Weird Long Beard Press

Steve Jobs

2012-01-20T13:55:00.000-08:00

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson is an elegantly crafted story and one that will forever remain among my favorites.

Most of us have never met Steve Jobs face-to-face and yet I think we all feel we know him on a personal level having been seduced by his products at some point in our lives for one reason or another. My memories, while not of him, are of Apple, which may be as close to him as we could get anyway.

They begin when I took a computer class in high school with my best friend. The main reasons we took it were the teacher was likable and the hottest girl in school happened to be taking it too. The by-product of this hour long oasis was learning the features of the Macintosh which were intuitive and then utilizing them to compose documents such as "Why Michael Jordan Is the Greatest Athlete on Earth."

Fast forward to my first editorial job at Forbes magazine and my desire to purchase a laptop so I could write wherever inspiration struck. My colleagues in IT, who I knew from the softball team, convinced me to cancel my order for an IBM Thinkpad and buy a Mac Powerbook instead. I did so and they were high-fiving one another as if we won a game against The Wall Street Journal. My great memory of that machine was a road trip I took to Key West to see Hemingway's house and then writing "Notes on South Beach" in the airport waiting for my return flight and trying not to be too distracted by an amazing sun-kissed beauty in the seat nearby.

The machine died much too soon. As did the first iPod that I received as a gift from my wife, who was then my girlfriend. I remember taking the defective iPod to the Apple store in SoHo and fighting the masses to arrive at a table where a kid wearing a black "genius" t-shirt acknowledged the product's fault and then insisted I pay $35 for its replacement. I turned around and walked out and stayed far away from Apple products, promising to not give them another dollar. But there was no alternative to iTunes and on my honeymoon I was grateful that my wife brought hers so that I could listen to David Gray and Damien Rice songs while lying poolside sipping cocktails and fantasizing about what we would have for dinner in between swims and excursions along the beach.

When the iPhone was introduced, I patiently sat on the sideline as it was not available on the Verizon network. Its arrival in 2011 coincided with my birthday and after looking at every alternative, I decided to buy one. Everything Isaacson writes in his book is true. The elegant packaging, the ease of use, the instant set up, all made for a wonderful user experience.

The device is more durable than its predecessors; however, mine developed a software glitch and when I walked into the Apple store to complain, this time on Greenwich Ave, the staff replaced it in seconds at no expense or inconvenience to me.

When news of Steve Jobs death broke, I remember it was in the evening and I was painting the room that would become my son's nursery. I quickly grabbed my iPhone and quipped on twitter that I wonder if Saint Peter would confiscate Steve's iPhone at Heaven's Gate. Then I was sad at the loss of this iconic figure, much like the day Princess Diana died, for reasons I'm not sure I even understand.

As I thought about Steve Jobs, I was anxious to read his biography as well-timed as all of his product launches and I shuddered at the thought that he might figure out a way to communicate from beyond the grave. As impossible as it sounds, all of us aware of his genius probably giggle a little uncomfortably at the possibility.

It is clear that Walter Isaacson's biography is the manifesto for Jobs' legacy. Apple shares have resumed their steady ascent in the market as many of us understand that this company is our link to him and the wonder he inspired and that Tim Cook and Jony Ives embody its philosphy wholly. Of course the possibility that his son Reed may take the reigns one day is also intriguing, or perhaps it will be Eve and I can't wait to read those headlines.

Jobs had me scratching my head recently while I was waiting for a friend at Cipriani's in Grand Central Station. I was looking up at its starry ceiling and then across at the mobs of people congregating under the famous Apple logo and the echo from his earlier ad that "those who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who usually do" spun in my head.

Katy Perry, Anna Kournikova and Scarlett Johansson's Boobs, Oh My 2011

2011-12-30T17:50:00.000-08:00

Good grief Charlie Frown another last minute post to sum up the year when really all anyone needs is a Hanger One martini, straight up with a twitter twist in a dimly lit bar with CNBC and Bloomberg hovering like the NFL on Sunday over a plate of wings.

Reports are that Katy Perry has kicked Russell Brand to the curb. Brand says they will remain Words-With-Friends unlike Kris Humphries who couldn't get Kim Kardashian to spell, not even a little bit according to her gossipy sisters.

Speaking of biggest losers, Anna Kournikova has reportedly left the show due to reports that she has been putting on weight, albeit in the alien form of Enrique's gestating mole. Hard to figure out who the biggest winner is here, Enrique on his yacht or this child who will speak and sing in all kinds of languages while it hunts for the Roddick-Decker spawn on the clay courts of Jupiter Island.

This year was biblical with its earthquakes and tsunamis, government meltdowns and the loss of tyrants and heroes or both in the case of Steve Jobs and yet like a SEAL-team bullet through Bin Laden's head, Scarlett Johansson's nude self-portrait ends up on desktops around the world as she blesses it saying she more than anyone else knows her best angles. Perhaps 2012 will usher in a year where the world's beauties continue to get caught with their pants down and Anthony Weiner and Brett Favre will pull their Wrangler jeans up. Who knows.

I for one am sorry to see 2011 go. My wife and I moved to a wonderful drafty, old house and welcomed our son into the world, God is gracious, while our dog guards his inventory of Milk-Bones and shakes the beach-sand from his fur.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. Well put, Mr. Burns, well put.

Work's an Easy Place to Fall in Love

2011-11-16T20:28:00.000-08:00

I sure as hell ain't no Justin Bieber, but I am fascinated that this "music video" was shot on an iPhone and published to YouTube in the time it takes to fry an egg, although my eggs tend to be more palatable.

The days of recording on a four-track and then mixing tapes to play in the car or wherever else you had a "captive" audience are shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Thanks to my son, Shane, for contributing his background vocals on this track.

PS - Happy Birthday, Mom!

The Interview That Launched Sarah Jessica Parker

2011-11-01T14:54:00.000-07:00

Hasten back to 1987, a drizzly day in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, a young group of intrepid reporters gather in the backroom of a long since forgotten restaurant to interview an up-and-coming actress whose name was not yet known.

I received the call a week before as my name had been picked from a hat along with three others from my seventh-grade class to conduct the celebrity interview for the "Kidsday" insert of the Sunday edition of Newsday, which we were chosen to put together. The subject, a fresh-faced kid named Sarah Jessica Parker, was known for her work on the TV series Square Pegs and was then part of an ensemble cast in the TV mini-series A Year in the Life. Of course, I had not seen either of these shows.

It was an hour before the interview. The team had gathered on the train speeding toward Manhattan with our parents and the "Kidsday" editor in tow. We diligently used this time to brainstorm what questions we could ask that would both entertain and inform our readers while not alienating our subject. Once we had them scripted, we debated over the order and arrived at the following:

1) How long does it take you to do your hair? What do you use? Is it naturally curly?

2) Are you dating?

3) On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate yourself?

4) What roles do you like to portray? Good or bad?

5) In your spare time, what do you enjoy doing? What hobbies?

6) After you complete a production, does the whole cast go out for a celebration?

7) Right now are you working on a new movie?

8) Do you follow your horoscope?

9) Was becoming an actor difficult?

10) Are you related to Fess Parker (TV's Daniel Boone)?

Upon arrival, we exited Penn Station with a sense of purpose and found the designated restaurant in a timely fashion; however, our interviewee had not.

We looked at each other nervously and stirred our straws around our water glasses. Our editor used the pay phone and was able to track down Sarah Jessica Parker at a different restaurant across town with the same name. Minor mix up, we were told she was then on her way.

I recall a sense of excitement when she came in the room. She was seated at the head of the table and I to her left. I remember the obligatory small talk and then taking a cue from our editor to begin. I immediately abandoned the script and got down to brass tacks ... "Are you dating?"

My colleague, Patricia, recalled my asking Sarah Jessica Parker for a date rather than who she was dating and her telling me diplomatically, "if I were only ten years older ..." Unfazed, I hammered away until she confessed that she was dating Robert Downey Jr. I followed up by asking her what she did with her money and our editor gasped, but the team perked up in their chairs and Sarah Jessica Parker smiled and said that she and Robert had just purchased an old house in L.A. Her money was spent fixing it up.

Over the next hour, she poured on the charm and I remember thinking to myself at the conclusion of our talk, nice girl, I hope she makes it.

Years later I would find the questionnaire I had abandoned, tucked away in a desk drawer with the inscription, "to david, it really was a treat speaking w/you -- my best to you -- love Sarah jessica parker."

Our starry paths would cross again four years later when she was filming Honeymoon in Vegas. Her trailer was parked on Hester Street beside P.S. 130 where I was working as a janitor. I did not have cause to see her then, but fate would save its best laugh for last. A decade after that I would gain free admission to a night club in Manhattan as the bouncer mistook me for Berger, Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend on Sex and the City.

(Editor's note: Special thanks to Patricia Alcamo McCulloch for sharing her pictures and recollections of the event.)

Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001

2011-09-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

My lungs burn with the ashes of the desperate,
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,

New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,

Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,

To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.

And That's When the Strange Music Starts

2011-08-31T19:25:00.000-07:00

I have had that line stuck in my head for days. It's from the book Hell's Angels written by Hunter S. Thompson.

"... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that the fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms."

I know what he means. I scratch my head and look around the apartment -- boxes packed with books, waiting to move, wife about to burst with baby, waiting to move, dog, restless legs, waiting to move, and me, finally, waiting to move and begin the next chapter from Brooklyn to Connecticut, leaving the shattered beer bottle glass strewn on the road for the tempered bowl like concoctions filled with keys and other men's wives.

Lavender shirts and whale belts. A miserable Mets franchise and a Giants team who seems to be no more than a whimsical flirt in the back of a high-school bus.

I had never read Hunter's suicide note. Was surprised to see it posted on wikipedia. It reads:

Football season is over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.

And to think they blew his ashes out of a cannon.

I Wish Liz Cho Would Come Back to the 11pm Broadcast of Eyewitness News

2011-07-12T20:56:00.000-07:00

In the wake of Oprah's departure from the weekday line-up, WABC-7 has slated Eyewitness News First @ 4pm and moved Liz Cho there from her traditional 11pm slot.

While I am a fan of her replacement, Sade Baderinwa, Liz Cho was the glue of the 11pm broadcast, holding it together through the promotion of Sam Champion and the retirement of Scott Clark. In deference to Sade, my wife was riding with her in the back of a WBAL sat-truck that went through a red-light back in 2000 and hit another car. My wife had to go to the hospital for a minor injury. Even with this history, I wish Liz Cho would come back.

She guested last week at 11pm and the broadcast just seemed brighter in every way. I hope when Dr. Oz finally takes over the 4pm slot, Liz will resume her evening post and thereby restore my enthusiasm to go to bed at reasonable time.

James Spader Interview on 'The Office'

2011-06-27T21:49:00.000-07:00

Reports are that James Spader is in talks with The Office to appear next season as Steve Carell's replacement in the Scranton office and then eventually Dunder Mifflin's CEO.

As we have seen, he is a powerful negotiator. No doubt these skills were honed on the set of Boston Legal with the Priceline.com Negotiator himself, William Shatner.

Here's an excerpt from his fictional interview as Robert California in The Office season finale:

"You don’t work in sales, do you? ... You see, I sit across from a man, I see his face, I see his eyes. Now, does it matter if he wants a hundred dollars of paper or a hundred million dollars of deep-sea drilling equipment? Don’t be a fool. He wants respect. He wants love. He wants to be younger. He wants to be attractive. There is no such thing as a product. Don’t ever think there is. There is only sex. Everything is sex. You understand that what I’m telling you is a universal truth, Toby?"

"Okay, I’m almost a little concerned that you might be overqualified for the position. Do you think that you are?"

"Do I look like someone who would waste my own time?"

A 'Twibute' to Mark Haines

2011-06-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

On this Father's Day I can't help but think of Mark Haines, the CNBC anchor who passed away unexpectedly on May 25. I was watching that day when Carl Quintanilla read the announcement on-air and afterward I phoned my own dad to commiserate. Another reminder of him on this day is the obligatory tie often given as a gift to dads before they head off to the golf course or fire up the grill. You'll probably see many of these ties proudly dislayed on Wall Street tomorrow. Even Google acknowledged this trend by incorporating one within its banner.

The day Mark Haines died it was as though the financial world stood still while CNBC's on-air anchors did their best to process it and put their loss in perspective. They shared stories about him and the loving nicknames he bestowed upon them. Among the many sentiments they shared were Haines' love of the Mets and the Giants, but above all, the love he had for his family. My heart goes out to his wife, son and daughter today.

Around 1pm that afternoon I saw a tweet from Jim Cramer that read, "I miss Mark Haines," which summed up my mood, so I retweeted it. Moments later I tweeted, "@CNBC @jimcramer I think all on-air anchors should wear American flag ties this Friday to salute #MarkHaines and the upcoming holiday." I then received a reply and a retweet from @the_music_gal, "the tie idea is a great one!"

The following day I wondered whether I had incepted the idea or if it had been lost amidst the outpouring of condolences. I didn't sleep well that night and was awake in time for the start of "Squawk Box" on Friday morning. I was happy to see Joe Kiernan, who clearly hadn't slept much either, wearing an American flag tie. I thought well at least Joe got it and I tweeted "@CNBC Love the Kahuna's tie! #MarkHaines lives on!" To my surprise that tweet was retweeted by @CNBC and Courtney Reagan (@CourtReagan) among others.

A few segments later, near the top of the hour, Rick Santelli and Steve Leisman went on-air in flag ties, too. I tweeted "Love the ties, gents! @CNBC Feels like #MarkHaines is smiling down. Now someone needs to take a dig at the French for good measure;)" Sometime afterward Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) tweeted, "Men reporters/anchors at CNBC wearing flag ties today in memory of Mark Haines" and included a pic of himself with The Professor. With Rovell's following, the tribute was sure to go viral.

After the opening bell, I went to Grand Central and took the Metro-North to Greenwich. While on the train, I saw a tweet from Mandy Drury (@MandyCNBC), "I'm joining the American flag tie brigade today in honour of #MarkHaines. If you have one, wear one too." I caught a glimpse of "The Call" and saw Sue Herera wearing one and later in the day Maria Bartiromo had one on during "The Closing Bell."

All on-air anchors wore American flag ties in honor of Mark Haines, who used to wear his each Friday to show his patriotism. I fired off my last tweet that day, "@MandyCNBC @CNBC You guys did great today. A fitting tribute to the legend of #MarkHaines. Proud of you all. And the French smell funny :)"

I did not have cable then, but I now understand that Mark Haines' coverage of September 11, 2001 is what he will be remembered for much the way Walter Cronkite is remembered for his coverage of President Kennedy's assasination. That said, I think the interview below with Haines on MSNBC's "Morning Joe" serves as a fitting bookend to his remarkable career.

Jim Cramer said it all, "I miss Mark Haines."

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Mark Haines, Titan of Journalism, Passes Away at Age 65

2011-05-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

Dearly departed from the Financial Capital of the Galaxy, Mark Haines passed away at the age of 65 and an Irish wake ensued on CNBC.

Perhaps the break up of the Dream Team was too much for him to bear.

The morning sun will not shine as bright in the absence of his squawk.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose!

2011-04-01T18:29:00.000-07:00

When a beloved series comes to an end, it is an epochal moment. I can think of M*A*S*H, Cheers, Seinfeld and now Friday Night Lights.

Inspired by the book written by H.G. "Buzz" Bissinger (follow him on twitter: @buzzbissinger), then the movie adaptation by Brian Grazer, Peter Berg and David Nevins, Friday Night Lights eventually became a Peabody Award winning television show produced by Peter Berg whose idea of letting the camera follow the actor around to capture real moments gave the show a sense of authenticity that often moved those of us watching it to tears.

Coach Eric Taylor, played by Kyle Chandler, was the mainstay through Friday Night Lights' five-season run that featured stars such as Minka Kelly, Adrianne Palicki, Taylor Kitsch, Michael B. Jordan and my personal favorite, Brad Leland. Coach Taylor's philosophy was centered on the mantra Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose! A profound concept tested again and again on and off the field. From the first season when star QB Jason Street suffers a paralyzing injury, to Smash Williams blowing out his knee, to Matt Saracen's struggle taking on the role of man-of-the-house much too soon, to the Riggins brothers run in with the law and finally to Vince Howard's life on the street, the absence of a father figure and the willingness of Coach Taylor to accept that awesome responsibility was brilliantly underscored in his words to Vince before State, "I doubt you will ever know how proud I am of you."

Like great coaches in real life, the foundation for Coach Taylor's philosophy was hard work. He dedicated himself and his team to preparedness, but it was only when his players hit the wall, when they were confronted by adversity, when they were hopeless, that we actually saw his greatness. It was then that he reminded them he had their back and that together they would get through it. His faith in them was unwavering. Once they earned his trust, it was theirs forever. That was the bargain. That was the lesson he taught them about becoming a man: stand your ground, believe in yourself, trust the ones you love and you will never fail.

That alone is worthy of a Peabody, but Peter Berg delved deeper. Surely Coach Taylor had his doubts. Surely he himself was confronted with the same decisions as his players. Who did he turn to for answers? Where did he find his confidence? His coach was his wife, his biggest fan, Tami Taylor, played exquisitely by Connie Britton. In the series finale she finally gets her due when her husband pleads for her to take him along this time. Then, in his biggest game, nervous with anticipation, Coach Taylor turns to the crowd and finds Tami pointing back at him as if to say Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose!

Is it any coincidence that legendary basketball coach Bobby Hurley's wife, Chris, has kept score for St. Anthony of Jersey City, N.J., for 25 years? Bobby Hurley was profiled on 60 Minutes on March 24 and the questions he was asked were the same ones he's answered before, but that are still hard to fathom: Why did you stay put? Why not cash in at the college level? How do you produce a state champion when your school doesn't even have a gym?

Bobby Hurley is already enshrined in the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Massachusetts. He is already acknowledged by the greatest coaches in the game as being the best, so after 40 years, why does he continue?

Let's look at his practices. He's a hard-nosed coach, tough on his kids, some say old-fashioned. He speaks to his players the way men speak to each other on the construction site, in the kitchen, on the beat, in the heat of a fire. He demands his players sign a contract and play by his rules, he admits there are 19 of them now. Why does Bobby Hurley ask so much? Maybe that's the price of his trust and players that earn it become champions. What greater lesson can a coach give and what greater way to underscore it than by leading his team to the pinnacle or in Bobby Hurley's case, leading his boys on their journeys to becoming men.

I think the real reason he sticks around can be seen in the conclusion of the 60 Minutes piece when the camera follows Bobby while he is teaching his grandson to put a tiny basketball through a tiny basket and it captures the wonder in his eyes, the old coach seeing it again for the first time.

The love of the game is what life's all about and it's hard to mention it without conjuring up images of the late Jim Valvano. From his epochal speech at the ESPYs to the fanatic joy on his face when his Wolfpack won the National Championship in 1983, Coach V was an inspiration. Hard to believe he was only 37 when he won the tournament and even harder to believe he died just 10 years later.

Another Final Four is set to tip off tomorrow with two outstanding young coaches, Shaka Smart of Virginia Commonwealth University, age 33, and Brad Stevens of Butler, age 34. I wonder what their faces will look like if they lead their teams to victory. And, if so, how will they manage their success?

It's easy to see that work ethic, intelligence and experience make a great coach or a great leader, but I think humility is also needed. How could they truly understand what it takes to win unless they knew what it takes to lose? How could they lead others to success without understanding failure? My guess is they do know both sides, but are probably not driven by either. My guess is that they measure success by whether or not they did everything they could to drive those in their care to be the best they could be. I think the great ones hold themselves to a standard they would never hold their players to and that gives them the final element of greatness, compassion.

If you ask a United States Marine about Chesty Puller, you'd better pull up a chair as there probably is no more beloved figure in their proud history or a more decorated one for that matter. One of my Dad's favorites about Chesty took place at the island of Pavuvu after the Marines took Guadalcanal. The enlisted men were gathering for a hot meal, the first in a long time, when word spread among them to take a look at the back of the line and there was Lieutenant Colonel Puller with his mess gear in hand.

The burden of leadership is heavy and its responsibility is unrelenting. Not many people would sign up for it and not everyone that signs up for it does so for the right reasons. Maybe that's why the good ones set examples that become immortal to us.

The bad ones? They leave a wake of destruction in their path like a tornado, an earthquake or a tsunami. They are natural disasters void of conscience. Even when the city is ablaze and the rebels draw near, or the firm is seized and the press is mobbed outside the door, their only concern is how it might reflect on them and so they call for a stylist.

Megan Fox, Shaken, Not Stirred

2011-03-12T19:38:00.000-08:00

As I passed a beautiful woman on 7th Avenue today, I couldn't help notice that she smelled like the beach, a wonderful mix of suntan lotion, sea air and baked sand that makes your lungs stretch and blood pulse. But we were at Park Slope, not Paradise Island. Maybe my senses have been programmed by years of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues with recurring captions such as "Beauty and the Beach" to associate the two. By the way, has anyone ever read anything other than the captions in those issues?

That scent, fresh and invigorating seems to fly in the face of our modern perception of beauty, or does it? No one is hotter than Megan Fox right now who presents a juxtaposition of angelic beauty with an edge defined by her prominent tattoos. Transfixed, we follow whatever she does. She insults Michael Bay and gets dropped from the Transformers sequel only to appear in Eminem and Rihanna's Love The Way You Lie video, which had a much bigger audience.

Then a commercial from Armani called "the Tip" spreads like wild fire across the web with catcalls of "oh, she looks too thin," which makes as much sense to me as the idea that a Ferrari looks too fast. Leave it to the Italians who instinctively possess the knowledge of where the rubber meets the road in the fast lane.

The comparisons between Megan Fox and Angelina Jolie are inevitable, although fans of Angelina cringe, citing her Oscar, depth of character and her ability to devour Brad Pitt like a puma in the night as insurmountable points of differentiation. Personality aside, their beauty is insanely comparable, which makes me think Megan has looked up to Angelina in anticipation that she would take the Olympic torch of Athena from her one day.

Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox are to this generation what Marlon Brando and James Dean were to an earlier one: badass rebels who drip cool from every pore and whose images inspire millions to purchase t-shirts, cigarettes, fast cars, motorcycles, Eminem records and blue jeans. I hope it's a good long time before the pendulum swings back to the masculine side. We'll probably have to wait for the next Sean Connery, Liam Neeson or Ozzy Osbourne to be born as Justin Bieber would get his ass kicked by Megan Fox, although Angelina would probably nurse him back to health. Hey, the kid's on a roll.

Femme fatales and women who walk on the dark side have been alluring for quite some time, but when did it become socially acceptable? What promulgated phrases such as "dangerous beauty" and later "safe sex." The painting Nita Naldi by Alberto Vargas flirted with the idea in 1923 and his portraits seem to beget the fascination the world would have with Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn may have tipped the scale from boys to girls, which may explain why Megan Fox has her tattooed on her right forearm or why New York Magazine's portfolio of "Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn Monroe" in 2008 was widely popular.

The edge. As Hunter Thompson so eloquently put: the only ones that truly know where it is are the ones who have gone over it. Marilyn certainly did. Let's hope Lindsay abandons the hunt and swings back to where Angelina Jolie resides, creative, beautiful, maternal and still able to jab her six-inch heel through a heart quicker than a bullet from Wild Bill Hickock.

As I peruse the voluminous library of images these women have bestowed upon the world, it's easy to see why we are so fascinated and drawn to their beauty, which burns so intensely that its mark remains even after it smolders.

As for Megan Fox, I wonder what it would be like to stumble upon her in a cafe or a tattoo parlor. I wonder what it would be like to pass by her on the street. I bet she smells like the beach.

A Free Press Is Essential to a Free Society

2011-02-16T22:15:00.000-08:00

As I turned a year older yesterday, I was trading quips on Facebook with my former editor-in-chief at Generation magazine, blissfully unaware of the breaking story about Lara Logan's assault. When I finally heard it, I couldn't fathom why she would return to Egypt after her recent troubles there: blindfolded, detained, driver beaten. What pushed this woman, this mother, to put her life in jeapardy again for the sake of a story?

I immediately thought of Veronica Guerin, the famous Irish reporter, who was gunned down nearly one year after her story of a murdered drug kingpin brought gunfire on her house, a gunshot to her leg and threats from a convicted criminal against her son. Yet, she pushed on. Why?

The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution reads: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Why did our founding fathers want to protect freedom of the press?

When I was at Forbes magazine in the 1990s, I had the pleasure of working with Paul Klebnikov, who sat in his fifth floor office on 60 Fifth Avenue with books and papers piled high. I remembered him for his kindness toward a young, naive editorial assistant, a trait seldom shown in a high-pressure publishing environment.

Paul took the assignment to bring Forbes to Russia and while he was reporting on corruption there, he was shot four times in a drive-by and bled out waiting for an ambulance that took an hour to arrive. His editor Jim Michaels wrote: "You can say of Paul, without exaggeration, that he gave his life for the truth. Paul believed in his soul in the greatness of Russia. His harsh criticism of the post-Soviet kleptocracy sprang from a passion to see that greatness realized."

Before landing the job of editor of Forbes, Jim Michaels covered The assassination of Mohandas Gandhi and the riots that followed for UPI. All that risk for a double-column of text, yellowed and hanging in a crooked frame among the clutter of his office.

I became a fan of Lara Logan through her work on 60 Minutes, which recently aired a piece on Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks, who remains under house arrest in the English countryside for his belief that the truth should be published, knowing full well that the cost of protecting freedom of the press is relinquishing his own.

Why do so many fear the truth getting out? Why are there spirits on this planet that push to uncover it only to be pushed back by the forces that wish to bury it?

Perhaps Lara Logan can explain in her own words that appeared in the Washington Post on July 8, 2008: "I'm not some Hollywood star," Logan says in her first interview on the subject. "It's not about a career for me. It's who I am. I do this because I believe in it."

/NOTE TO EDITORS: In researching this piece I learned of Jim Michaels' passing. He also demonstrated great kindness toward a young, naive editorial assistant many years ago. Godspeed, Mr. Michaels./

The Face Who Launched a Thousand Ships

2011-01-08T14:00:00.000-08:00

The face who launched a thousand ships,
I wonder if she had your lips,
I wonder if her kiss was gold
and who listened to her stories told,
I wonder whom she deeply loved
and whose tired shoulders she may have rubbed,
I wonder who watched her comb her hair
and whether or not she minded their stare,
I wonder how beautiful she looked in her clothes
and how many if anybody truly knows,
I wonder what secrets she kept in her heart
that set her so many miles apart,
I wonder if it was possible to possess such a thing
or how it might sound when heaven's angels sing.

(Photo of Michelle Borth by www.smallzandraskind.com)

True Writing

2011-01-05T07:30:00.000-08:00

True writing is a confession of the soul.

Auguste Rodin's The Thinker, orginally named The Poet, is perched on a toilet.

The Tenth Post

2010-12-31T08:35:00.000-08:00

Last chance to one-up '09 and perhaps reflect on the year gone by. Not sure I can put it in perspective, but I'm inspired by Robert De Niro's interview in Esquire, there's some real wisdom there.

Not sure what the new year will bring, but have to figure out a way to have the creative cells grow like microbiotic ones feasting on complicated sugars in the digestive tract.

Perhaps it's time to throw down the gauntlet, construct a discipline to utilize my time and life more efficiently as TIME LIFE runs out of money.

Balance is key. A new mentor might help. Who knows?

Of course I must give thanks and recognize the existing balance in my life. The good fortune and wonderful people I know and love. I realize if nothing more is to come of it, that's fine, but I suspect this is only the beginning and I should gird my loins.

A champagne toast to pain, a sham or a shame depending on your view through the pane.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?

My Review of Black Swan

2010-12-28T15:51:00.000-08:00

When the lights came up at the conclusion of the film, I hid my runny nose in a white tissue under the guise of a common cold so that no one would suspect me of being too emotional and I could not get home fast enough to write a review, which I seldom do.

From the beginning, a man's head was in my direct line of vision and two chatty old ladies behind me were telling one another irritating versions of how they arrived to the Pavillion through the remnants of a mammoth urban snowfall. The guy next to me subtly offered his share of the armrest which I politely declined, but appreciated his acknowledgement of this sliver of personal space in an otherwise crowded room.

Black Swan tormented me nearly as much as its torn cuticles tormented the guy next to me. The only scene that horrified him more was when Mila Kunis ripped off Natalie Portman's underwear, which I did not mind. The two beautiful A-listers were like chocolate covered pretzels, savory and sweet, and still I was uneasy as if climbing a mountain at high altitude.

Darren Aronofsky artfully muses through Vincent Cassel's character about the ability to let go to achieve perfection, to lift the boundaries and become ethereal, to achieve an outer body experience so powerful it shakes those who witness it like the Old Testament. To the artist, this quest is to reach a peak higher than Mount Everest.

Then like a bolt of lightning the strange music takes over like Hunter Thompson's prose and the triumphant transformation from white swan to black swan and back again makes every cell in my body ecstatic, moving me to tears which I insist is merely a cold and the astonishing Natalie Portman pulls off a magical feat: to be lost in a moment we can not describe, to be a vessel of energy more powerful than our own, to be perfect.

Accolades will fall like flowers on the stage during this film's run, but I dare not watch it again as a perfect moment is fleeting while it's memory is indelible.

lunatic

2010-12-04T06:40:00.000-08:00

Waters meat
Gilmour gravy
Pink is sweet
Floyd is lazy
Band complete
barrett crazy

Do You Believe in Miracles? YES!

2010-10-30T09:07:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking of that call by a young sports journalist in the 1980 Olympic Games when the United States Men's Hockey Team led by coach Herb Brooks defeated the mighty Soviet Union by the score of 4 to 3. With three seconds left to play an exuberant Al Michaels put to words what the world had just witnessed.

That victory seemed to ignite a sense of hope in America that President Ronald Reagan was able to seize and put an end to the Cold War and the feeling of impending doom we children of the eighties felt hanging over our heads each day.

Recently I have been entrenched in my own feeling of doom. I have chronicled my battle with Crohn's Disease on the blog and the latest chapter will be written this Thursday when I go in for my second ileocolic resection in three years.

So far I have suffered through seven months of sharp pain and withering away. I am now 145 pounds, down from my jolly 200, and find myself singing that catchy Pants on the Ground song made famous on American Idol as my trousers, cinched like a potato sack around my waist, prove gravity right with every step I take.

I am fortunate to have a trusted gastro in Dr. Barry Jaffin who has thrown every treatment available to us to try and curb this latest inflammation: Flagyl, Cipro, Levaquin, Remicade, Entocort, Pentasa and Tylenol 3, but my last CT scan proved the course of this disease to be irreversible and another appointment with my surgeon Dr. Randolph Steinhagen inevitable.

I was hospitalized this June after I showed up to Dr. Jaffin's office for my first Remicade treatment in acute pain. He and Dr. Anthony Weiss wasted no time in sending me to Mt. Sinai despite my stubborn refusal. After all, I had a conference call that afternoon with important clients.

I was admitted through the emergency room, which was packed and I was reminded by the yellow body next to me and the desperation abounding that although I was grinding my teeth in pain, my problem was not the worst. In a panic, I scrambled to clear my schedule that afternoon, which was thwarted by AT&T's lack of service from the ER, but as I could not bear the thought of letting my clients down, I convinced an attending physician to take me to a spot where I might get reception. Unfortunately my Blackberry was still not working, so she agreed to take it outside the building and search for a signal so the e-mails I had written to my clients and colleagues could be sent. She saved the day.

Later that evening, I was wheeled into the CT room and there was a hold-up as a signature was missing from a form. I could hardly stand up at this point, the pain was fierce. They were about ready to roll me back to the ER when suddenly the door opened and Dr. Jaffin appeared out of nowhere and completed the paperwork so the test could proceed and afterward I could be sent to a room where I would spend the next five days.

I left the hospital with a sense of hope that I would not return for a long time. I was confident that I would respond to treatment. I was having a good year at work as a salesman and like a pitcher whose team is depending on him, I did not want to come out of the game.

Turns out the treatments kept me in the game through October and enabled me to see my second six-figure deal of the year close. They allowed me to celebrate my third anniversary with my beautiful wife, Jackie, whose love and support has been overwhelming during this time. Of course, like a prisoner on death row waiting for the mayor to call, I met with Dr. Jaffin once more to see if surgery could be avoided. For us Crohn's folks, we know that surgery can alleviate symptoms, but it cannot cure us. It's frustrating to think I may face another recurrence again and the odds say I will, but I am still fueled with a sense of optimism and have recently become a member of the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America. Perhaps it stems from the many calls from mom (each day) and dad and sister Dee and Aunt Peg and Dom and cousin Kev and colleagues from work and cue the music in the middle of my speech before I thank everyone who has helped me throughout this ordeal.

Although I don't consider myself a religious man, I do have a strong faith in God and His Son and I have prayed daily for a miracle that this Crohn's Disease leave my body and let me be. Maybe after surgery it will. I am not afraid and I know the Lord has listened to me. All the while I have been praying for a miracle, He has been bestowing them upon me.

The Good Outweighs the Bad Fifty-Fifty

2010-08-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

The crypt door is about to close
upon my numb yet tingling toes
while the medical bills continue to stack
compounding interest on a chronic attack
as the doctor shakes his head in disbelief
and the loved ones do all they can to hide their grief
the tomb is quiet with time to think
siphoned by new media's boundless ink
we suffer and voice our genuine despair
for whom we don't know, nor do we care
but yearn for life like a wonder drug
bulging on the skin like a greedy bed bug
life feeds off life and ends in death
daring each of us to hold our breath
while the cost of living sings with glee
there ain't no such thing in the world as free
so we come and then we go
leaving others to reap and sew
the same conundrum we all must face
that nothing lasts in this holy place
except this notion that pushes us on
in spite of odds it may all be gone
to tighten our belts and remain thrifty
and hope the good outweighs the bad fifty-fifty.

Life Burns Bright

2010-05-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

It begins slow. A few beers at a friend's apartment adorned with Indian skeletons and comfortable couches. Off to a cocktail reception in a cab to midtown. Eat light, drink from Tom Collins glasses while chattering idly about things present and future with old acquaintances. Across the street to a hole in the wall for contrast. Jimmy sitting in the corner playing video poker. Shots and beers, gay conversation and a beautiful woman in a blue dress who has simply had too much. On to another bar for mozzarella sticks and vodka in short glasses. Revelry highlighted by the Mets winning after a rain delay that did not catch you although it did others. And then, alone, you settle the tab and hail a cab. Call the wife while zig-zagging through the financial district across the Brooklyn Bridge where you stop in the corner bar and your neighbor is happy to see you. Then home where your wife fixes you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pours you a tall glass of water to go with your aspirin. The dog is happy to see you and licks your hand and you realize when you look back at your wife that the night is not quite over. Life burns bright and you are intoxicated by its stare.

Above a Bar in Buffalo

2010-05-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

Most people laugh when I tell them how I used to sweat in Buffalo, N.Y., but then they never dropped their guitar down a flight of stairs when a bat the size of a 747, or Bruce Wayne returning to his cave, grazed their arm while they were learning the chords to Brown-Eyed Women.

I used to sweat my ass off in an old apartment I rented with a scientist I seldom saw. It faced Main Street with its back-end on Allen Street near the Art Voice building where I was an intern. My bedroom window happened to be above a lesbian bar where fights between patrons would keep me up at night until I finally grew brazen enough to walk in there and see for myself. Turns out it wasn't much different than any of the other bars in the neighborhood. Of course I didn't get laid much that summer, but I digress.

Years later, I still think of that haunted, old building and wonder if it was more than the damn bats and hot nights that affected me. There was a vibrant energy in that part of Allen Town amid the ruins of what once was a budding metropolis and I never picked up the guitar more than I did back then.

Yes Vice President Biden, 'This Is a Big F--king Deal!'

2010-03-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

On this day when Health Care Reform was signed into law with two boxes of pens and an unyielding left hand, I received confirmation from my doctor that I have a recurrence of Crohn's Disease at the point of surgery I underwent just over two years ago to remove it. While I am fortunate to have had coverage throughout my life, I shudder to think what may happen if and when I lose it.

To President Obama and the bleeding hearts in Congress, your actions today have done more to preserve freedom for Americans than a thousand wars ever could -- the freedom of the sick to suffer without the added burden of knowing the potential financial liability their illness may have on their loved ones. That's a big fucking deal in my book.

Haunted

2010-02-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

Haunted by the misuse of letters
and a generation of bed wetters,
Haunted by our government debtors
and casual Super Bowl bettors,

Haunted by the beauty I can not possess
and the empty bottles to subdue my stress,
Haunted by the things I can not confess
and the image of a devil wearing a blue dress,

Haunted by a disease with no known cure
and the politics of business I seldom abhor,
Haunted by the feelings I'm not so sure
who it was outside my door,

Haunted by the memory inside my head
and the Sunday evenings right before bed,
Haunted by the letters which are still unread
and the dreams deferred that end up dead.

Haiti

2010-01-26T20:17:00.000-08:00

Life and love are four-letter words
spreading their wings like soaring birds
Rising high and pristine like a snowy peak
only to fall like a salty tear down a cheek

Happiness comes when we least expect it
and then a tragedy greedily affects it
No one can fathom an explanation
and no one should turn their back on a hungry nation

We are one in our humanity
puzzled by the world's insanity
We must lay down contrived polarity
and help our brothers and sisters in solidarity

Surely where there is death and pain
Life and love will rise again
Even if it's for only a moment
The people of Haiti have always shown it.