Do Mirrors Lie?

Increasingly, I find myself lost in time. I'm not sure exactly which day I'm in, or where in the week we fall. As I talk to somebody, and I want to reference a person, a place, a book, often all that pops up is an empty screen, much like a web page that takes a bit too long to load. It is embarrassing to have become so forgetful, so I've devised a number of techniques to mask this weakness. the best, usually is humor -- I'm having a senior moment, etc. -- but that actually is not a very funny experience. It is frustrating. Let me give you some other examples. Unless you look in a mirror, you don't really know what you look like. (My big sister gave me some good advice on this one: "Don't look in the mirror!") But as a culture, we are obsessed with youth, their beauty, their energy, their sexuality, little of which exists for us as we advance into what used to be called our "golden years" but soon will be known as our "poverty years." It sometimes seems as if what we see around us is a human culture on steroids -- walking faster than we walk, talking faster than we talk, laughing more than we can laugh --in a word, hopeful, in a manner that is extremely difficult for us to embrace. Why should the normal baby boomer feel hopeful? What exactly is there in our future to anticipate with joy? Of course, if we have reproduced, there is the sweet witnessing of our kids as they mature, and their lovely babies as they join this world. That is the personal piece. But beyond that, we are becoming living ghosts, men and women whose bodies no longer excite the imagination of anybody anywhere. We fear the mirror more than would a smallpox victim. We have attained that most-feared status. We are old. This week, to my horror, in one of my many meetings, a young man commented about one of the photos on another of my blogs, "That doesn't look like you. Is that really you?" It really was me, a scant two years past. Have I deteriorated so much in 730 days that now I look like someone else entirely, older, uglier, less attractive by an order of magnitude. People think young people are vain about appearance, and often they are. But the need to feel pretty -- to somebody -- never really leaves us. Tonight I do not feel pretty, and that makes me sad. I bet a lot of others, of all ages, are feeling the same way.

Living

In the end, who are we?

Each of us, when trying to find our way, discovers that we are, in fact dependent on another, and probably many others. There is no such thing as a personal path through life.

Disappearing San Francisco

This little peninsula, so famous around the world, is barely 7 by 7 miles square. Surrounding on three sides, obviously, by water, it also is built on top of seven major hills.



The high zones will survive the coming sea level rise, no problem.



The western edge of the City is mainly a very low sand plain except for Land's End to the north and these cliffs at the City's southern exposure. Although they will erode badly under the smashing waves that soon will reach them, still they will protect some of the Sunset and the Richmond Districts from inundation.



All around the city's perimeter is bay fill -- land that will soon, like the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, be below sea level. Unless we erect levies, these parts of the city will revert to where they were before settlers claimed them -- under the sea.



There is a terrible loveliness to this fate. Nature reclaiming what is hers from a species that has overstretched its reach, and will now have to pay the price, which in terms of ecological justice, is precisely how it should be.



If it sounds that I am happy at our collective future as global climate change wreaks havoc on human society, the sounds are being misinterpreted. It's more that I am resigned. It gives none of us pleasure to recognize the calamities that await us. The climate clock is ticking.

Those who are ignorant, those who are fools, will continue to debate climate change, and what is causing it. They can debate it all they want, but the sea will rise above their knees to their necks just the same.

It just might be an opportune time for everybody to learn how to swim.

-30-

Life is Always Too Short for Our Artists, Our Free Birds

Every now and again, a passing needs to be honored. Here, verbatim is the Wikipedia entry for the great Billy Powell, who passed away earlier this year:

Birth name William Norris Powell
Born June 3, 1952(1952-06-03)
Corpus Christi, Texas , U.S.
Died January 28, 2009 (aged 56)
Orange Park, Florida
Genre(s) Southern rock, Hard rock, Country rock, Blues rock
Occupation(s) Musician, Songwriter
Instrument(s) Piano, Synthesizer, Organ, Hammond organ
Years active 1970–2009
Associated acts Lynyrd Skynyrd

William Norris "Billy" Powell (June 3, 1952 – January 28, 2009) was an American musician. He was the longtime keyboardist of Southern rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd, from 1970 until his death in 2009.
Contents
[hide]

* 1 Biography
o 1.1 Musical career
o 1.2 Death
* 2 References
* 3 External links

[edit] Biography

Born in Corpus Christi, Texas, Powell grew up in a military family (his father was in the U.S. Navy) and spent several years of his childhood living in Italy where his father was stationed. After his father died of cancer in 1960, he moved with his family back to the United States and settled in Jacksonville, Florida. His mother enrolled him at the Sanford Naval Academy in Sanford, Florida. While at Sanford, Billy's interest in music began to grow and he began taking piano lessons from a local teacher named Madeleine Brown. She swore he did not need her, claiming that Billy was a natural and picked things up well on his own.

[edit] Musical career

Billy returned to Jacksonville where he enrolled at Bishop Kenny High School. It was here that he met Leon Wilkeson, future bassist for Lynyrd Skynyrd. The two soon became close friends. When he graduated in 1970, he enrolled briefly in a community college, majoring in Music Theory. Around this time he found work as a roadie for Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Powell remained a roadie for Skynyrd until 1972, when the band was hired to play the Bolles School prom. After setting up the band's equipment, Billy sat down at a piano in the corner of the room and began to play his own version of 'Free Bird'. Lead singer Ronnie Van Zant was impressed, and invited Powell to join Lynyrd Skynyrd officially as their new keyboard player.

In 1973, Lynyrd Skynyrd was signed to MCA Records and received national exposure with the release of their first album, (pronounced 'lĕh-'nérd 'skin-'nérd). The band's popularity soared in 1974 with their follow-up album, Second Helping, which featured their highest-charting single, "Sweet Home Alabama". The band enjoyed great popularity over the next three years, culminating in the 1977 release of Street Survivors, which many considered to be their strongest effort to date.

However, three days after the release of Street Survivors, Skynyrd's chartered plane crashed into a forest near McComb, Mississippi. The crash took the lives of singer Ronnie Van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines, his sister and backing vocalist Cassie Gaines, assistant road manager Dean Kilpatrick, and both pilots. The remainder of the band suffered injuries ranging from mild to severe. Powell suffered severe facial lacerations, almost completely losing his nose but was otherwise relatively uninjured. He was the first to be released from the hospital, and the only member able to attend the funerals of his fallen bandmates.

During the time between the plane crash and the Lynyrd Skynyrd reunion in 1987, Powell briefly joined a Christian rock band named Vision. His keyboard playing was often spotlighted in Vision concerts. Powell also spoke during the concerts about his newly found faith in Jesus Christ.

Powell rejoined Lynyrd Skynyrd in 1987 for a tribute tour, and remained with the band until his death. Guitarist Gary Rossington is the only member from the classic lineup who continues to record and perform with the reunited band today.

[edit] Death

On January 28, 2009, the keyboardist died at the age of 56 at his home in Orange Park, Florida. Powell called 911 at 12:55 a.m., complaining of shortness of breath. He missed his appointment with the doctor on the day before his death; the appointment was for a checkup on his heart.[1] The EMS responders found Powell unconscious and unresponsive, with the telephone still in his hand. Rescue crews performed CPR, but he was pronounced dead at 1:52 am. A heart attack was the suspected cause of death, but an autopsy was not performed. A private memorial service for Billy Powell was held on Saturday, January 31 with Billy's friend, Dr. Bob Winstead officiating. Bobby Ritchie sang a tribute song to Billy at the service. Many southern rock musicians were in attendance, including the Skynyrd band and their families, Hank Williams, Jr. and others.

Here is the concert that best captures his amazing skill, as well as my favorite music performance of all time:

Here For Now, Then Gone for a Long Time Coming

A fierce wind cut in from the north yesterday, sweeping most people off the beaches and into the cafes.

That left the birds in charge of the place.

This coastal area will be submerged over the coming decades as climate change raises the sea level.

Knowing that makes visiting it even more special than would otherwise be the case.

I've been visiting Ocean Beach for 38 years. All of my children and partners have been there with me. Everyone has helped build our substantial family seaglass collection.

It's probably just an old man's nostalgia, but I regret that my children will not have this place to visit in the decades after I pass on. My grandchildren may never even get to see it, unless we take them there in the next 10 or 15 years. (They do not live in the Bay Area, so that may or may not happen.)

Anticipating these changes, I am devoting this particular post to some memories and observations. The photos provide a bit of mood, but sadly I do not have a multimedia presentation to offer. Because, on a day like yesterday, the ocean was so riled up by winds and off-shore storms that it roared constantly, not in the gentle rhymes of a quieter day but with the violent anger of a bull sea lion.

Hours after returning home, I could still feel that roar pulsating in my ear drums, as well as the itch of the sand that had dusted my ears, hair, mouth and whiskers. As my visit occurred at low tide, the beach itself was wide, gently sloping down to the tideline, where thin layers of water washed over thin layers of water, pushed by the wind up toward the beach but unable to overcome the tidal pull back to sea.

Left naked to view were several large jellyfish-like creatures -- clear piles of tissue with colorful tubes and channels, organs, and food, visible within. It was like glimpsing one of those transparencies of living creatures that leaves you slightly queasy, but strangely addictive nevertheless.

Also left for the few finders about were sand dollars, pristine, unbroken, of all shapes and sizes. One was no larger than a thumbnail, a baby sand dollar, all white, and therefore dead. (When alive, they are a purplish green color, with hairy underbellies that probably allow them to migrate about.)

Besides my precious cache of seaglass, there were stones of every size, shape, color, and pattern, some of which I simply had to bring home with me, because they were way too beautiful to leave for an unclaimed future.

What there was very little of, thankfully, was human trash.

The clay flows along this beach are one of its most remarkable features. Thanks to the clay, there are thousands of fossils of sea creatures from times past. The clay itself mixes uneasily with the sand to melt -- I can't think of a more descriptive word -- into exotic patterns that yield rivers of subtle browns, grays, and yellows flowing toward the lashing saltwater nearby, waiting to devour these and every other land-based element once it is released by the moon's sway.

Yesterday, probably due to the vicious winds, which create instant sand dunes and down power lines and traffic lights, much of the Great Highway that borders the beach was closed to traffic.

With the beach and highway so empty and bereft of people and their vehicles, it was all too easy to imagine the future of this treasured place. Everything I've described will be under the sea, but birds will still hunt these shores. Underneath the ocean, the clay will still leak and lurch, creating its lovely patterns now on the sea bottom, far from our view.

Perhaps, in a distant future, long after I and mine have departed, the climate will pivot once again. Perhaps someday, someone, maybe even a great-great-great grandchild, will rediscover this place anew, as the seas retreat, and the beauty of a long-forgotten paradise once again presents itself to human view, beckoning a wanderer.

If so, I hope that boy or girl feels a shiver of familiarity as the shiny pieces of seaglass that will no doubt survive any coming calamity slowly reveal themselves once again, whispering with sultry desire: "Look at me."



-30-

Open Letter to Anthem Blue Cross: I Hate You!

There should be a law against this: I was laid off in January, applied for Cobra (continuing health insurance coverage) within the specified time limit, and have received nothing but an endless runaround.

Today, calling for clarification, your customer services reps placed me on hold, then transferred me, not once but three times. After 45 minutes, a person announced cheerfully that she had found the right place to route my call:

An automated voice then stated: "This member policy is no longer available. This call will now be terminated."

And it was.

Is there any actual human? Can anyone even conceive of treating another person this way?

I may be just a single individual, quite powerless, quite easily subjected to this kind of abuse, from your perspective.

But I've got news for you, Anthem Blue Cross. I will find an appropriate, thoroughly legal, but effective way to extract my revenge from you. What is a company but a collection of individuals?

You've just gotten at least one old investigative reporter very angry -- never a good thing. Watch your backs.

-30-

P.S. All will be forgiven if you just issue me the damned Cobra coverage I am due under the law.

The Way of All Art

I've got a pair of boys at that precise stage of development where music, one way or the other, replaces everything else in their worlds as their chosen means of expression. I remember when I hit this point, and also how my father reacted.

He hated my music.

True to his generation, he loved the crooners -- Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Perry Como, etc., whereas equally true to mine, I was attracted to the rebels -- Elvis, Bill Haley and Chuck Berry -- who replaced his idols in ways he found offensive and frankly, incomprehensible.

These days, it's the Killers, MGMT, Weezer, Kings of Leon, Paramore, The Offspring -- yep, I know them all -- that my boys are listening to.

As a former Rolling Stone reporter, you better believe I keep a close watch on my kids' playlists, always have, always will.

But as the alt.rock scene continues to develop, generation after generation, it is gratifying to witness those rare moments when the latest round of 14-year-olds discover our greatest song-writing poets.

Such has been my pleasure these past two weeks after my young boys watched the movie "Watchmen," which is a cinematic cover based on the graphic comic of the same novel from over 20 years ago.

This film reaches its peak during the opening credits, when the soundtrack takes off, featuring songs like Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are a-Changin'", Jimi Hendrix's brilliant cover of Dylan's "All Along the Watchtower;" not to mention Simon & Garfunkel's "The Sounds of Silence".

Yes, my boys have finally discovered some of the greatest poets of my generation. So, as we traverse San Francisco in my Saturn, they and I can finally agree on a common playlist, which includes some of the old guys with some of the new.

What's not to love about that?

-30-

Smarter Food & School Shopping

Now I've got one vegetarian (aged 10), another who borders on it (12), and one good old-fashioned omnivore (14) to cook for, meals are somewhat more challenging than before. The result is I need a more diverse set of inputs, and in that regard, thank God! I live in a diverse community.



By virtue of the many Asians and Latinos in this area, we have terrific food markets that operate outside of the grasp of the giant chains like Safeway. One of the best is an Asian supermarket in Daly City, where I can save 25-50 percent off of what Safeway charges me for the same items.



Of course, reaching Daly City requires me to take a 15-minute freeway trip in my car. Ironically, due to my still-extant Safeway habit, the $19.50 worth of gas I "purchased" at the Arco station in Daly City yesterday came courtesy of my free gasoline card issued by Safeway.

If there is a pattern behind this mayhem, it is the frugality of my choicing. These are lean times on the income side, lean times indeed. No room for fat on the cost side.

Meanwhile, waves of anxiety rode through certain households last week as the private high schools in the area mailed out letters disclosing whether one's child was accepted or rejected by the institutions that consider themselves elite, and in some cases, justifiably so.

The news was mixed around here, more rejection than acceptance, but I'm quite sure I know the reason for that: Me.

Stupidly focused on what had just happened after I was rendered jobless in January, I immediately turned to writing the letters to the private schools my eighth-grader had applied to, explaining our rather dire financial straits.

Idiot!

Private schools are "hurting," in their way, too. The last thing they need is to take on a kid whose family may prove to be a basket case, financially. Had I pretended all is well, perhaps referencing my many years of financial success compared to others, we would have come off as the kind of elitist family they are desperately seeking in a down market.

Why?

Because many more of the kids already in their high schools are asking for financial aid this year than is normally the case. First principle: Take care of those already in the school. We have noticed a definite pattern among which kids got those acceptance letters -- in every case they were sent to families that appear to be in relatively stable financial condition.

This was not, however, a year of decisions based on merit. Having high grades, test scores, athletic success, and extracurricular activities were of no use whatsoever to these kids if their Dad and/or Mom was out of work. Nope, private schools in San Francisco shun all such candidates as if they have the plague.

Just one more little indicator of how scared everyone is becoming.

Not me, however. Don't list me as down, out, scared, or pessimistic. This is a good thing for our common planet and for our society. We need to cut excesses, consume less, reduce our carbon footprint, stop living beyond our means, and bring ourselves into line with reasonable lifestyle expectations.

I'm sorry for some of the kids who got rejected from schools they wished to attend, of course, but not overly so. Why? Public school. The public schools are receiving a windfall in the form of bright, energetic kids who cannot afford the absurd tuition ($30k a year!) charged by the privates.

That these kids are now going to be attending public schools, due to changing economic conditions, will strengthen our public school system in San Francisco, too long neglected since the 33-year-old catastrophe known as Prop 13.

Meanwhile, the privates will decline in quality, as they close their wagons around the wealthiest -- if not always the ablest -- of students. This is simply all in the natural order of things to come.

-30-