without question. End of journey.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: A Hard Book Can Be Good To Find 

        

    

76 vs. 67

The last time I reversed the digits of my age to use in a post was early in my blog's lifespan when I published 61? or ... 16? in July 2011. Months ago, a faithful reader stumbled across that relic in my archive, prompting me to re-visit this particular thought experiment, especially because it will be easier to recall specifics of my life from a distance of just nine years vs. forty-five. I hope you'll join me today and have some fun with this, regardless of the way your reversed digits fall. 

(If you are someone who journals and you retain your old ones, why not take a peek and see what you were up to at that earlier point in your life? That is, provided the reversal sends you back in time. If the reversal instead sends you forward, why not conjecture what you'll be up to at the older age the reversal places you? For those in double digit territory - 33, 55, 77 - or those with a "0" as your second digit, use your imagination. You don't expect me to do all the work, do you?)

* At 67, I started my own book club. Next January, the club will celebrate its tenth anniversary. And in September of this year, the club will reach another milestone - our 100th book. 

* Over the span of my 67th year, with a good friend's help, the first critical phase of a long-postponed project - my daughter recording eight of my original songs - was finished. The completed CD with overdubs, mixed and mastered, was held off for release to coincide with my 70th birthday. Directly below is a link to Bandcamp, a music site you can visit if you'd care to listen to one or more of the tunes. Lyrics are included. 

Til There Were Two | Patrick Barton

* At 67, I met the young man who would become my son-in-law approximately five years later. He is a welcome addition to my family and now the father to my beloved grandson.

Please join me in this thought experiment. When I'm 78, I'll try to remember to repeat the experiment a third and final time; forces my hand to project forward to my 87th year. a more daunting prospect for sure.  

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 61? or...16?  

Words for the Ages, Line Forty

"The older I get, the less I need."

Since the 2017 inception of this series, I've been on the lookout for terse lyrical phrases like that, words that are able to stand on their own, i.e., they're not dependent on the rhymes accompanying them to complete the thought. The lyric above - from a 2025 Mary Chapin-Carpenter song entitled Girl and Her Dog - satisfies those simple requirements. I've never been overly concerned about selecting lyrics that might strike others as capital "P" profound. For me, the most critical element is how well a lyric succinctly captures an essential and timeless truth. That is, are these words for the ages? 

The essential truth of those eight words struck me almost from the moment I first heard Carpenter sing them. Then as weeks went by, a question - one even simpler than the lyric that prompted it - would not let me go. What do any of us really need? I decided then that any lyric reminding me of Abraham Maslow's groundbreaking work on the hierarchy of needs is clearly worth memorializing here, profound or not. 

And that brought me full circle back to a central motivation for starting my blog fifteen+ years ago. From the start, I've aimed these reflections at the 98% of us who do not reside on either far end of the bell curve. We are neither fabulously famous nor we will ever end up in jail. We have more in common than not. We want to love and be loved. We want to take care of our families. We want to make a small difference in the world. We enjoy many of the same things. Those are the things I try to write about here - most of the time - hoping to engage you in some fashion.    

Maslow's hierarchy of needs - Wikipedia

Father's Day Gratitude

In your view, which traits help make a person well suited to being a parent? How much does the person's gender factor into your thinking. i.e., how much do the traits shift in your mind, father vs. mother?

Had someone had asked me that same question in my younger years, I suspect my answer might have been tied to things my own solid parents had shown me, traits reflecting prevailing cultural norms of the time. My mother = a loving and devoted caretaker of her children and our home; my father = a hard-working, dependable provider. 

Later in life, considering my own suitability as a potential father, my thinking evolved. Although I aspired to be a reliable provider like my father, I fully embraced my wife's wish to have a life outside our home. I knew also that I wanted any children we had to expect the same level of unconditional love and intense devotion to their care as my mother had shown me.     

It's quite clear to me how well suited my son-in-law is as a parent. He already shows my young grandson all that my parents showed me and all that I hope I showed my daughter as she grew up. In addition, my son-in-law's gentle temperament - unlike my father's or my own more combative tendencies - models a kinder, more gracious way of living. Without question, this one trait alone - if he follows his father's lead - will help my grandson better weather the challenges life will hurl at him.

On this Father's Day, I'm grateful for the example my son-in-law is showing to my favorite little man in the world.    

My Trimming Turmoil

The more time I spend trimming my six-hour class on the Beatles down to ninety minutes, the more I wonder why I offered to do so in the first place. Much ado about nothing, you say? Oh, I beg to differ. Using just one incomparable Beatles song as a focal point, indulge me as I lay out a few of the unpleasant dilemmas facing me while constructing my final playlist for the presentation I'm doing about a month from now.  

* If I choose not to use And Your Bird Can Sing how to best demonstrate how advanced the Beatles were with respect to guitar harmony?   

* If I do use And Your Bird Can Sing as my selection from the British version of Revolver, which of the equally important songs from that breakthrough album do I scuttle? Eleanor Rigby? Taxman? Here There and Everywhere? 

* Is a compromise in order with respect to And Your Bird Can Sing? That is, can I instead use that piece of musical magic and say it was from the vastly inferior American toss off LP called Yesterday and Today? If yes, how much time do I devote to making a distinction between the American and British versions of all the albums before Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band? And then, what other Beatles ephemera do I leave out while rhapsodizing on their endlessly influential oeuvre? 

There's more where this came from, honest. If I began describing my turmoil about Abbey Road and what I'll play from that gem in this truncated class vs. what was included in my longer offering, you might begin to worry about my mental health. The White Album? If you still have any pity left for this unadulterated Beatles geek, please don't go there.     

 

Who's Cooking?

Though I have biases like everyone, for the most part, I consider myself reasonably open-minded. That said, I'm providing the Wikipedia link below to help you decide if what I'm about to confess makes me guilty of ethnocentrism.

Ethnocentrism - Wikipedia

With respect to restaurants specializing in ethnic cuisine, I'm less confident about what I'm about to eat when folks preparing my meal appear to have no trace of the ethnicity in question. Call me ethnocentric and read no further if you choose, but before anyone reports me to the PC police, hear me out. 

I don't necessarily need to hear Italian spoken by cooks in an Italian restaurant, but for me, it is preferable to hearing Russian or German. Now because I speak only English - admittedly bolstering my ethnocentric bona fides - I struggle to differentiate some languages from others. However, if any Polish or Slavic speaker working as a cook in a Mexican, Thai, or Lebanese restaurant stumbles across this post, allow me to respectfully suggest you stay silent when encountering me - or some equally prickly individual - as a customer. Even we monolinguists can usually pick out blatant auditory clues and, in my case, it could start me wondering if my meal is going to pass muster. Sorry in advance if this offends you.   

The ethnicity of cooks in a diner? A less cut and dry matter. Given the number of choices on a typical diner menu, a United Nations contingent would be necessary in those kitchens to fully satisfy my narrow requirements. However, to be painfully honest (what have I got to lose at this point?), I will almost always bypass a diner not featuring spanakopita. And I also pay attention to the name of the diner's proprietor when advertised, on the lookout for first names like Stavros or Eleni. Another technique? I listen when a diner's proprietor pronounces gyro.  If I hear something like "jiro" (hard "J" and long "i") instead of something close to "yiddo" (rhymes with "kiddo"), that could signal my last trip to that particular diner. I love my spanakopita too much to take chances. Same goes for my pasta primavera and all those other yummy ethnic dishes that have been passed down through generations of folks who originated the dish in the first place.