Confessions of a Bellman - The Motivational Speaker

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It was the week after Thanksgiving and I was sitting in the hotel's basement checkroom doing my crossword puzzle. I had just figured out that 5 down, clued as "One leaving space" was "indenter," when the phone rang. It was my bell captain at the desk upstairs.

"Dude, go to room 2416 and help this guy out. He's in a wheelchair and needs a little help with a few things, but then he needs you to push him down to a banquet room. He seems really cool."

"Shouldn't security do the pushing?" I asked.

"Well, since it's not that far and he's not leaving the hotel, go ahead and do it for him. He seems really cool."

I went to the room and found the door slightly ajar with the deadbolt holding it open. I knocked.

"Come on in Tyge!"

"Oh great," I thought to myself, "he already knows my name."

I have a thing about people liberally using my name when they've never met or even seen me yet.

"Hey buddy, how ya doing? I just need a little help with a few things, and don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"Yes sir," I answered.

"Call me Tyler."

"Okay Tyler."

Tyler explained that he was a quadriplegic, and although he had limited use of his arms, his hands were permanently clenched into fists and pretty much useless—just like his legs. He also said that he was a motivational speaker and that he would need my help getting him to a taxi after he spoke at the convention downstairs. 

"Can you be back at the banquet room at 11:30 and push me to the front door and have a handicap taxi ready for me?" he asked.

"Certainly," I replied. 

"Great, I'll take care of you then," he said. 

In the twenty minutes that followed my entering his room, I went above and beyond the call of duty as a bellman—or at least I did things I've never done for a guest before, handicapped or otherwise.

I helped Tyler get dressed, which entailed very unique movements and positions on behalf of both of us. Tyler was at least wearing long-johns, top and bottom, so it wasn't like his balls were hanging out or anything like that. I buckled his belt, tied his shoes, and poured some Neosporin on his scabby elbow. I didn't TOUCH the scab, but only doused it with the salve, using the tip of the tube. 

Looking at his shirt hanging on the door, Tyler asked how my ironing skills were. I drew the line there. 

"I don't do ironing," I said, "but we can get a butler up here if you'd like." 

Honestly, the whole time I was wondering why there wasn't a butler helping him, or even more so, why he didn't have his own personal assistant. 

Tyler opted for a different shirt and after I helped him put it on—along with his wristwatch—we headed to the banquet hall. 

"Thanks so much Tyge, I'll see you in two hours. Have that cab ready for me!"

"My pleasure, will do," I replied. 

Two hours later I returned to the banquet hall. Tyler's motivational speech had started late so I was able to catch the last 15 minutes. Looking at the slide-show of photographs on the screen behind where he sat onstage, I got the gist of what Tyler had been through over the past 10 years. In a nutshell, he had been a happily married man, a father of three, and had a good job. Then, ten years ago, a car accident left him confined to a wheelchair, labeled as a quadriplegic. In the years since, he bragged, he'd accomplished incredible feats—tandem hang-gliding, wheelchair bicycling, wheelchair basketball and SCUBA diving, among other things.

"I've learned, by the Grace of God, how to type on the computer using only my knuckles! I've learned how to brush my teeth, to comb my hair, to wash myself, to put on spray cologne, and all these things without help from anyone!" Tyler proclaimed as the crowd roared with applause. 

"And this morning, thank-you Jesus, I dressed myself in twenty-three minutes!" 

For a brief instant I felt like I was in a  movie or TV show, perhaps an old episode of Matlock, where someone yells from the back of the courtroom, "NO YOU DIDN'T!" and everyone gasps and turns their heads around to see who's making the accusation. 

Except it would have been me making the accusation, and I wasn't about to rain on Tyler's parade. 

The meeting adjourned and after Tyler posed for photos and signed his books for some of the guests, I pushed him to the front door where a handicap accessible van was waiting. 

"Thank you so much for everything," Tyler said to me. "Open the top pocket in my backpack and take your money. You've earned it." 

Tyler was true to his word, as he did indeed take care of me. I wasn't really expecting such a swell tip from the man, but then again, a thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was "hush money" —I guess I'll never really know for sure. 

All I do know is that I'm thankful for having arms and legs and hands that work well, and that I can iron my own shirts like nobody's business.

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FiN. 

Oh Mercy Me - The Bob Dylan Conundrum

Bob Dylan's new album, Tempest, is currently streaming for free on iTunes.

I've never been a fan of O'l Bob, but over the years I've tried. I've listened to 1975's critically acclaimed Blood on the Tracks but it didn't do much for me. A friend loaned me a Dylan anthology 3-CD set, but short of "Lay Lady Lay," I was unimpressed.

I don't hate the guy, far from it. I think he's talented, a good songwriter, and he has a great sense of humor—how else can you explain 2009's Christmas in the Heart?

I guess you can say I just don't like listening to him. Case in point, I'm a long-time Robyn Hitchcock fan and when I bought his 2002 live album, Robyn Sings, I thought it was a great listen. It wasn't until after I had the album for over a week that I read the liner notes and realized all the songs were Bob Dylan covers.

I appreciate the many musicians Bob has influenced and inspired. Artists like Hitchcock, Steve Earle, and my friend, ex-Las Vegan (and now resident Nashvillian when he's not on tour) troubadour Mark Huff  —all these guys owe Dylan a debt of gratitude for his music, and it's suffice to say that I'm a big fan of their music also.

Having just mentioned Steve Earle, I'm reminded of something he once said about fellow musician and mentor, Townes Van Zandt:

"Townes Van Zandt is the best songwriter in the whole world and I'll stand on Bob Dylan's coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that."

When Townes heard what Steve Earle had said about him, he humbly replied, "I've seen Bob Dylan's bodyguards and trust me, Steve's not getting anywhere near Dylan's coffee table."

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Here's something though:

Back in January I reviewed the indie documentary film Bombay Beach, a film that features a rather obscure Bob Dylan song that is both in the film's trailer and at the end of the movie. The name of the song is "Series of Dreams" and it was meant to be on Dylan's 26th album, 1989's Oh Mercy. At the time however, the song was considered a little too over-the-top for the album and so the song was ultimately shelved. Eventually though, it appeared as a remix on a few of Dylan's official Bootleg Series CDs.

I think the song, with it's pulsating tempo and gradual build-up, is fantastic, especially during the ending of Bombay Beach—not that I'm spoiling anything by posting this video—because really, what young boy (bipolar and on Ritalin, or otherwise)  has never dreamed of being a fireman?

              

                          Bombay Beach- Ending from The Click & The Flash on Vimeo.

Because I liked the song, I downloaded the whole Oh Mercy album and you know what? Oh Mercy is really, really good, and you know why I think it's really, really good? Because Daniel "I can do no wrong behind the sound board" Lanois produced it—and I didn't know this until I had listened to the whole album.

Daniel Lanois is a Sound God in my book. U2's The Joshua Tree, Emmylou Harris' Wrecking Ball, and the soundtrack to Sling Blade are all some of my favorite Lanois productions, and for any fans of The Killers (random trivia—Brandon Flowers was a bellman at The Gold Coast Hotel & Casino here in Las Vegas before hitting the big-time) Lanois helped produce their upcoming album, Battle Born, due to be released on the 18th of this month. More random trivia—“Battle Born" is a phrase on the Nevada State flag.

So, to sum things up, I listened to Tempest on iTunes and I hated it. Bob's voice is starting to sound too much like Tom Waits, and that's not a good thing unless you're Tom Waits.

But thanks to Oh Mercy, I think there's hope for me as a Bob Dylan fan. I just need to dig a little deeper into his catalog (of well over thirty albums) and find the rare gems that I like.

He just might start growing on me like fungi.

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FiN.

Waking Up to Kurt Vonnegut

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Kurt Vonnegut visited me in a dream last night. It was a vivid dream, one in color and set in the not too distant future when I'll be in Michigan (just a few weeks away) to visit my nearly 106 year-old grandma.

In the dream, I had invited Vonnegut to visit me at my grandma's home, and I'll be damned if he didn't show-up on the doorstep just after 11:00 PM on Friday night, what will soon be the 28th of this month. He was tired and moved slow. He was dressed in a dapper dark suit and carried a small, black leather duffle bag. He was quiet and kind and courteous. I showed him to the guest room, where he immediately laid down on the bed and fell asleep.

Knowing that Kurt Vonnegut was under the same roof as me, I barely slept during the night. Like an eager kid on Christmas morning, I was wide awake at 6:00 AM, and excited to see what the day held. I peeked inside the guest room and there was Kurt, sitting in bed and reading a book—I think by Truman Capote. I left him alone and retreated to the patio for my morning cigarette. As I lit my smoke, I grabbed the ashtray and noticed it was full of Pall Mall filterless cigarette butts—Mr. Vonnegut obviously had not slept much during the night.

Mom and Grandma started preparing breakfast, and Kurt finally emerged from the bedroom. I introduced him, and again, he was kind and courteous—although he declined the toast and banana Grandma offered him. We both returned to the patio for another cigarette but this time, I brought my camera with me.

"Do you mind if I take some photographs of you today?" I asked.

"I don't mind. Just be sure to use your camera's Blue Mode," Kurt said. "I photograph much better in the Blue Mode."

"Blue Mode?" I asked while looking at and twisting the dials on my camera, "I don't think my camera has a Blue Mode."

Kurt reached over and turned one of the dials. "There's the Blue Mode for you," he said.

"How did you know that?" I asked.

"You know, my wife, Jill Krementz. She's a photographer," Kurt answered.

We left the house and walked to the school playground across the street.

"I'll tell you what," Kurt said to me, "I'll sit down on this little rocket-ship thingy and you climb-up on the ladder of the slide and shoot a photo angled downward at me. I'll look up at you, and I'll be like a child again."

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After taking this and more photographs, and while on the the way back to Grandma's house, I asked Mr. Vonnegut to prove to me that I wasn't dreaming, and that he was indeed real, and somehow visiting with me inside my head.

"I'll leave you with a joke... no, a wry story," he said. "How about that?"

"Okay," I said.

So here's the brief story that Kurt Vonnegut told me while I slumbered:

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There once was a medieval village in Scotland where high above on a hill was a great castle—it was the home of a wealthy Lord, his Lady, and their servants. One day a maiden from the castle came running frantically into the village.

"There's a murderer in the castle! Help me! There's a brutal murderer somewhere in the castle!" She screamed.

The elders in the village assembled a small group—armed with clubs and axes—and they set out to investigate the hullabaloo at the castle.

Entering the Great Hall, they found the Court Jester beaten to death on the floor. They went downstairs to the Bottlery Chamber, where they found the Sommelier cut to pieces with broken bottles.

"There's a madman on the loose!" Someone in the group yelled.

"A barbaric animal he is!" Someone else said.

"Who could do such a thing!" Someone chimed in.

The group went upstairs to the Minstrel's Gallery where they found all three musicians strangled with wires from their previously stringed instruments.

Upstairs on the third level, inside the Bower Room, the Fair Lady's body was found, raped and beaten.

"Where is this coward?" Someone blurted.

"He's a deadman when we find him!"  Someone else yelled.

"I'll gut the pig myself!" One of the villagers said.

On the fourth level, in the Throne Room, the Lord laid decapitated in a pool of blood. His head was nowhere to be found.

"To the Mezzanine!" Someone shouted.  

"Yes, the killer must be using the Mezzanine to get around the castle so quickly!" Replied a voice from the crowd.

And so the small mob of villagers ran out onto the Mezzanine—which overlooked the inner courtyard that was surrounded by the castle's outer walls—and in the courtyard below they saw 1,200 men from the King of England's army—many of whom were on horseback—and all armed to their teeth with bloody spears and swords.

The End. 

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I woke up this morning convinced that I'd actually met Kurt Vonnegut in my sleep.

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FiN.

An Experiment in Photography

I took this photograph of two girls sitting on a dock at sunset while I was in Lake Tahoe a few weeks ago. It's not a great photo, but I think it's pleasing to the eye. When I posted the image on Facebook it received a lot of "Likes" from people who normally don't offer their opinion on things I post. The thing is though, the above image is the raw file and is unedited and posted exactly how it came off my camera. There's nothing wrong with this, but as most photographers know—even amateurs like myself—nearly every photograph can be improved.

Years ago, these improvements were done in a darkroom or in post-development, but now with the benefit of software programs such as Lightroom and Photoshop, editing pictures has become more easy and diverse, and with much less work and mess.

As a little experiment I decided to send my picture to five photographer friends. I told them to edit the picture however they wanted to, and with the software of their choice. I also told them to treat the photograph as if it was their own.

While doing my own edits to the image, I wondered if my changes would be similar or completely different to those of my friends. In addition to the usual variables (color, lighting, contrast etc...) there's other things that could be changed in the photograph. Some of these things are: Thanks to not holding the camera straight (or because of standing on the wonky pier) the horizon tilts slightly to the right. Second, you can see the ass of a goose sticking-out from behind the large pole. Third, the sky is dull and boring. Lastly, the original image dimensions are of an uncommon size and in my opinion, should be cropped to a more suitable format, such as in a 5 x 7 or an 8 x 10 ratio. 

Here's the images as returned to me by my fellow photography friends:

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Carl Polgar

 

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Carl used a tilt-shift effect with vignetting. This reduced the saturation of the image while it's selective focus draws your eye toward the girls. Carl often uses these two effects in combination with a few other effects, and you can see a lot more of his images on his Flickr page.

If you're intrigued and would like to try your hand at tilt-shift photography, there's a simple generator you can download at ArtAndMobile.com.

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Jennifer Duffy

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Professional photographer Jennifer Duffy sent a few different versions, however I liked this one the best. The blue filter makes the image more uniform, and I love how the fade of the blue sky (from the top of photo down to the mountains) is similar to the fade of the lake (from the mountain shores to the foreground). I think it enhances the horizontal layers very nicely.

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Steve Smith

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Fellow Las Vegan Steve Smith of DigitalHotShots.com apparently hates geese. He completely erased them from the image, but added a nice background. I'm not sure where he found the image of the mountains, but it does closely resemble the terrain that surrounds Lake Tahoe. With his deletions, the image becomes more isolated and thought-provoking.

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Steph Agar

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Steph applied a series of effects by using a Power Tool Photoshop plug-in. The result is a retro effect that most of us would associate with Instagram or Hipster, although those apps could never handle an image of this size. Steph also erased the goose's ass from the image and added a realistic rainbow. You can check-out Steph's other photographs on her Flickr page.

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Nick Koudis

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Advertising and celebrity photographer Nick Koudis straightened and tightened the image, and then he creatively cropped it. Vignetting has been applied and the contrast tweaked. I like how he matched the sky with the warmth of the sunlight on the dock.

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Me

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This is my edited image, complete with an over-saturated lake and a still rather dull but orchid sky. I erased the ass of the goose, and even turned some of the geese around so they're now paddling toward the girls. This was a bush-league edit on my part because a keen eye can tell that the geese on the left are now facing away from the light source but the sunlight still somehow manages to shine on their front plumage.

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So there you have it—five different versions of the same photograph from five different photographers. Do you have a favorite? If so, keep it to yourself. This wasn't a competition, but an experiment to see how different people view and interpret an image. Personally, I thought my contributors would all have a tendency to make the water more blue and the sky more azure, but I'm glad I was wrong. Think about how boring the world would be if we all saw things through the same eyes!

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Just please don't submit anything from Blingee.

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FiN.

Five Years Later - The Crass Media and the Death of Kurt Vonnegut

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When Kurt Vonnegut died—five years ago today—Fox News aired a scathing obituary that mostly highlighted Vonnegut's fallacies as a father, writer, and as a human being.

                

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When I first saw the Fox Special Report on Vonnegut's death, I nearly became sick to my stomach. How could anyone—a newsgroup or otherwise—spin this incredible American writer's death into something political, especially the day after his death? Then, less than six months later, I got sick to my stomach again when my own father died, and his reputation as a U.S. Government photographer was dragged over the coals by a misinformed media. At the time I thought that my world, along with Dad's reputation and integrity, were quickly coming to an end.

But then something happened. I remembered that my favorite author was a cynical realist. Vonnegut was a chain-smoking doomsayer who had all but given-up on mankind's presumably inherent ability for us to be nice to each other. And unlike-wise, my Father had faith in mankind, and he knew that world peace was a very possible reality, although probably not during his lifetime. So I guess Dad was somewhat a realist too, although he didn't know it at the time.

I like to think that between these two men—one being a mentor and the other trying to be a Father to the best of his ability—I somehow found a happy medium that shaped me into the person I am today. A little bit of Yin, a little bit of Yang. There's positive and negative, good and bad, in everything. Without it, there can be no comparison. I would never want to live in a Utopia because really, what's the fun in that? Perpetual pure bliss? No thank you.

Even though the Fox News broadcast was inexcusable and very disappointing to Vonnegut's family and many fans, I actually think Vonnegut would have been amused by the televised obituary. I like to think that the day after his death, Kurt was hanging-out somewhere on a cloud, perhaps sitting next to Walter Cronkite, watching the special report.

"Well color me happy!" Vonnegut would exclaim while watching his own obituary on television, “By God, Fox News actually got something right for once! Stop the presses!"

Oh the hilarity! The above sentence is probably the best impression of Kurt Vonnegut I'll ever write.

I guess it all comes down to this in the end. Whitney's music will always be heard and Vonnegut's words will always be read, just like my Father's photographs will always be seen. And the media, no matter how crass and insensitive, no matter how blood-thirsty they are for controversy and viewership, can't take away the people's desire for authentic art, whether it be music, words, photographs or something else. The media may succeed in temporarily casting a thin veil over these great things—masquerading the person's highlights with their faults—but over time truth does eventually win.

If all the dead, criticized artists could speak, I think their message would be this:

"We did our work because we thought of it as being enjoyable and important. Forgive us."

And of course let's not forget what Vonnegut wrote in chapter 119 of Cat's Cradle:

Each one of us has to be what she or he is...

...We do, doodley do, doodley do, doodely do,
What we must, muddily must, muddily must, muddily must;
Muddily do, muddily do, muddily do, muddily do,
Until we bust, bodily bust, bodily bust, bodily bust.

It's been five years, and I still miss him terribly.

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FiN.

My Message to a Frustrated Writer

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I just read the saddest and most disturbing of blog posts.

It was written by a friend of mine, someone who I greatly admire and respect, especially as a writer.

He's excelled at all facets of journalism over the years—writing books, articles and memoirs, teaching the subject at universities and editing well-known publications both online and in print.

But now, and sadly, this talented and accomplished writer thinks he's burning out. He states that his "writer's spirit is starting to die," and he's asking himself, "why does any of this matter? What good am I doing?"

Unlike this friend, I don't write for a living. I write because I enjoy it and because I enjoy sharing my writing with others online. Because of this difference, my advice and perspective may be a bit skewed, but I can't help but comment.

He asks, "Why should a man like me, at my age and with my past, not feel cynical?"

And my answer, although I think his question is meant to be moot, is this:

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My friend,

You have every right to feel cynical.

I can only imagine how difficult earning a living as a writer can be. I know it was a tough racket back in the day, and now—especially with all the online competition—the market is over-saturated, underappreciated and even more underpaid than ever. And like you say, you know you're not the only writer experiencing this dilemma.

In addition to journalists, I think musicians are really getting screwed too, and even more so than writers. Their music is being pirated online, and live concerts get bootlegged—both audio and on video—and released without their consent.

Thankfully, most of these artists persevere. Holy crap, can you imagine if the music stopped? If all these great musicians all got flustered and just stopped the creative process?  Where would we be then?

Back in the eighties and early nineties it was thought bands had to be signed to a major label such as Geffen Records or Elektra if they wanted to be successful—just like writers thought if Simon & Schuster published their book, it would be an instant New York Times best seller.

But things have changed. Musicians are now producing and distributing their music by themselves, and authors are writing and self-publishing on their own terms. They may not be getting rich, but they're getting by in life, and by God, I thank them for the music and the words.

You, who I consider a mentor, must reinvent yourself, your work, your priorities. You must adapt. The Flaming Lips (I know you know their music) are a great example of a band from the eighties that have adjusted well to these modern problems.

How to perform this reinvention as a writer, I have absolutely no idea, but the one thing you must NEVER EVER do is stop writing. Whether you know it or not, you were born a writer. It's in your blood, and your past is the prologue that proves you've always had a passion for it.

Do whatever you have to do. Go back to teaching. Get a part-time job to supplement your income. If you must, take a sabbatical from some of your many online writing outlets, but dammit, you best be working on your Rock & Roll magazine memoir during the interim. There's a bunch of great stories there—I can smell them. Also, you may find you're a happier writer if you aren't writing for your main source of income. 

Teach, and feel the reward.

Remember when we had dinner at the Irish pub? I kept pestering you about things like the em dash, comma control and whether one spells the number "thirty," or just types "30." You answered the best you could, but as you knew and tried to convey to me, there are no absolute correct answers to these things.

And here it is years later—and I'm still quite the amateur with this whole writing thing—but I'm telling you likewise, there are no correct answers to your lament.

"Why does any of this matter? What good am I doing?" you ask.

It matters because people read and appreciate what your write. You inspire. You make people think and you can sway opinions with your words. You entertain. And yes, you probably got paid well for this in the past, and I'm sure it's a bitter and disheartening realization not to be anymore, but there's no going back, not with these changing times.

And like it or not, you're still a writer.

Reinvent. Adapt. Aspire. Start something. Write about THIS subject. Yes, write a book about how technology has changed/ruined/shaped the media. It could very well be more epic than David Halberstam's The Reckoning.

But friend, if you must give-up writing, just know I would have given anything to have been on your coattails back in journalism's heyday. You were there when the getting was good.

I wish I'd been a student in your classroom—and if I had been, maybe I'd now be running The Huffington Post, where I'd hire you as Editor-in-Chief and pay you the top-dollar you deserve.

The world and Internet are full of people who think they can write—but can't. Losing someone who actually can is a crime I don't like to think about.

Just please don't stop writing.

Your post broke my heart.

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FiN.