I believe that I am not overreaching when I state that everyone likes to win, whether such winning relates to games, contests, arguments, debates, or larger personal or professional developmental challenges.  And, why would anyone not want to win?  Mankind has been conditioned from time immemorial to savor victory – from times both long and not so long ago when winning was truly a matter of life and death.  Winners are celebrated and, often, tell the stories or write the histories that amplify their exploits to heroic and even mythic statuses.  And, although virtually all of the triumphs we applaud today are trivial compared to the survival challenges extolled by our forebears, we nonetheless celebrate them with unmatched vigor.

How often have you witnessed a parade in honor of a loser in a game, sport, or other contest?  Although on a rare occasion the heroism of a loser will be noted, the vast majority fade from memory with little or no acknowledgment of their talents or efforts.  And yet, were it not for the challenge presented by loser, the heroics of the winner would be impossible.

Two examples in sports – the first, professional and the other, collegiate – come to mind.  In the 1982 NFC Playoffs, Dwight Clark of the San Francisco 49ers caught a short pass from quarterback Joe Montana in the back of the end zone in the final minute of the game to propel his team to a one-point victory over the Dallas Cowboys.  That reception has been immortalized in NFL lore as “THE Catch” and elevated Montana and Clark to mythical status.  A little over a year later, Lorenzo Charles – a member of the North Carolina State Wolfpack basketball team – retrieved a teammate’s errant shot and scored the winning basket at the buzzer giving underdog North Carolina State the NCAA Basketball Championship over the heavily-favored Houston Cougars and making a sports icon of their then-youthful coach Jim Valvano.

In each of those cases, neither game-winning play was particularly spectacular.  If made in practice or, for that matter, someone’s backyard, they would have gone completely unnoticed.  It was the high-stakes context within which the plays occurred that distinguished them as heroic and unforgettable.  That context, in each case, was provided by the loser.  If the Dallas Cowboys or the Houston Cougars had produced lesser results on those particular occasions, the plays in question would have been virtually meaningless.

As is so often true in life as well as in sport and literature, the adversary or challenge both defines and ennobles the accomplishments of the protagonist or victor.  What place in history would Franklin Delano Roosevelt hold absent the Great Depression and Nazi Germany?  Could Vince Lombardi have become a legendary football coach without Tom Landry?  Would Sherlock Holmes investigative and deductive reasoning skills been as finely honed without the criminal mastermind Professor Moriarty?  I think not.

The greatness – actual or fictional – of each of these individuals was generated, in large part, by the skill or enormity of his adversaries and challenges.  In an odd way, each victor owes a debt of gratitude to the vanquished for his place in legend or history.  Whether or not, as in the words of William Shakespeare, individuals “have greatness thrust upon them,” adversity has much to do with the measure of each of us – the great and the common alike.  In struggling to overcome adversity, we often discover a good deal about ourselves and the hidden reservoirs of strength we have at our disposal.  And, since the victorious are defined by the defeated, we sometimes find that the struggle to win – even in defeat – can itself be both victorious and heroic. 

According to yahoo.com’s intrepid news hounds, Jellies® are back.  Not the sweet, sticky strawberry jam-like stuff, but the shoes that were wildly popular a few decades ago.  Jellies® gave absolutely no sole support; neither did they allow your feet to breathe.  But this didn’t stop hordes of females of all ages from clearing them off retailers’ shelves, for they were “in.”  I have a suspicion that they’ll fly off the shelves again this summer, in a mass-market grab at nostalgia.

Trying to recapture the past is like riding a merry go round and leaning out for that brass ring.  Most days you miss, making the times you do snatch the ring particularly sweet.  For a little while, you’re a kid again, albeit maybe not the typical kid.

Dolls, for instance, were the worst toy I had ever imagined in my own childhood.  Although I refused to have them, I watched in dual fascination-repulsion as other little girls lovingly tended their Thumbalina’s® and Betsy Wetsy’s®.  The dolls cried when you squeezed them, wet their diapers when you filled them with water, required far too much attention, and gave nothing in return.  I had a kid sister at home; what did I want with toys that mimicked her behavior? Many were the times my kindergarten teacher yanked me out of the boy’s corner of the classroom, where I built and destroyed whole cities of Legos®, terrorized the world with dinosaurs, and eagerly discussed the merits of pet snakes versus iguanas.  Unceremoniously, I was shoved into the girls’ corner, which held a mock stove, sink, ironing board, and those whiny baby dolls.  Time and again, I snuck back into the boys’ camp until my teacher finally abandoned all hope of making a little Donna Reed out of me.

Barbie, however, was different.  I only wanted a Mattel Barbie Doll®, at the ripe old age of 12, so that I could pretend that I was Barbie, firmly entrenched in my own apartment.  In those days, Barbie was the anatomical impossibility we now know her to be: not the original ’50s incarnation but the next-generation with the bobbed hair and the red, form-fitting one-piece bathing suit.  Barbie’s greatest assets were her impressive boobs, beanstalk legs, and of course, her mercurial career.  Although that career changed according to her outfits, it allowed her to pay the rent.

I was given the brunette Barbie, a sort of poor-man’s Sophia Loren; my kid sister, of course, got the hot blonde who bore a faint resemblance to Marilyn Monroe.  I was enthralled with Barbie’s outfits, as illustrated in the little booklet that came with her, even though I could afford so few of them.  Solo in the Spotlight was my favorite.  A body-hugging black satin number overlaid with black netting, it flared below the knees into a fashionable little ruffle adorned with a single red rose.  The cooler than cool outfit came with black pumps, long black opera gloves, and a microphone (for when Barbie decided to earn her living as a nightclub singer).  For months on end, I longed for that outfit, finally saving up enough of my allowance to buy it: a whopping $3 for the entire ensemble.  For a whole day, I kept it in its package where it lay untouched, like the antique clothing showcased in Manhattan’s Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Eventually, I got the Ken® doll and didn’t have many outfits for him, either.   Knowing the score and how much it used to tick off my mother, I’d strip Barbie and Ken naked as jay birds, lock them in Barbie’s carrier embraced in each other’s arms, and let them have their fun.  My cousin little Chrissy wheedled both dolls, the carrier, the clothes, and every last titty bitty accessory out of me when I was about fifteen.  She should have entered politics.  If she tried to fence them in later years, for they came to be worth a small fortune, I hope she got a good deal.

I can’t say the same for Joe’s DC® comics.  Joe D., my favorite boy cousin, had a library of comic books, the best of which were the Legion of Junior Superheroes.  Teens born on alien worlds with amazing powers and the propensity to stamp evil out of the universe, this team included Superboy and Supergirl, Shrinking Violet, Rubber Boy, and Brainiac.  I wheedled a few of these comics out of Joe, who was as loath to part with them as I had been with my Barbie and Ken.  But I doubt that Joe had an inkling of the comic’s true, intrinsic value.  The characters in those comics that could fly gave wing to my imagination. They are the reason that I began to write and illustrate my own stories.  It’s rare that I sketch, these days, but as far as the writing goes, obviously, I have never grown up!  ☺

Other crazes of my day included roller skates, Hula Hoops® (for which my sister was the neighborhood’s undisputed champ), Trolls®, and Rat Fink® dolls.   Rat Finks® first infested gumball machines.  For a nickel, you’d get a handful of gum and a tiny rubber rat with the nastiest expression (tailor made for a kid like me).  They took off like wildfire, breeding like the real thing.  My buds and I traded them in the schoolyard during recess, and had battles with them, doubtless making the nuns very glad that they were nuns and not mothers.  But the Trolls® were another story, for they were “buck nekked.”

Unlike Barbie, they didn’t have boobs and unlike Ken, they didn’t even have a hint of what boys have, but their little butts were shamelessly exposed.  We had to hide our Trolls® from the nuns or risk having them confiscated forever.  The problem was, they were irresistible.  Their hair was long and flowing and came in a rainbow of colors.  Their eyes were made of glass of various shades.  And their little faces were just so sweet, nothing at all like the scary trolls we’d read about in our Third Grade readers.  The good Sisters of Mercy may have fainted had they known into how many confessionals, Masses, and first-time sacraments the verboten Trolls® were secreted.

My generation didn’t wear Jellies®, but we did wear go-go boots, courtesy of Carnaby Street, that fashionable stretch in London that also brought us poor boy sweaters and caps, Twiggy, white lipstick, and our mothers’ second-worst nightmare, miniskirts.  Miniskirts and those vinyl, multi-colored go-go boots were cute before we hit puberty, but afterward, it was a literal tug of wag.  Our moms would make us tug the skirts down and the moment our maters’ backs were turned, we would roll them up at the waistband.  This exercise was repeated ad infinitum with the nuns, who handed out detentions for too-short skirts the way that A&P handed out Green Stamps.  By that time, of course, Nightmare Number One had reared its tempting little head: boys!

Boys, for the most part, replaced the candy that used to placate us in younger days … though many of the lads were not as sweet and a lot more demanding.  In the early ’60s, however, candy wasn’t just candy.   In addition to being a treat, candy was a plaything or things, a status symbol for those who could afford the largest quantity, and a sign of courage.  My pals and I loved the necklaces made of tiny sweet disks, which we called Wampum (that for which the Native Americans sold Manhattan Isle down the Hudson River centuries before most of the Big Apple’s politicians did the same thing).  We could eat our jewelry and have it, too … until, of course, it was all gone!

We also had flying saucers filled with hard, sweet bullets, whose shells tasted too much like the Host placed dutifully upon our tongues every Sunday morn.  There was also Bit o’ Honey®, Bazooka Bubble Gum®, Nekko Wafers®, strawberry whips, “squirrels” (honey and toasted sesame seed candies), wax bottles that contained fruit-flavored elixirs, and wax lips that were … gulp … edible.  

My friend Laura’s neighborhood boasted two candy stores separated by a German deli and a shoemaker.  Tom’s was brightly lit, with clear plastic bins of penny candy and a counter in the back, where we enjoyed fresh fountain drinks like malteds, egg creams, and cherry Cokes®.  Ralphie’s, by contrast, was dark, somewhat dilapidated, and haunted by Stanley Kowalski types wearing greasy hair and T-shirts nearly as greasy.  My conundrum was that Ralphie’s always had the better (read: darker) comic books, so I patronized Ralphie’s at times.  Usually, though, my friends and I frequented Tom’s.  Here’s why, and why I said that candy sometimes defined our level of courage.

Across the street from Laura’s house lay the neighborhood’s biggest attraction, after the candy stores.  It was the cemetery.  Even on sultry summer days, the cemetery was quiet and foreboding, in more ways than one.  We were convinced that ghosts roamed the graveyard when the sun went down.  Although we never entered it, we would skirt the perimeter of the cemetery on our bikes, tossing dusty discarded soda bottles into our wire bike baskets.  We’d haul our booty back to Tom’s, for Tom would exchange the bottles for candy.  He probably made out better on the deal than we did.  But this mode of barter may have been the paradigm upon which the entire environmental movement, if not the nation’s Adopt a Highway program, was modeled.

As the neighborhood changed, we’d come upon more empty bottles of cough syrup and less discarded soda bottles.  Laura explained that teenagers got high on the codeine and sometimes, smack in the middle of the day, those teens festooned not only the perimeter of the graveyard but the graveyard itself.  Wild-eyed and hopped-up, gaggles of n’er-do-well thugs would rise unannounced from behind the gravestones and chase us, even as we pedaled away as if our lives were at stake.  Perhaps they were.

Succeeding generations, of course, enjoyed their own trends and modes of fun — all of which passed me by.  By then, I was too old and too interested in music and boys, in that order.  Click Clacks® are the one subsequent craze that stands out in my mind.  In supermarkets, the mall, and the streets, they were so annoying, the damned things should have been outlawed.  In turn, Click Clacks® were replaced by something else.  And so it goes, and so it always will, as long as there are children to entertain.

Specialty shops and catalogues, such as The Vermont Country Store®, offer all manner of wares that can return us, for a brief moment, to those more innocent times. Somehow, the products never quite do the trick of recapturing the sweet tang of youth.  But, the other day, in a Cracker Barrel® in Southern Jersey, I made a very small investment of 99 cents that put a smile on my face.  I haven’t touched that investment yet, for I just like looking at it, and remembering.  It’s a box of Cracker Jacks®, just like my dad used to buy me when I was kid.

He’d sneak me into the Prospect Park Zoo every Saturday after my weekly appointment with the eye doctor, to monitor an eye that threatened to need surgery.  My energetic kid sister stayed home for these were, after all, serious medical appointments.  To this day, I always equate the caramel-nutty aroma of a fresh box of Cracker Jacks with that of the pungent tang of black bears and polar bears behind outdoor cages, and the sound of children squealing with delight and demand.  I remember the little feathered Kewpie dolls on poles at the zoo’s souvenir stand, the feel of the sun on my skin, and my father’s hand in mind.  The other day, 99 cents brought me all of that.  One box of original Cracker Jacks, 99 cents.  The gas it cost to get to and from South Jersey: eight bucks and change.  The memories?  Priceless!  ☺

College of Montreal experts recommend cashew seed extract as a means of treating type 2 diabetes. New information published in the journal Molecular Nutrition and Food Research proposes that cashew seed extract may play an important role in both the prevention and treatment of type 2 diabetes.

The cashew is a tree in the flowering plant family Anacardiaceae. The plant is native to northeastern Brazil.

Scientists at the College of Montreal and the University of Yaoundé in Cameroon analyzed how cashew products affected the responses of rat liver cells to insulin.

Type 2 diabetes is a growing problem both regionally and worldwide. In Canada, over 3 million Canadians have diabetes and this number is expected to reach 3.7 million by 2020, based on the Canadian Diabetes Association. In the U.S.A, according to the American Diabetes Association in its 2007 National Diabetes Fact Sheet, there are a total 23.6 million children and adults in the United States – 7.8% of the population – with diabetes. 1.6 million new cases of diabetes are diagnosed in people aged 20 years and older each year.

Scientists investigated cashew tree leaves, bark, seeds and apples and discovered that cashew seed extract increased the absorption of blood sugar by the cells.  Extracts of other plant parts had no such effect, indicating that cashew seed extract likely contains active compounds that could have potential anti-diabetic properties.

In some people who have diabetes, a disorder called insulin resistance prevents the body from processing the hormone, which regulates energy and the processing of sugars in the body. Lack of insulin can lead to heart or kidney diseases over time.

The cashew nut is a popular snack, and its rich flavor means that it’s often eaten without treatment, lightly salted or sugared. Cashews are a staple in vegan diets. They are used as a base in sauces and gravies, and can take on sweet properties for frostings and cookies. They are high in protein and a raw, natural supply of energy.

The fats and oils in cashew nuts are 54 percent monounsaturated fat, 18 percent polyunsaturated fat, and 16 percent saturated fats (9% palmitic acid and 7% stearic acid).

Containing no cholesterol, cashew nuts are a healthy fat food for heart patients too. And because of their high amounts of monounsaturated essential fatty acids, they also help support healthy levels of what is termed in the vernacular good cholesterol (HDL).

Below is a 4-servings recipe for “The Cashew Curry.” It cooks in 45 minutes with a wok or frying pan, a wooden spoon and these ingredients:

 * ½ pound whole cashews

 * 2 T olive oil

 * 5 shallots, thinly sliced

 * 5 curry leaves

 * 2-in piece of lemongrass or zest of 1 lemon

 * 1 T coriander

 * ½ t turmeric

 * ½ t salt

 * 2 chiles, thinly sliced

 * 2 cloves garlic, minced

 * 2 slices ginger

 * 15 oz unsweetened coconut milk

 * 2 T cilantro, chopped

(Please note that measurement “T” stands for tablespoon and “t” teaspoon.)

Directions

Sauté the shallots in the oil, stirring occasionally, until golden, about ten minutes.

Add the curry, lemon, turmeric, chiles, garlic, ginger, and salt, and cook until fragrant, 5-10 minutes.

Add remaining ingredients and simmer until thickened, another 5-10 minutes. Remove curry leaves and serve, with diabetic rice or brown rice.

Linda Miller writes for Diabetic Cookbooks , her personal hobby website centered on cooking tricks to help people eat healthy to prevent or manage type 2 diabetes.

Medical References:

http://www.diabetes.co.uk/news/2010/Jul/cashew-seeds-can-help-fight-against-diabetes-94654599.html

http://www3.interscience.wiley.com/journal/117935711/grouphome/home.html 

Most people fantasize about winning the lottery, kissing their jobs goodbye, and flying off to an island to romp carefree under the sun.  Not me.  For the past four and a half years, my fantasy has been to sit somewhere quietly with Taylor Hicks, the monumentally talented singer, songwriter, musician, and arranger. Just as Taylor was becoming American Idol’s most distinctive winner, I found his original music (most of which now appears as the re-mastered compilation, “Early Works”).  For five hours, I sat and played that music over and over and over, crying quietly, for it moved me like no other music ever had.  The more information I gobbled up about Taylor Hicks, the more I understood that — after wallowing in a desert of soulless music for too long and retreating back into my old music — I had finally found a new artist of talent and integrity.

Moreover, I’d found a real music geek, just like myself.  I knew the joy and relief that Stanley must have felt upon locating Dr. Livingston — because in my entire life, this was the first time I’d found another person who seemed to live and breathe music.  Taylor’s obvious devotion to his music is pure, in the way that so few things are pure now.  Every time I saw him perform live, he drove this home to me. So, I harbored the fantasy of talking music with him one day, really digging deep.  I fantasized about a little table in a quiet corner of a small club, where we might talk. What I got instead, and what I’m supremely grateful for, was a phone conversation.

Yesterday, July 22, 2010, God and the wonderful Judy Katz Public Relations team were good to me.  I was fortunate enough to speak with Taylor just before he embarks upon his latest tour, burning up stages across the nation once more.  That tour kicks off this Sunday, July 25th, at the Highline Ballroom in New York City, with his incredible band of friends and gifted fellow musicians.

Sean Katz facilitated the conversation, which, long story short, prompted Taylor to call me back from a landline in the airport as he prepared to wing off to my city (New York).  I have to say to you that, in addition to being a damned fine music man, Taylor Hicks is the most patient, most gracious soul, a true Southern gentleman.

The italics below indicate my words; the bold facing indicates Taylor’s. As our conversation began, Sean patched us in, saying, “Taylor, you’ve got Kathleen from Write On New Jersey.”

Oh you lucky man! (Laughing) 

Hey, Kathleen.  How you doin’?

Hi, Taylor; how you doin’?  Welcome back to the Big Apple!  Thank you so much for doing this; I know you’re jammed, so I really want to thank you so much for doing this.

Oh, no problem; thanks for doing this.

Oh, please –  you’re a sweetheart.  So now … I hear you’re going to go The Beatles and U2 one step better by “Taking it to the Streets,” instead of taking it to a rooftop, on Sunday (July 25th) via Fox & Friends.  [Readers can tune in to the Fox & Friends TV show that morning, to enjoy a live mini-concert outside the studio.]

Oh yes, yes I am.  I’m pretty excited about that.  I’m really a big fan of the show, Fox & Friends.  I’m excited about kicking off the national tour, and getting out and playing some great live music. 

Definitely.  Definitely!  I’m looking forward to it.  I’ll see you Sunday!  Okay, so here’s something for you now.  The first piece of music I remember hearing — I was three years old — it was Mario Lanza — opera –  with all the pain and the passion and the love. It just set the standard for me for every other piece of music afterward. What do you consciously remember as the first piece of music you heard and how did it hit you; how did it affect you?

I would have to say, the first piece of music I recall hearing … y’know, it was probably a 70s, AM, golden [oldie].  Late ’70’s.  I was maybe 4 or 5 years old, hearing really great music on the radio.  I was in my learning process of music.  It was just a really great time for the radio, to have all of that stuff, to just be able to soak all of that in.  Y’know?

Yeah. Very cool music, then.  Okay. Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold”.  Now, Neil is saying that this heart of gold is somewhere in some unmapped mine, and [he's] digging for it.  When you wrote “Hell of a Day,” you actually penned the line — and it’s a brilliant line, Taylor — “I’ve been working with the heart’s metallurgy.”  That sort of intimates something else:  that you actually have to work at crafting a relationship. Did Neil Young’s song at all influence you in writing “Hell of a Day?”

You know, as much as I have to admit it, as much as I love that song, I really didn’t base it … I didn’t really pull from Neil Young’s material.  But I completely see how there could be comparisons between the two.  I’ve always enjoyed that word [metallurgy].  Obviously, you have to do some studying to get that word.

True.

But I’m very happy about that song.  I think it’s one of the better ones I’ve written.

Yeah, it’s a great song; you know, all your songs are, and some of them just hit you more than others.  Okay.  James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” is a song about terrible loss and other things as well, that we don’t need to go into now.  When he tours, this is the song that most people want to hear.  And yet it’s that sad, sad song.  Do you think that if a song like that — or even that particular song — were released to radio today, do you think that audiences would embrace it? Or do you think that they’ve just become jaded to the shit — excuse me — that’s on the radio now?

Well, I think country music would embrace it.

You do?

Yeah.  But as far as popular radio, I don’t think they would have any idea about it.   Y’know, for me, I think that country music is where you can still find great songs.  And I think you can find great songs in popular music [commercial radio], but you gotta dig.  It’s about the package in pop music, and not really about the song itself.

Right.  Not so much about the artist.

Yeah.

So, you think country music because they still like to tell stories, because there’s still a lot of emotion there?

Yeah.  It’s very story-oriented and it’s just … it’s just that way.

Yeah. Cool.  Okay.  Well, you and I — and I don’t know if you remember this, but — in the wings of the Brooks Atkinson [the Brooks Atkinson Theatre on Broadway, where Taylor portrayed Teen Angel in Grease, summer of 2008], we started to have this conversation about Steve Winwood’s Arc of a Diver — the album, not the song [single].  You told me you thought it was his masterpiece and I didn’t really agree.  I think I know why you think that, but if you could just share with me, so I don’t make an assumption.

Well, you know, when you think of an artist’s masterpiece, you just think of everything that they do.  I think for the time, the 80s — the early ’80s — when you’re going from real, very organic instrumentation on recorded music to more synthesized music … I mean, this was the brink of the 80s music … and for him to be able to bridge the gap between the two, but do it in such a soulful way.  And not only that, but to have great songs!  I feel that was the height of his creativity.

And also, when you’re talking about creativity, you’re looking back on it.  Bridging a gap between synthesized music and traditional music, and I think that he did that with such grace.  And you know, I just think every song is great.  When I think of “City to City,” by Jerry Rafferty … to be able to pull that off on the brink of the 80s craze, the 80s music, which is more synthesized pop …

Techno-pop. 

Yeah, I think he did that well.

He did, he did.  And considering he also had that whole very traditional English music background, as well as all the island music, in him.  Okay, so … God forbid you find yourself ship wrecked on a desert island –

(Humorous snort.)

You’re all alone but you have your Ipod.  The moment that you realize there is no hope, ain’t nobody comin’ for ya, you’re all alone, what one song do you play to give you comfort and courage?

Ah … “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?”

Oh.  (I got a bit choked up.) That’s cool.  That’s cool.  Thank you.

I think you are a great songwriter, I really think you are.  Obviously, I am not alone!  You have the ability to capture very vivid imagery in just a handful of lyrics.  Like, “Who gets lost when the map is full?”  “Feel the heat in the cold; cut the air with a knife.”  When you write, do the lyrics come to you that way or do you have to kind of … because, I write for a living and I’m constantly manipulating and massaging and pounding.  Sometimes it just comes and it’s great, and I don’t touch it.  And other times I really need to do that.  How do the lyrics come to you?

Y’know, you have to really be practical about lyrics, in a way.  The more practical you can be about ‘em, the better off that you are.  You have to be able to make sense.  But to a certain degree, y’know, tongue in cheek is not a bad idea as well.  I mean, people love that.  It’s not tongue in cheek, it’s more like words that are every day.  Y’know?

Yeah.  “Keepin’ it Real”, right?

Yeah!

What was the last artist or band that you saw perform live?

Widespread Panic.

Oh my God (laughing).  That was just a few weeks ago, right?

Yeah.

I just gave a friend of mine their “Choice Cuts” and she’s lovin’ it.  I just played  “Fishwater,” by the way, just before you called — you know, when you sat in with them.  Listen, my friend.   You could have melted the metal on that harp!!!

I appreciate that.

Oh, God, that was like … run me over and then come back and resurrect me.  You were amazing.  That, in particular, was just an amazing harp solo.  And the one you did in Millersville, Pennsylvania in October 2007 … the song where you learned to play harp to, you know, when you were playing to air conditioners [to mimic the sounds] … y’know, I’m gettin’ old!

“Take the Long Way Home.”  (by Supertramp)

Yeah, that was it! (Relieved). Thank you; thank you.  That was just exquisite. It just went right to the heart; it was exquisite, I have to tell you.  All right … well, I don’t know if you know this, but when you played Teen Angel on Broadway, you sold SROs [Standing Room Only tickets, in addition to the regular seats].  I’m a New Yorker from way back when and I’ve been the to the theater probably from the time that I was 17.  I’ve seen major actors — I mean major, major talent — and I have never seen anyone pay to stand in the aisles to see a play before!  So you broke new ground there.  Obviously, we love you. New York loves you.  When Grease went on the road for 18 months — I really feel because of you, I really feel that — what did you — here’s a trick question for ya (laughing) — what did you miss most about the city?

Um … [Long pause.]

Pushy New Yorkers like me??? (Laughing)

It’s so funny, y’know.  I could tell ya something … okay, the food, the atmosphere.  But here’s the thing, y’know?  I think the one thing that I see eye-to-eye with New Yorkers with is, we have the same pride in our State as New Yorkers do in their city.

Yes!

Y’know?

Yes, yes!

It’s like this unbridled pride that you have for your city.  And I think that’s why I connected, because I feel that, I can tell that.  I think really being able to hang out in the city and be a part of it, you know, you feel that.  And also, being from Alabama, it’s a very prideful place, a prideful State, and I think that’s something that I can connect with.

At this point, Sean called on my cell phone to alert me that we had to wrap it up, so that Taylor could conduct his next interview.  I apologized to Taylor, asking him to hang on while I answered Sean’s call.  But in doing so, I couldn’t pick Sean up in time.

I just missed Sean. I think he wants me off the phone. Unless, y’know, ya wanna talk.

I wish I could.  It’s … I’m in the middle of the airport –

You poor guy!

But we can do one more question.  Ya got one?

Yeah!!!!  I was wanting to know about “Indiscriminate Act of Kindness.”  The first five times I heard that, I sobbed, I mean, I sobbed.  It was your delivery.  I never heard Foy Vance’s version.  I didn’t want to, after I heard yours.  It is exquisite.  How did you come to find this song?

(A little knowing laugh.) Well, y’know, my friend, good friend [noted songwriter] Gary Nicholson …

Oh yeah!

He helped me, helped me in the process of writing.  And honestly, we found some great music, and he turned me on to it.  And then Simon Climie had recorded “Hallelujah” with Jeff Buckley and Michael McDonald.   I said, “Let’s try to record this in the same time signature as “Hallelujah,” as done by Jeff Buckley and Michael McDonald: 3-4 time.”  And so, that’s what we did “Indiscriminate Act of Kindness” in, 3-4 time.  It really works well.  [Mr. Climie was Taylor's celebrated producer on his most current DC, "The Distance," and has produced work for Eric Clapton, BB King, Santana, Faith Hill, and other renowned artists.]

It’s just beautiful.  It’s astoundingly beautiful. 

Oh, that’s what I wanna hear.  Well, I think we’re movin’ on.  Hey, I hope ta see ya at the Highline!

I’m goin’, I’m goin’!!! 

Oh, good.  Hey, thank you so much for your time.

Oh, you too, you too!  Thank you so much; you’re an angel.  Fly safe!! Bye-bye.

That old game we all played as teens, “Seven Minutes in Heaven,” was nothin’ compared to my 22 minutes in heaven yesterday when Taylor Hicks was good enough to speak with me.  Many thanks go to Judy Katz and Sean Katz for this wonderful opportunity, and to “anothertayfan” for the use of her great shot accompanying this article from a Syracuse, New York concert.

One last and vital note, please.  Our readers can find Taylor’s music online, at iTunes and Amazon.com, as well as major retailers such as Target and WalMart.  Please note that “Indiscriminate Act of Kindness,” on “The Distance,” is a bonus track that appears solely for the version created for Target.

Also, our intention is to post the complete audio of this interview on the Website at a future date.  It will be a separate posting and likely the “Featured Story” of that day.  So, check Write On New Jersey daily for that update.

How many times has each of us uttered the phrase, “It’s not my job; let someone else do it”?  Upon closer inspection, this is more than an expression.  It is a mindset in which we assume that everything can be fixed, provided someone else takes up the slack.  At the end of World War II, the phrase, “Do It Yourself” was coined, thereby creating a whole new industry.  People who normally paid others to repair things purchased tools and how-to books in order to save the costs once associated with the labor of professionals.

The “Do It Yourself” craze eclipsed small projects and took on larger ones, such as additions to houses.  Some money was saved, but some was also expended because there were certain jobs that could only be managed by well-trained tradesmen such as electricians, plumbers, and carpenters. For the even tougher jobs, lawyers and doctors were called upon and paid for their services.

The point of all of this is that general public will take a stab at the easy jobs, but we take for granted that someone else will tackle the harder jobs, for a price.  And now we arrive at the crux of this article: our volunteer military forces.

How many Americans wake up in the morning and ponder the state and fate of our military?  Isn’t it more a matter of, “I wonder which team won last night” or “I think I need an oil change” or “What’s for breakfast?”.  Although we are well aware that our armed forces are putting themselves in harm’s way in the world’s hot spots, we choose to push them to the back of our minds, because such thoughts may spoil our day.

In the past, America has had a regular Army and Navy comprised of volunteers.  However, during World War II, the number of volunteers was insufficient, thereby compelling our government to institute the draft.  The draft mandated that all able-bodied men between the ages of 18 and 45 register for military service.

Over the years, our volunteer military has grown to encompass professional soldiers, supported by the National Guard and bolstered by weaponry of an increasingly technologically advanced nature.  This combination has produced the best fighting force in the world.

Down through the ages, America has always depended upon the citizen soldier.  During the Revolutionary War, it was the Minutemen who dropped their plows and picked up their guns to defend our emerging nation. In World War I, it was the American Doughboy who went “Over There” and promised not to come back “’til it’s over.”  In World War II and Korea, it was the GI’s who broke the back of the Axis powers and saved the world from tyranny.

Vietnam was a different type of conflict.  In this war, the only men who were not drafted were Conscientious Objectors, some of whom fled the U.S.  Many young men enrolled in college to receive a deferment from the draft.  Those who did not serve received amnesty when the war came to an end.  On that day, it should be noted, the number of male students attending college dropped dramatically.

Aside from our everyday problems, including healthcare, illegal immigration, economic woes, the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the flooding in Tennessee, and the government takeover of the private sector, we confront growing problems in our military.  Multiple tours of duty, the rules of war changing in favor of the enemy, and the court marshalling of Navy Seals for brutalizing the enemy number among these issues.  I wonder what General George Patton would have said about these newfound constraints upon our military?

During World War II, nearly every family in this country had one or more of their loved one in the armed services.  The entire nation supported those armed services.  Prayers and positive thoughts were offered up for them, and our infantry, airmen, and sailors were not taken for granted; rather, they were revered.  The final cost of that war was that 400,000 men were killed in action and 78,000 went missing or were wounded.

When it comes to the tough job of defending our way of life, the American public has taken our military for granted.  By and large, we no longer consider the fact that there by the grace of God and our volunteer military go our sons and daughters — who may have been drafted into service if not for those who enter the military voluntarily. Given the carefree lifestyle we live, it is very easy to take certain things for granted in America. But it was not always so easy. People sacrificed and died protecting our freedoms and our very way of life.

To the rest of the world, America is the Promised Land: a land of the free with opportunities to enjoy a better life.  As citizens, we have to stop taking things for granted and follow in the footsteps of the people who made this country great.

It’s time for every American to accept the responsibility of keeping America free and strong for our troops.  When those troops return home to the land of the brave, from their monumental tasks overseas, we should welcome them and express gratitude for their sacrifices. To paraphrase the immortal words of President John F. Kennedy, our voluntary troops honor the concept of asking not of what your country can do for you, but asking what you can do for your country.  Our troops go far beyond the asking.  They are valiant enough to actually do something to protect our freedoms. 

Don’t Turn Your Ticket In, Don’t Get Your Money Back at the Door:

Counting Crows, Augustana, and NOTAR at the Starland Ballroom

When an act as stellar as Counting Crows launches its set with a cover of Van Morrison’s Caravan, it speaks volumes about the soul of that band: where it’s been, where it’s headed, and where it aims to take you.  With Augustana joining the Crows for this joyful opener, the musicians cramming the stage line danced under the spots in an alternate universe deja vu that recalled “The Last Waltz.”  At that storied gig, Van the Man quit the stage with a rare smile on his face.  He would have been smiling last night had he been in the Starland Ballroom in Sayreville, New Jersey, for one of the oddest and yet most workable musical line-ups I have ever witnessed.

This three-hour set kicked off at 8:45, to a packed-to-the-rafters house.  Instead of an opening act, all three artists — Counting Crows, Augustana, and NOTAR — alternately shared the stage, swapped musicians, covered and tagged each other’s songs, and yet still retained their separate artistic entities.  It was weird and inspired.  In fact, it was frickin’ genius.

Adam Duritz, king of the Crows, is still Everyman in his stocky body and dark dreadlocks springing and swinging like an unkempt ‘fro.  The bare feet and prayer rug are gone, but his Everyman voice retains its signature high, yearning register.  Like a latter-day Jesus, Duritz flung out his arms throughout the set as if offering himself to the crowd, for indeed, he was.  Many moons ago, I’d read an extremely candid and courageous interview with Duritz, the Crows‘ singer-songwriter; the honesty in that interview was the same honesty he brings to his music.  Without digging into his ghosts here, Duritz strips his soul bare while making poetry and, backed by his kick-ass band, also crafts some damned fine music.  In perhaps his most famous song (Mr. Jones), he references Picasso, but in my eyes, if Duritz were a painter, he’d be Van Gogh.

Counting Crows emerged as a force to be reckoned with just as commercial radio was going to hell in a hand basket and I was beginning to retreat into my old music.  I wore holes in their breakout album, August and Everything After, but truth to tell, those are the songs with which I’m most familiar.  I’d wanted to investigate their newer material prior to this concert, but I deep six’d that notion so as to go into it with a fresh perspective.

Live, Omaha killed me, as it always does.  Plaintive Irish opening strains and bittersweet melody are melded to the vivid images of that old man threading his feet through a bucket of rain “somewhere in the middle of America.”  And this golden lyric nails it: “It’s the heart that matters more.”  Indeed it does.  Like much of Duritz’ work, Omaha echoes and portends loss even as it clings to hope and salivation.

After the exquisite Omaha, NOTAR, the white boy rapper, made his first appearance.  I don’t get rap. I don’t like it; I never will.  The first thought that zinged through my brain was, “Wanna be a homey?  Allow me to drive you through a few choice neighborhoods in Brooklyn where I once had friends and hung; you’ll mess yourself without ever leaving the car.”  Sorry, but I don’t tolerate posers, particularly in music.  The musicians backing NOTAR, however — his and “theirs” — made him somewhat palatable and at times, even bordering on enjoyable.

It still floors me to see how many bands have lifted Edge’s style, even though the mimicry has become so prevalent in music, it is almost subliminal.  Edge’s ringing, ethereal guitar was there in the rapper’s opening number.  But when Duritz paired up with him to bring the song home, their tommy-gun delivery would have raised the dead.  Later on in the set, I had to give NOTAR a hand when he invited BP (British Petroleum) to perform an anatomical impossibility upon itself.

Augustana, with whom Counting Crows seemed to have the most fun, was a nice little surprise.  I was wanting to call them Gloriana, but this is only because of my second-hand exposure, which will no doubt prove toxic, to alleged “country music.”  This is no country band.  Up close and personal, neither is it the middle-of-the-road rock schlock that I also sometimes catch by osmosis.  The only song of Augustana’s I knew was, Boston.  The band’s label apparently de-fanged it for radio audiences, and that was a crime.  Live, it was a rip-roarin’ rocker and trust me, the audience roared — with pleasure.  Fire shot out of the band’s  canon a rockabilly tune, crescendo’d like an aria, and fuzzed into sweet, bluesy guitars.  The song that told us, “You don’t know me; you don’t wear my chains” was a bit too Fray-like for me.  But hey, Augustana are contemporaries with The Fray, whom I do like for certain songs, so I’ll make like Jesus and forgive them for that.

Jesus can now return the favor by forgiving me, for the Crows and Augustana collaborated on a beaut of song whose title I know not.  Into My Hands?  Into My Head?  The two guitarists warbled their instruments and then morphed into true axe men as the tune went bluesy, backed by some hot staccato drumming.  The Crows‘ A Murder of One was brilliant and beautiful. This snippet of lyrics is but a hint of this haunting love song:

There’s a bird that nests inside you,

Sleeping underneath your skin.

When you open your wings to speak,

I wish you’d let me in.

After the short break, the gloves came off.  Counting Crows, which I’d always suspected could have been a fusion jam band, proved my suspicions correct.  Whatever songs opened the second act, they were downright Charles Ives-ian.  If you’re looking for a more contemporary reference, try Dave Matthews.  Alternately, the progressive rock-jazz was psychedelic and discordant, with Duritz’s ever-rising vocals erupting out of his arched throat in a pained, primordial howl.  Both the Crows and Augustana, easing me into blues heaven, drove dueling, screaming guitars.  The rapper emerged and somehow enhanced the guitarists’ musical chops with his barking and wild, aggressive gesticulations reminiscent of a person I know who uses such signals to indicate that his wine glass is empty.  By contrast, Duritz wove his arms gently through the air, a latter day Flower Child.  Orchestrating like Leonard Bernstein and visibly moved by the music, he was a counterpoint for the rapper’s chop-chops, yet the visuals and the music blended and worked.

Mr. Jones began as a poem in the mouth of Augustana’s lead singer, but then went elsewhere, into a song I did not know.  Before it was nearly over, Duritz hopped on stage again to take up the thread and do it justice.  He must have sung this song a million times since it first put his band on the map, so the band took broad liberties with it.  At one point, Adam picked up the mic stand, aimed it at the audience, and invited us to sing along.  It was a decent rendering, but the lyrics are still the standout in this bouncy, deceptively happy tune, particularly:

I want to be a lion.

Everybody wants to pass as cats.

We all want to be big, big stars,

But we got different reasons for that.

This may have been Duritz’ plea to the universe to nail a record contract prior to his actual signing.  But it goes a lot deeper than that, speaking to the fears that fester in the human soul.  We most of us fear that we will pass without anyone ever noticing us, without anyone ever thinking we are beautiful, without ever truly touching another soul.   Mr. Jones gives those night-sweats a voice.

At well past eleven, I’d assumed the Crows would not perform my very favorite song, Rain King.  A few weeks ago, I’d stumbled upon my old copy of August and Everything After, opened all the windows in my house, and revved up Rain King, so that my neighbors would not accuse me of never giving them anything.  I played that song about thirty times in succession, called a friend who has been exploring great music over the past few years, and introduced her to the band and this song.  But I didn’t want to talk.  I only wanted to immerse myself in this exquisite song, which I deem quintessential Counting Crows.  Screw the rapper “poets,” for this is universal poetry: a song of pain and fear, loving, dying, thinking you’re dying, faith in a God one cannot see, and the hope of ultimate release … but not today.  Today is for the living, despite all the obstacles.  In Duritz’s vocals and the gorgeous melody lay the joy of simply breathing and hoping, of making it through one more day. 

They “tagged” this song with A Little Help from My Friends, and I wish they hadn’t.  For one thing, nobody’s gonna nail this song like Joe Cocker, standing solo in the spotlight and jerking like he’d downed a bottle of bleach, once did for me in Madison Square Garden.  And for another thing, it’s a sacrilege to futz with a song like Rain King.  Rain King is a liberation, period.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not so oddly, the band didn’t end with Rain King, which was preceded by Duritz’s turn at the keys for the spare and lovely Raining in Baltimore.  They closed their set with Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Mine Land, This Land is Your Land.  This was preceded by a heartfelt soliloquy from Duritz, to register to vote and to cast our votes, regardless of our political affiliations, so that the yobos in charge won’t turn “the Garden State entirely into a parking lot.”  This, of course, was a reference to an iconoclastic Joni Mitchell song, Big Yellow Taxi, and covered by the Crows as a release to radio.  The song was somewhat scary when Joni first released it; it was scarier when the Crows covered it.  And in light of BP’s rape of our Gulf waters and surrounding environs, it’s downright terrifying.  I fervently hope that those who have yet to vote, or who have given up voting, take Adam Duritz’ advice.

Whoever put this triple-threat lineup of artists together, calling themselves “The Traveling Circus & Medicine Show,” I’d like to shake their hand and clap them on the back.  Music on commercial radio has been dead, largely, for the past eighteen or so years.  We can argue why, ad nauseum.  We can burn the guilty parties at the stake (please, God!). Or we can create tours such as this.  By adding Augustana and NOTAR to the Counting Crows bill, and by juxtaposing musicians and songs as was done last night in the Starland Ballroom, positive change can occur.  The youngsters who come for the two newer acts are exposed to the eternal beauty of the music of Adam Duritz and his friends — and may thus be inspired to seek out other artists of integrity not heard on the radio.   Judging by the reaction of the audience last night (college kids to seniors), I’d say they liked it.  If this keeps up, who knows?  Real music, enduring music may just make a comeback.  Like the Rain King’s perspective, hope springs eternal.

For those of us not in the public eye, our brushes with celebrity can provide an escape from the humdrum nature of daily life, as well as a subject of conversation when someone asks us “what’s new?”  During my own life in the greater New Jersey area, I have personally encountered many personalities from the sports world, including the Philadelphia Phillies’ Greg Luzinski, Philadelphia Eagle Keith Krepfle, Philadelphia Flyers Bobby Clarke, Reggie Leach, and others, and Don Zimmer, former major league baseball player, manager, and coach, most recently with the New York Yankees.  I very nearly literally bumped into actor Ted Knight (who played Ted Baxter on The Mary Tyler Moore Show) a number of years ago on a street in Philadelphia and former Senator, Rhodes Scholar, and guard for Princeton University and the New York Knicks, Bill Bradley, while checking out at a well-known Cherry Hill sandwich shop “Big John’s.”

In many cases, I was struck by how unpretentious these notables appeared, at least on the surface.  Never, however, have I met a celebrity as down to earth and genuinely nice as Olivia Bloise Sharpe.  Who, you ask, is Olivia Bloise Sharpe?  None other than one of the new batch of reality television stars with a Jersey flavor.

For the uninitiated, Olivia is among the cast of characters on one of the Style Network’s entries into reality programming, Jerseylicious.  And, for my money, she is the star of the show.  The program’s setting is The Gatsby Salon in Green Brook where Olivia is hired as a makeup artist.  There, she works under the direction of Alexa Prisco (aka, The Glam Fairy) and the salon’s mother and daughter ownership team, Gayle Giacomo and Christy Pereira.  Much of the program’s drama is created by the tension between Olivia and hairstylist Tracy DiMarco, who is dating Olivia’s former boyfriend and who, according to information gleaned from one of the early programs in the series, has travelled in similar circles for a number of years and had a longstanding animosity with Olivia.

Make no mistake, however, Olivia and Tracy are both Jersey girls.  The big hair, the animal prints, the heavy makeup, and the liberal use of bronzer are all indicative of their Jersey roots, as is the fact that neither would in any way, shape, or form be considered a shrinking violet.  They are just two of a growing number of reality TV personalities hailing from the Garden State.  Like Jersey Shore and The Desperate Housewives of New Jersey, the success of Jerseylicious seems to hearken a national trend toward interest in all things New Jersey.

To viewers in the Midwest, Olivia, Tracy, and the goings-on at Gatsby Salon must seem as commonplace as extraterrestrial visitation.  Yet, like alien encounters, one must question how “real” is the reality being viewed?  In answer to this, I can only reference personal experience.  You see, I met Olivia at an Exxon service station in Green Brook.  The station and appended “On the Run” convenience store is operated by brothers George and Samir Yazgi and is the place of employment of Write On New Jersey’s own contributing writer, Small Town Girl.

I must confess that I had been alerted to the fact that a scene from an upcoming Jerseylicious program was to be shot at the station.  And so, anxious to see “reality” in action, I arrived to find the production staff readying the scene.  Speaking with several production crew members as we awaited Olivia’s arrival, I posed a number of questions about the show and its cast.  Although reticent to provide details, comments from the crew enabled me to draw a couple of conclusions.  First, while the cast members are indeed real hairstylists and makeup artists, they do not work at Gatsby on a regular basis (i.e., if you book an appointment, you are not likely to see Olivia, Tracy, Gigi, Alexa, Anthony, or any of the other cast members present).  Second, while the show does not have a formal script, it does have a theme or context.  The show’s characters simply react to the situation presented.

In the case of the scene shot at the Exxon station, I promised the field production manager that I would not divulge the plotline, but rather leave you to draw your own conclusions.  I will disclose, however, that both Samir and George play significant roles in this scene and that neither was prompted regarding what to say or how to react.  Having witnessed it firsthand, I think that there may be Emmy Awards in the offing for both George and Samir, as well as perhaps a reality program of their own.

Questions of the nature of reality and the impact of the camera on human behavior aside, I would conclude that reality programming is more “reel life” than “real life.”  Yet, in the 21^st Century, we seem to be evolving into a culture of voyeurs, and reality television is feeding this voyeuristic compulsion.  And so, if you like your reality staged, tune into Jerseylicious where you can witness the dramatic interplay between the lovely Olivia and the bitchy Tracy.

Write on New Jersey would like to thank Field Production Manager Lisa Colangelo for the professional photo at the top of this article and George Yazgi for the other photos taken with his cellphone.  To catch Olivia in action, you may watch the video below.

As socially advanced as we like to think we are, the onus of child rearing still seems to fall largely upon the shoulders of women.  We tend to focus, therefore, on the struggles faced by single moms, while ignoring those confronted by men forced to raise children alone.  In some ways, this huge responsibility can be more difficult for men.

I discovered this when someone close to me was thrown into single fatherhood. Soon after his child was born, this man’s wife passed away suddenly.  Grieving for his wife, he wasn’t afforded the opportunity to mourn her in the way that most widowers are, for he had to figure out, very quickly, how to care for his infant son.  Adding to the poor man’s torment was the fact that he had been having some difficulties in his marriage, a situation that created guilt.  Lacking the normal closure due to his wife’s unexpected death, the man was further anguished by the unresolved issues in their relationship.  It was a terribly difficult time for him, but for his son’s sake, he soldiered on.

First-time mothers lack blueprints for child rearing, but I feel that women in general are better programmed for motherhood, physically and emotionally, than first-time fathers.   Many nights, my friend walked the floor with his crying child in his arms, at a complete loss as to how to quiet him.  Eventually, he found the right recipe to calm his child and then moved on to even great challenges.

He had to juggle his work schedule until he had located a trustworthy adult to care for his son while he was at work.  As the child grew and began to walk and talk, other issues cropped up, including the Terrible Twos.  This is the stage in a child’s development in which he begins to gain self-awareness.  He understands that he is an individual separate from his parent(s) and explores his independence.  As much as he may wish to do things on his own, he is constrained by motor skills that are not fully honed, a mind awaiting its full development, and a parent or parents who tell him “No!” when he tries to walk down a flight of steps alone, approach a hot stove, or put himself smack in the middle of other potential harmful scenarios.  The child responds with resounding “No’s!” of his own and often, temper tantrums.  While treats of various natures have quelled many a temper tantrum, it is not the best path for a parent to take, as the child comes to associate bad behavior with a reward.

The Terrible Twos tax the patience of the most serene parents, often leaving them wondering if they’ve qualified for canonization after death, even if they are not Roman Catholic!  But this stage of a child’s development is important, as it establishes the relationship between parent and child, letting the little one know who is in charge and who must be obeyed.  At the same time, the parent must balance discipline with the kid’s need for self-exploration; as the child matures, the parent(s) learn to let go, little by little.   

When a child begins to explore his world, it’s almost inevitable that he’s going to hurt himself.  Scraped knees, bruises, singed tongues, and all manner of minor maladies are going to befall him, not to mention the usual childhood illnesses and ailments.  One of the biggest lessons my friend had to learn was how to react when his child was hurt or sick.  Many men take the macho approach of, “Suck it up,” for that is how they were raised.  Women, on the other hand, lean more toward babying their children with soothing words, hugs, and little indulgences, such as kissing tears away.   In days gone by, many child psychologists advocated letting the little ones cry when they were hurt or lonely or just plain frustrated.  Fairly recent studies have shown that this approach can actually be harmful to the child.  The nurturing and special attention actually bolsters his self-esteem and sets the stage for him to become more confident and independent as he grows.

Ground rules had to be established by my single-parent friend.  When the little boy had a nightmare, the father’s tendency was to take the kid into bed with him.  This was an expedient solution, as it allowed the adult to get the sleep he needed to maintain his job.  However, the nightmares came a little too frequently, leading my friend to think that his son was getting one over on him.  He had to be firm with the boy without making the child think he was “being bad.”

Learning how to cook, with the emphasis on nutritious meals, was another challenge for my friend.  I think that most men love to tend the barbeque grill but leave all the other cooking to their wives.  This single father had to learn to triumph when his son refused to eat, particularly his vegetables.  He also had to keep the child on a regular feeding schedule and not indulge him too much in terms of junk food.

When the boy started school, a new wave of issues cropped up.   My friend had to build time into his morning in order to pack lunches, and vacation time into his work schedule to accommodate all the school holidays as well as teachers’ workshops — not to mention, snow days.  He also had to plan his child’s wardrobe, ensure that he got to bed early, and check that he’d done his homework properly each school night.

I think that men, even when married with children, are more footloose and fancy free than women with children.  How many men do you know who’ve blithely sung out, “I’m going bowling (or golfing or fishing, etc.) with the boys, honey; I’ll see you at dinner!” as they sail out the door, leaving their wives to serve as chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, nurse, teacher, and referee?  I’ll bet you know a lot.  Well, guys can’t pull these stunts when they are the only one raising a child.  Adult weekend activities had to be curtailed for my friend.   He also had to spend time ensuring that his son got to his sports practices and games, which he had to attend.

Once in a while, my friend was able to escape for some “me time,” but this caused a problem for the boy, who was displaying separation anxiety.  The single dad had to explain to his boy that just because he was leaving the house, he was not leaving the child forever.  He had to create honest dialogues in which his son’s fears were addressed and soothed.

It’s not easy raising a child.  Any man who must do so alone, like my friend did, will soon find himself in Michael Keaton’s character’s shoes, in the 1983 film, Mr. Mom, in which he played opposite Teri Garr, who portrayed his wife.  Jack Butler (Keaton) lost his job in a recession, forcing Caroline (Garr) to give up her full time mothering in order to land and hold down a job.  The problem was Jack’s male ego.  First, he’d lost the bet with his wife as to who would get hired first: him or her.  Then he had to assume the job of raising three kids single-handedly — which, prior to these events, he’d sloughed off as a cakewalk.  Although the movie was a comedy with many hysterical moments, the reality is that it is terribly difficult to take on the role of a single parent.

If you should find yourself in this situation, you’ll want to check out numerous online resources for tips and information, as well as self-help books. Lacking a grandparent or another close adult who will pitch in and help you, it definitely pays to get to know your neighbors well.  They can steer you toward reliable babysitters, serve as babysitters in a pinch, and offer a wealth of knowledge for which you will be supremely grateful.  If your child can befriend their children, more’s the better.  You can take turns carpooling the kids to school and extra-curricular activities, and can arrange for play dates or sleepovers.  Yes, sleepovers.  If you take your neighbors’ kids off their hands for a night or two, you will be their hero and they will probably return the favor when you need it most!

One of the best things you can do to solidify your relationship with your children is to talk with them: not just talk at them, talk with them.  Explore their feelings; their desires, their fears, their hopes, their strengths, and weaknesses.  If they have a dream, nurture it.  Let them know that you are their “safe place” when the world becomes cruel, as it sometimes will.  Let them know that you love them, and always will.  Do this and you will be well on your way to raising a decent human being with whom you will enjoy a loving, lifetime relationship.

During the challenge of child rearing, you may find yourself in need of some comfort food, or a just a recipe for when your kids are being particularly fussy.  Most of them love this cheesy delight.

Easy Bake Macaroni and Cheese

2 cups dry, packaged macaroni *

2 teaspoons of salt (or less, dependent upon your preference)

8 oz. Velveeta cheese, cut into small pieces)

2 1/2 cups milk (whole or part skim)

Black pepper to taste

Butter

*  Use small cuts of macaroni, such as elbows or penne rigati.

Cook the macaroni in boiling salted water until almost tender, according to package directions.  Add a teaspoon of Mazola to water while cooking so that the pasta will not will not stick together.  Drain well.

Place macaroni in a 9″ x 13″ x 2″ inch baking dish or pan.  Add the milk and cheese; stir well and dot with butter. Place in moderate oven (325-350 degrees). Bake the mixture for approximately 30 minutes or until it begins to brown on top.  For extra crunch, sprinkle some seasoned breadcrumbs on top during the last 10-15 minutes.  You may want to reduce the salt content if adding the breadcrumbs, as they are pre-salted and usually contain grated cheese.

To create a balanced meal, add a green salad and some vegetables.

And don’t forget to add the love: the most important ingredient!

In the days of the majestic tall ships, when Britannia ruled the waves, a mysterious set of circumstances occurred that would forever change, and indeed enhance, the color of the English language.  Several English merchant ships bound for the Colonies with supplies never reached their port of call.  The Bermuda Triangle lay hundreds of miles south of the ships’ courses, so it was not a matter of an inexplicable vortex sucking the ships beneath the waves.  And yet, they vanished mysteriously.  Their disappearance was of great concern to several parties, including insurance companies such as Lloyds of London, which had to pay out premiums against the lost cargo.  Teams were established and investigations were launched to determine the cause of the disappearance and hopefully, the whereabouts of the errant vessels.

The first thought was piracy, for theft upon the high seas was rather common in those days.  However, the investigators ruled out piracy.  Analysis of the ships’ manifests revealed that all of the missing craft bore the same cargo.  It was not gold, silver, precious gems or anything else that might tempt maritime looters.  It was fertilizer: manure needed for the cultivation of crops in America.

Further investigation proved that when fertilizer is moistened, it creates a chemical reaction that results in the generation of a toxic gas, called methane.  Thus, by simple deduction, the riddle was solved.  It was postulated that when the ships left port, the fertilizer was stowed in the holds, below decks.  During the voyage, water from the bilge seeped into the holds and slowly saturated the cargo. When sufficient methane gas built up in the cargo areas and the watchmen came to examine those areas on their rounds, the lamps they carried ignited the gas.  In the ensuing explosions, it was assumed that all the ships, and all hands aboard them, sank to their watery graves.

To solve this problem for future voyages, all fertilizer cargo had to be clearly labeled when stowing it aboard sailing vessels.  The labels read Ship High in Transit.  When reduced to an acronym, the caution spelled SHIT.  The farmers in the Colonies who received and made use of the product literally introduced the new word into their vocabulary and thus, into the American vernacular.

This word cannot be found in the present day Webster’s Dictionary, for a very simple reason and not the one that you may think.  It is not a holdover from a more Puritanical era, an effort to spare tender eyes from reading such a word.  The reason is that SHIT is not a word; it is an acronym.  The term does appear, however, as a translation in a foreign dictionary. The word stronzo in Italian (drop the last “o” for the proper pronunciation) translates in English as SHIT.  This is not to be confused with its synonym, merde (usage example: fedde merde, meaning, stinking SHIT), which the Italians borrowed from the French, who obviously knew a pile of horse manure when they saw, er, smelled it.

Since the birth of our nation, then, the term SHIT has been used both as a noun and in adjective form, the latter to emphasize certain untoward characteristics or conditions.  Although many a mother has sought to wash her child’s mouth out with soap when this word — heck, let’s call it a word — passed her child’s lips, it is endemic to the American language.  It bears and reflects a spirit that is uniquely American.  Down through the years, indeed the centuries, this word has infiltrated our tongue to the point where I feel that it should have an official place in the Webster’s Dictionary.

Like the ubiquitous “okay” (whose origin is African, by the way), SHIT transcends gender-related, age-related, cultural/ethnic, and religious differences.  For example, SHIT is one of the first words foreigners learn to say, as a sort of survival mechanism.  It comes in handy when they have yet to understand our money system and assume they are being bilked (“Don’t gimme none of that SHIT!”).  Folks hailing from the Deep South and The Hood pronounce it differently than do the rest of the country (“Sheee-it!”), but we all understand each other, nonetheless, for that is one of the beauties of the term; its meaning is readily comprehensible.  Moreover, the term is just about the one thing that both of our parties, Republican and Democrat, can agree upon as each one accuses the other of being full of SHIT.

“He fell in SHIT!” is used to denote a fortuitous happenstance.  “Woo, the SHIT hit the fan!” describes a less than optimum situation, equating to the cat being let out of the bag and/or all hell breaking loose.  And who among us above the age of 40 has trouble recalling that lovely and rather inane little ditty, The Name Game?, that never failed to tick our parents off?  In singing the song, one selects a proper name and makes it rhyme with other syllables.  Therefore, the name Kit was sung, “Kit, Kit, Bo Bit, Banana Fanna Fo Bit, Fee Fi, Mo’ SHIT, Kit!!”  In fact, I think the last bit of that lyric may have inspired at least one rap song, if not the stage name of an actual rapper or two (Mo’ SHIT and his brother, No SHIT).

The term even helped WWII GI’s face horrors beyond the battlefield; i.e., the mess hall.  The greatly shunned offering, Chipped Beef on Toast, was re-christened SHIT on a Shingle.  This SHIT can still be found in many eateries, particularly in Jersey diners.  In New York City and its five boroughs, however, it (and other things) is referred to as “SHIT on rye.”  If ever you are offered such a dish, my New York friends have advised me that it is de rigueur to inquire, “With seeds, or without?”

Now that you know the origin of the word, you are loaded for bear.  You can entertain people with this true tale of how SHIT came to be such a large part of our vernacular, indeed, our culture.  And, if push ever comes to shove, you can never be accused of knowing “Jack SHIT.”  Unless, of course, you never met the fellow! 

Deeply embedded in our DNA are certain genetic traits that propel our species forward or at least, ensure its continuation.   Every human being possesses the drive, if not the actual ability, to earn, create, or steal his or her most basic survival needs.  On some level, we all share a sense of humor and a profound desire to be respected and loved.  But beyond that, we are uniquely different individuals, as evidenced in the way that we conduct our daily lives, confront challenges, and rise above our basic — and most base — instincts.

Environment, to a certain extent, determines our perspectives upon and responses to life.  But, environment is not the sole criteria.  Some people assume that karma makes us who we are, and determines what we accomplish, in this life.  Simply put, the concept of karma holds that every human being must set to right those wrongs committed in previous lifetimes.  Thereby, we learn the lessons that advance us spiritually, cease the tedious process of reincarnation, and get on to the next stage in our evolution.

But even karma doesn’t quite explain the quintessential differences between human beings.  If we come into our lifetimes without memories of our previous lives, how are to we know — other than through extremely focused meditation/reflection — which lessons we came back to learn?   And even if we did remember, would we all do the same thing under the same circumstances?

Suppose, for example, that humanity was an experiment in some cosmic lab.  If the being conducting the test were to place two individuals into the exact same environment, under the exact same conditions in order to observe the results of a specified stimuli, five’ll get you ten that, minus the introduction of some variable impacting one of the test subjects, the results would still be vastly different.

Why is this so?  Did our Maker imbue each of us with a very specific personality gene?  Or was it a rogue gene placed there just to amuse that Maker?

Whatever it is, I still can’t answer these questions, not even after twenty-plus years of interviewing and working with individuals from all walks of life.

I still wonder, for example, how Christa McAuliffe, the first female astronaut and a teacher by trade, found the courage to enter a space capsule for the first time, a capsule that would tragically explode above the earth before even achieving orbit, due to a faulty O-ring.   I wonder what caused the strange woman on the subway to loudly and hatefully spew her opinion that Christa deserved to die because she should have stayed home to take care of her family instead of venturing into outer space, and what made those of us who admired Christa unloose tears instead of hatred.

I wonder why one child, physically and verbally abused in early childhood, grew up to make gentle, beautiful music, while another treated the same way in his tender years grew up to make violent and misogynistic rap.

I wonder why Tom Cruise, a renowned actor blessed with success and money, never learned to stop making a complete idiot of himself while John Travolta, another renowned actor blessed with success and money, quietly flew his own plane over New Orleans to airdrop critical supplies, on his own dime, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina — while our government sat on its ass and twiddled its thumbs.

I wonder what gave Michelangelo the precision of hand and eye, and the inner vision, to craft something as beautiful and glorious as The David from a lifeless piece of marble. And what causes Puritans the world over to replicate that statue with one major difference: a fig leaf disguising the part of David’s anatomy that shows him to be unquestionably male.

I wonder what caused the highly placed senior executive at a firm that shall remained nameless to flip out one day.  While the man was tossing extremely sensitive documents concerning work that his firm was doing for the government off the roof of the company’s building, and while said executive was giving away bundles of money to every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the street, the “lowly” secretary was not only explaining things calmly to the FBI, she was holding the entire company together until its inevitable collapse.

I wonder how much blood money was enough to assuage the consciences of those in government who took bribes from BP and looked the other way while the fuel company raped our environment and our economy in the Gulf.  And I wonder how, in response to that tragedy, unpaid volunteers give tirelessly of their time and energy to clean up the beaches and the wildlife devastated by the worst oil spill the world has ever seen.

I wonder why one contestant on a reality TV show mouths off to a judge’s criticism, another one bawls, and yet a third laughs good-naturedly in the judge’s face.

I wonder why some teens bully and debase those who don’t march to their drummer.  I wonder why those on the receiving end take to heart the cruelty of those who contribute nothing of value to society, and why the victims suffer irreparable emotional harm and some even commit suicide, while their tormenters blithely go shopping at the mall, take in a movie, and spin the latest hip-hop records without a care in the world for the damage they have inflicted.

I wonder about the mother of one the scuz buckets that blinded and killed innocent animals several years ago, under cover of darkness, in the Popcorn Park Zoo, Forked River, New Jersey.  In court, during her son’s trial, the woman had shrugged and told the judge, “They were just animals.”  I wonder what she’d have said if her son had been murdered in jail — for he was incarcerated for his crimes — if his killers had shrugged and said, “Hey, he was just an animal.”

I wonder why Mario Batali’s recipe for struffola seems to work for him, even with what read to me like an overabundance of flour.  But when I tried Mario’s recipe, it yielded something that our military could easily use as weaponry on the front lines.

I wonder why some of my beloved relatives have passed on, while their earthly possessions remain intact.

I wonder why some of us who live healthy lifestyles are felled by cancer, while some of us who smoke like chimneys and eat like gluttons live well into our 80s and 90s.

I wonder if it was that last fried banana sandwich that truly did Elvis in and if it was more romantic/mysterious to hint that he died of an overdose.  I wonder if Aretha Franklin, one of my favorite singers, who must consume a bucket of fried chicken before every concert in order to calm her nerves, wonders the same thing that I do about Elvis.

Sometimes these things, and things like them, keep me up at night.  Sometimes I think that Sting was right when he penned the line, “History will teach us nothing.” Sometimes I think that yes, God must have implanted us all with that rogue gene, just to keep things interesting — if not supremely perplexing!