Monday, July 9, 2012

Welcome to FaceTumblrBlogspotTwitterGooglePlus via Posterous... and more.

Hello, World.

So begins nearly every beginning programming project.  The first words that a person can actually make a computer say, or display, or print.  As in...

10 Print "Hello World".

20 Goto 10.

Seriously. This violated every rule we would learn the next hour, and the next day, and the next semester, but it was the first baby-steps.  It was something.  No, it was SOMETHING!  We did that.  And it was cool.

So, now comes the next-gen version.  Cross posting.  Social network auto-posting to multiple outlets.  Also known as the shotgun approach.  Post everywhere and hope you hit something.  Try this, then fix it before the next post.  Maybe it will work.  We'll see...

On behalf of myself, and all of us who are still trying to figure out who our audience is, where they are, what they read, how they read it, what we're trying to say, and how best to say it, I apologize.  I apologize for the confusing rambling, the disjointedness, and specifically for you all being able to see the posting in multiple places and scratch your heads and wonder why the old people are trying to play on the kids' swingsets of technology.  

All I can say is...  Hello, World.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

2012 Detroit Grand Prix on Belle Isle

Here's my Picasa Web Album of pictures and videos from an entire day spent at the races.  Sometimes, a little conspicuous consumption can be a nice thing...

Friday, September 30, 2011

Heroes, Music, and Social Media

In a way, social networking (Facebook, Twitter, Google+, et al) has a "great equalizer" quality to it; it brings our heroes down to earth, and brings them closer to us.

I've always tended toward "starstruckness": If someone is famous for pretty much any reason, I find myself drawn to them. Not in a creepy, stalker kind of way, just a "wow, they're famous, so they're better than me, or at least more talented, which equals better, and they must live in a dream-world, and how cool would it be to live that life..." kind of way.

No, it's not logical or rational. It's entirely an emotional response. I know the road can be grueling, and the music/movie/celebrity industry is cold and harsh and evil. I know that not all that glitters is gold. But despite all that, I had dreams once, of living that life. However briefly, I wanted to be a professional entertainer... the next John Denver, the next Jim Croce, the next Harry Chapin, the next Stevie Ray Vaughan, the next... oh wait, they're all dead? Well, it just shows how old I've gotten, living the life I actually could live. I needed to be a little more talented (and committed) in order to make that dream a reality. So I went on with my life, and I dreamed new dreams, and made those new dreams come true.

All without regrets. I have learned the value of living the grateful life. Nothing could ever replace the wonders of the life I'm living. Period.

But at night, watching re-runs of a TV show from a few years back, hearing a musician, and the *SPARK* kicks in... that "WOW, Who is THAT?" spark. The voice, the guitar, the lyrics... they reach out, and they grab me by the throat and they shout two things, one in each ear.
In the other, it's, "You know, if I had practiced a little more, that could have been me..."

After the tinge of The Road Not Taken subsides, I search. Google and YouTube introduces me to my newest favorite musician. She is good. VERY good. Her solo stuff, her new quartet, it's all awesome.

But here's the neat part...

She's real. She has a life, and feelings, and a personality, and I know this because her life, like so many of our lives, like MY life, is online. Her voice, her homemade videos, her twitter stream. You can tell she's human. Not a creation of Hollywood, or of Madison Avenue, or of DisneyCorp. She's just a really talented musician, who writes from her heart. Kind of like I did when I was closer to her age. She's someone who's gotten enough work under her belt to have one of her songs reach out from the past, through the darkness, and touch my heart.

And three days ago, she followed me on Twitter. How cool is that?

Thank you, Adrianne. For making beautiful music. For reminding me of what I already knew, that I don't need to be famous to be happy. And for reminding me that everybody, famous or otherwise, is still human. And that it's a GOOD thing.


Post Script & Review:
I strongly suggest anyone who likes the voice of Joni Mitchell, the guitar work of John Gorka, the poetic lyrics of Jewel Kilcher, all mashed up and remixed with a very unique, fresh, young, hip, gutsy perspective, check out the music of Adrianne Gonzalez. Her solo work is amazing, and her future with her bandmates in The Rescues is very, very promising as well.

Back to blogging?

So, I've been feeling the creative juices starting to flow again.
Of course, that's their pattern; they ebb, they flow, they ebb...

So, I think I'll jump into the stream while it's moving, and catch the air while it's filling my sails, and whatever other mixed metaphor you can insert here.

Expect more from me here. Not always lengthy, usually not terribly deep... but more, nonetheless.
For now, at least... while the water's moving.

Monday, March 2, 2009


I once read that an ancient Japanese proverb says: "The greatest honor for a teacher is to be surpassed by his student."

My son is getting ready to honor the crap out of me.

He's 12, and he's been playing chess off-and-on since he was 9.
However, in the last 6 months or so, he's taken a very keen interest in beating his dear old dad, and he's made no secret about it, either.  He and I play frequently, sometimes 5 or 6 games in one day, plus we play correspondence chess online.
And he's getting better.  Much better.

Flashback - 1971: I'm six years old.  There is a chessboard set up on a small round table in the living room, with two chairs in opposition.  It's always been there, a constant fixture, as familiar and expected as the sofa or the Magnavox console stero.  My father is teaching my brother, who is 9 years old, to play chess.  Concentration and focus are treasured commodities, feircely protected.  The ground rule for kibbitzers (spectators) is singular, crystal clear, and ruthlessly enforced: BE QUIET.  Anything other than stoic, silent stillness results in immediate banishment to another room for the duration of the game (to be followed by a stern lecture).  Eventually, curiosity would get the better of me, and I ask to be taught.  I learned, and lost many games, enough to temporarily crush my desire to continue playing.  My father said he would always play his best and never throw a game, because then I would have a constant by which to measure my skill, and my improvement.  When I realized just how lofty a goal it was, achieving his level of play, I let it go for several years.  When I renewed my interest, it was primarily out of sibling rivalry: I wanted to beat my older brother.  It seemed a more attainable goal than beating Dad.  By the time I was 10, I was playing again, against my dad, my brother, and even occasionally against my mom.  Anything to help me improve enough to beat big brother.  (A task which I still find difficult.)

Always, the game was played quietly, with reverence for the complicated thought processes necessary to plan several moves in advance.  
Anticipate your opponent's reaction to each move you are considering.  Look at every piece.  If you touch a piece, you're committed to moving it.  When you let go, your turn is over, no changing your mind.  If you have to, sit on your hands to avoid the impulse move.  In your mind, you have this bizarre monologue:
"If I move here, he'll move there, then I'll threaten his piece, then he'll protect it with that piece, then I'll capture that piece, he'll capture this piece... then what?"
To oversimplify, the strategy and tactics of chess is an endless repetition of the questions, "What if?" and "Then what?"
The opening is much like lining up dominos of alternating colors.  At some point, they begin falling, and if you've done your job right, when the dust settles, you end up with more pieces still standing than your opponent.

Fast-forward - 2009: Saturday night is family movie night, and we watched "Searching For Bobby Fischer"which, by the way, I wholeheartedly endorse.  Sunday afternoon, and I've drawn my son away from his beloved video games by offering to play chess with him.  After three games where he plays his usual style, the fourth game is different.  He is different.  Something has changed.  He's decided he will play like me (or perhaps like Josh Waitzkin).  He focuses, and he thinks ahead, and he starts to plan.  He hasn't done much pre-planning on a chess board up until now.  His is, as I was at his age, a reactive player.  He responds to the conditions on the board, instead of creating them.  But this is not his usual game.  He has stopped distracting himself.  He is truly studying the board.

He has a knight which is threatening one of my knights.  I could force the trade, but I don't need to, and I want to preserve my piece for later.  My knight is protected by a pawn, so I'm not fearful of losing it.  He usually blunders and loses at least one or two pieces during a game, so even trades generally work to my advantage.  Confident that I'm safe there, I focus elsewhere.  I have a plan, you see.  I'm developing a line of attack on the queen's side of the board, and it's coming along quite nicely, thank you.  I'm wearing him down, slowly but surely, and I have a clear vision of good things to come.
Then it happens.  Back on the king's side of the table, he threatens a bishop with a bishop.  No problem, I'll just advance this pawn to protect my bishop, and go back to working my attack.  Child's play.
I make the move, and look at his face.  He's smirking.  He never smirks.  Uh oh...
He takes only a moment to make sure, then he reaches out and springs the jaws of the trap closed.
With his knight, he captures my knight.  The one I had protected with a pawn.  But I just moved the pawn, without thinking.  I forgot to ask myself, "THEN WHAT?"
In capturing my knight, he "forked" my king and queen.  I was in check from his knight, and my queen was threatened by the same piece, and by moving my pawn moments before, I had nothing with which to capture his knight.  I had to move my king.  He had anticipated my playing style, knowing I tended not to force trades until later in the game.  He had planned ahead, and tricked me.  And he won my queen for his efforts.  
It was brilliant.  It was genius.  (Yes, I'm biased.  He's my son, what did you expect?)

It was also a little embarrassing.

My very first reaction is amazement, and appreciation for a well-executed tactic.  I reach over the board and give my son a high-five.  He beams.  He is happy.  Now, he might just have a chance to beat his dear old dad.  Down a queen, I consider resigning.  I might still have a chance, but he would be so happy with a win.  I could say that the odds against me were too overwhelming.  I could hand him this on a silver platter, and he would deserve it.

Then I remembered what my dad said... "If I always play my best, you'll know how good you are by how close you get to beating me."  I had to carry on, for his sake.  I had to set the example.  I had to show him that it's possible to dust yourself off, pick up the sword and battle on.

I rejoined the fray.  We battled fiercely back and forth.  Capturing, protecting, maneuvering, calculating, pondering, sacrificing, it was all there.  It had everything you might want in a chess game, and the challenges on both sides of the board went on and on, until the very last move.
When the dust settled, there were two kings on the board... and NOTHING ELSE.


I had overcome the loss of my queen, and prevented him from parlaying it into a sheer massacre.  He had taken his dad to a draw for the third time in his young chess career.
Much more than that, he learned a few valuable lessons about focus and tenacity.
And I learned that my day of reckoning is growing closer with every beat of the drum.
I will fight it off with all my might, but it will come, and nobody will be prouder on that day than I.

Except, possibly, his Grandfather.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Articles of Interest

So I recently read two articles which REALLY caught my eye, and I wanted to share them with the world...

This is from Jules Carlysle, a Canadian author with a keen eye and sharp tongue, who has taken our recently-retired President Bush to task many times (and America for twice electing him!).
She writes about her impressions of our recently-HIRED President Obama.

This is from Mitch Albom, a Detroit sports columnist who's achieved a fair bit of fame writing books and movies... and still writes about Detroit sports.  It's a bit longer of a read, at 3 pages (on the web, that's a long read), but it's VERY MUCH worth it.


Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Reflections on the Jonas Brothers... and getting old.

Kevin, Joe, & Nick.  
They seem to consume an inordinate amount of my daughter's attention.  There are many, many posters of these boys on her bedroom walls.  "Pop Sensation" doesn't begin to adequately convey their popularity with "tweens".  (For the uninitiated, a "tween" is a youth between middle childhood and adolescence, approximately 8-12 years old, usually referring to a girl.)  The Jonas Brothers are the latest incarnation of the spirit of John, Paul, George, & Ringo.  They are her generation's version of the Osmonds or the Jackson Five, and they have been produced and packaged with all the impressive slickness that the Disney machine can muster.  That machine has spent a lot of coin on perfecting the product, and I can only believe they are now reaping in the ol' Return-On-Investment at a staggering pace.  Sound like envy?  Maybe, a little.  But that's a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother day.
On the occasion of my daughter's 10th birthday, I purchased two tickets to the Jonas Brothers concert, one for her and one for me.  I thought it would be a great opportunity to show her that her dad has a few ounces of cool, even if it was buried under pounds of lame.  Parents are never cool, I got that a long time ago.  I know that no matter how much I try, my kids will never think I'm cool.  They may love me, respect me, and if I'm really lucky (and careful), they may even admire me.  But I've never been under the misguided assumption that they tell all their friends that they learned about the latest fads, fashions, and lingo from their DAD.  Parents are lame (or square, or out-of-it), with just an occasional glimpse of cool.  
So, I'm reaching for the glimpse here.  Tickets.  Parking.  Showtime.  A VERY long line, just to get into the sold-out arena an hour before kickoff.  Souvenir T-shirt & concert program, and a long walk up to the nosebleed section.  Opening act, (disappointment that the headliners weren't first), and a brief intermission.  Then comes... the second opening act, along with a little more disappointment that it's not THEM.  "Dad, when are THEY coming on?"  "Soon, sweetie.  Just be patient."  Another intermission.  Then, one hour and eighteen minutes after the show began, the SHOW began.

Here's where it gets interesting.

I'm a pragmatist.  I'm also starting to lose my hearing.  I brought earplugs.  Smartest move of the evening.  I don't care if it detracted from my cool-factor.  I was putting the second one in when 20,000 girls started screaming.  My eardrum caught just a hint of the onslaught, so I knew very well the bullet I was dodging when the foam expanded in my right ear canal a moment later.
For the record, I've never used earplugs for a concert before, and I might never again.  I've yelled myself hoarse in arenas with Billy Joel, Elton John, Supertramp, Def Leppard (tell me there's no poetic irony there!), and even Harpo's with my cousin's death-metal band.  (Sorry, Brian, if it's not technically death-metal.  I'm too old to know the diff...)
I have, however, also heard what a few hundred inspired female teenage sets of vocal cords can do, and I assumed, correctly so, that a few thousand could very well cost me more that the ticket price would ever buy back.  Thus, earplugs.
The SHOW starts.  The lights go off, pitch black.  The stage is bathed in a dim purple glow.  The Jonas Brothers logo, a shield with the letters 'JB' inside it, is suspended over the stage, shaped in metal tubes with small holes all over it.  It ignites, first at the bottom, then the flame spreads along the lengths of tubing.

Their logo is on fire.  

It's also on 6 immense projection screens strategically located around the arena.
JB, spelled out in flames.  (This is, after all, the "Burnin' Up" tour.)
Wow.  The adult in my head says "That is SO hokey.  Too cliché, too gauche."
The kid in me says "Man, you are so lame.  That's not cliché, that's COOL!"
My inner child may have forgotten how to appreciate the noise level, but he knows that a flaming logo in a pitch-dark, sold-out arena quite simply ROCKS!
The Jonas Brothers are a family-friendly boy-band, comprised of three actual brothers, ages 16 through 21, each clean-cut and sanitized for your protection.  They've taken vows of purity, and they wear purity rings to symbolize their inability to let their hormones make their bad decisions for them.  I'm not sure (yet) who writes their music, but it's not bad.  It's not the best I've heard, but it's not the worst, either.  "Catchy, toe-tapping tunes" would be my best description, but music, like all art, is subjective.  They seem musically capable.  No wondrous displays of prodigious technical skills, but they didn't mess up either.  No, their real talent lies in knowing, and playing to, their audience.  Minor feats of acrobatics, batting their eyelashes, and making lots of eye-contact, especially during the slow love-songs.  Oh yeah, these girls were putty in their hands.  On two separate occasions, they even pulled a front-row girl up on stage to sing along with them, providing a wonderful memory of emotional nirvana to two lucky girls, and a basketful of envy to the rest.
So the nicest feature of expanding-foam earplugs is that you can still carry on a conversation in the middle of a screaming, singing audience.  You can also hear conversations being held in the row behind you, even if the words aren't meant for your ears.  Immediately after sharing his microphone, his stage, and his third chorus with one of the girl-guests, Kevin Jonas hugged her and kissed her on the forehead before returning her to her happy parent (who must have been happily reconsidering THEIR ticket-price's return-on-investment).  No sooner was that image flashed on the big-screen, than I heard a voice behind me yell, "OH MY GOD, Brittany, did you SEE that?  MY FUTURE HUSBAND just KISSED another GIRL!"

So where is all this rambling going?  (Hint: The short answer is "nowhere".)

I'm 43, and I'm amazed that one pop-rock concert can make me feel simultaneously old and young, happy and sad.
Old, because it's clear that I'm NOT the target demographic of what Joni Mitchell called "the star-maker machinery of the popular song".
Young, because I wanted to buy the new Jonas Brothers CD and start tapping my toes.
Sad, because my daughter is getting older, and so am I.  She'll always be my girl, but she'll never be my baby girl again.
Happy, because Daddy's girl didn't come down off her cloud for days.  She'll never forget her first rock concert.

Neither will I.