8-29-31 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians -- Starter Job #193 (Absence Makes the Parting Pondered)

And now, for a change of pace. Has absence made your reader-hearts grow fonder? Hmmm. Well, please just don’t forget me and this incredibly ambitious effort to reconstruct a life lived in the best possible intentions and with such optimism that the disappointments never linger. . . there’s always a bright new hope, somehow, a bright new hope that God and the fates will again smile and say with a pat on the head, “That’s nice,” like an indulgent Auntie Mame type. 

I’ve been trying to figure out a really smart next move for a survival job. While I believe that my music and writing -- my creativity -- is always going to be my vocation and life quest, living in semi rural Connecticut is not yielding me the kind of half decent white collar survival work I’d come to rely on in NYC. And the education field I’m finding more and more tedious. . . besides, it seems they only want my subbing help. While I’d be happy with a teaching assistant or para job to work days while I kept up with music and writing, I apply along with 50+ other applicants and somehow I’m left swimming in the applicant pool without a prayer.

I just don’t have enough friends in the right places here, either.

I am always striving to balance the practical along with the creative in my life. So. . . . I was absent for almost two weeks trying to figure out my next move. I thought I should go back to school. Another Masters degree, maybe? (I already hold one I’m not using, a Masters of Science in Education, Secondary English concentration.) Southern CT State has a great Information and Library Science program.  . . but no, that would be a dead end for employment and so much stress, so costly, and so many hoops to jump through. Cannot do.

With a little help from my friends, I am looking into a way more practical course of action, now. Will let you know when it’s ready. . . 

7-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #155 (The Washington Squares - Conflicts & Band Roles)

Personalities according to their instrument/role in band. Here’s an incomprehensive list of self-evident truths that I won’t belabor but want to share:

Lead guitar players: brilliant musicians, moody, quiet when you needed to talk about anything important, passive-aggressive, etc. . . . their talents are admirable, but I find it hard to know them or get close to ‘em. Drummers = fun and a little crazy, opinionated, real characters. But, drummers are easy for me to chum around with. Bass players = usually bandleaders, more even tempered than the rest, sweet. Generally, bassists are romantics -- or snide bastards! Vocalists = good P.R. people, schmoozers, “the face” fronting the group.

In the Squares, we had three vocalists, two lead players (Bruce AND Tom, on electric banjo later on), an occasional drummer, and Tom on bass (though he’d occasionally have Bruce or I play bass, on “Promises” and “Fourth Day of July.”). Oh, we also had two stand-up comedians who dealt in “fastball wit.”

Me being in the middle of it, in our inverted V formation, I tended to feel left out. . . I was of the more cerebral, rambling stage patter school, which didn’t work so well in a tight group. Oh well. At that point in our act, it didn’t hurt to have the cute girl in the middle. . . though I felt smarter than I may have looked, I was also not clued in at the right times so how smart was I, after all?!

My tenacity always won out. I stuck with the Squares through the good times and the bad, and I stuck with survival jobs and boyfriends too, generally -- until the breaking (or tipping) point prevails. . .

7-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #141 (The Washington Squares - Apologia)

If I’ve not been consistent with my postings about the Squares it’s because I realize, deep down, that as exciting and productive a time it was, it was also a time that I was torn between making music and writing/being a writer, and feeling anxious and confused about my future as an artist and a human being. It’s my main conflict in life, my insanis modum operatio.

I’ve always had two creative urges -- that, in an ideal world, co-exist peacefully and balance out: as a songwriter/musician and as a prose writer, more along the lines of journalist. I love to get to the heart of a story and talk to people and ask penetrating questions so that everybody (including the interviewee) better understands their driving force(s) and why certain things happen(ed).

When I’d do one thing to the exclusion of the other, it took a weighty toll on me. . . which is how I feel this very day, writing a blog and thinking, “Hey, I really want to go through the songs for next week’s gig and figure out a set list and go over them here, in my basement studio, singing along and playing the guitar (or the bass or the ukulele or the autoharp).” 

Last week -- when this blog was forsaken, and it drove me nearly wild with frustration because I do love writing and making these posts interesting for my eager readers -- I had a few bad days, which made me want to call in (heart) sick to my life, just for a day.

But some of us can’t call in sick even for a day, because our job is to just be ourselves -- and our very best selves, at that! Dang it.

7-02-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #138 (Starting Out Again. . .with New Beat-ginnings in The Washington Squares - Open Mic at the Speakeasy)

The Speakeasy scene was not hard to penetrate if you had something good.  Monday night open mics were the main hoot.  Rod MacDonald hosted around our time in the scene (spring of 1983).  We showed up in our striped shirts, Ray Bans, berets  and annoyingly confident attitudes the first time out.  I had a little old acoustic F-30 Guild guitar that sounded great, and Bruce had a Gibson Hummingbird (or was it Tom’s guitar that he lent to Bruce?).   Anyway, Tom played his electric P-bass because this was before Tom got his big acoustic bass, a Guild “guitarrone” style guitar.  It looked good on him because he’s a tall guy and proportionally, it worked. 

The Speakeasy’s owner, Joseph, was a nice older man who Goodkind always schmoozed, making ol’ Joseph smile so that he practically gave Goodkind carte blanche, let Tom do whatever he wanted.   See, Tom was always ingratiating his way into favors, and we never stood in his way.  Tom wanted bookings for us, with lines around the corner.  We didn’t object to that, either!

So, at the Speakeasy on a typical night you might hear Roger Manning doing his Folkgrass duo, or Enamel the Camel singing truly bizarre songs (his theme song went, “Enamel the Camel.  . . “ etc. etc. of course).  Folk humorist Christine Lavin would sing a new satirical song that would get everybody snickering, and Rod MacDonald would sing his own songs, sometimes with Tom Intondi.

Eric Frandsen was a funny guy and a great guitar player, with a handlebar mustache that made him look kinda Gilded Age.  He wasn’t very nice at times so I steered clear; didn’t want to be in his way and get hurt.

Lucy Kaplansky and Peggy Atwood also played. . . they were lovely, fragile, and endearing. 

But the cherry on the sundae, so to speak, was young woman with a guitar who wrote songs and seemed very serious.  She was a waiflike, smart girl who wrote her own songs and never seemed to get overly excited.  Tom and Bruce in the Squares always went out of their ways to be nice and try to make her laugh and “court” her, in a way.  I wasn’t sure of their sincerity, but I was sure she had talent.  I didn’t know if she liked us, though, so that kind of got in my way of enjoying Suzanne Vega. . .   

7-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #137 (Starting Out Again. . .with New Beat-ginnings in The Washington Squares - Fast Folk at the Speakeasy)

The pain of Nervus Rex coming to an end was behind me; the new band, “the Squares,” healed that wound and made a lot of sense, really.  Around that time, painfully commercial popsters Huey Lewis and the News did a song called “Hip to Be Square” and a group called Timbuk 3 did a song, “The Future’s So Bright, I’ve Gotta Wear Shades.” 

(look!  We even had a logo, thanks to Marlene Weisman, a talented artist/graphic designer that Tom Goodkind hired to do design for the Peppermint Lounge, too)

As counterculture and so-called hip as we were, those popular songs were eerily apropos.  You’d think they were custom-writ for the yuppies, but most young people felt it and resonated with it.  I guess we were riding a zeitgeist, some sorta gemutlichkeit.  We felt at home anywhere there was a reason to protest, a microphone, and a spotlight.  We had something(s) to say and had to get it right out there. . . in song, and jokes.

So our initial plan of attack had us attending open mics in the village, mostly at Folk City and the Speakeasy.  There was this organization called Fast Folk that I think Jack Hardy spearheaded.  He was a preppy looking guy who wasn’t too friendly to me, but I guess I wasn’t the friendliest character either.  At turns, I was shy, wary, moody, and a little paranoid.  Of course, the cheery face I usually showed to the world belied all the weirdness going on in my head.

Tom Goodkind and Bruce Paskow (but more Tom) were good at hanging out with the other guys, and they got to know Rod MacDonald, Jack Hardy, David Massengill (he was a friend -- he and his sweetheart, Lisie), Eric Frandsen, even Dave Van Ronk.  Christine Lavin also was a part of that scene, and Frank Christian (Jr.).  Cliff Eberhardt, Tom Intondi, Carolyn Mas, Shawn Colvin. . . . lotsa good singer-songwriters.

Like I said, I wasn’t the most social person -- kind of reserved, I hung back and had a hard time feeling a part of that Fast Folk group, even at times my own group felt strange and I always questioned my sense of belonging.  But not to belabor that point here. . . I’ve always felt that way, even in my own family.  Moving on. . .

So, ever notice how different people have different effects on you?  There are those who somehow just make you feel better being in their orbit; there are others who seem to bring out the negative, the whiner in you.  I had just figured that one out right about this time. . . and if I didn’t resonate with a person, if they didn’t make me feel good or comfortable or positive. . . I kinda lost interest and wandered off, in my own self-created haze.

That haze was pure creativity (with a little pity party and self reflection sprinkled in).  I had so many songs in me, so much music to share.  The harmonies flowed on.  I felt happiest when writing and singing. . . some things never change.

6-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #121 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at a hip new eaterie and bar: One U)

OK.  I was making some music, but in a hobbyist sort of sense.  I needed to make money to keep going.  Sure, the rent on my apartment was under $300 at the time, but still. . . I surely had to find me one of them good ol’ “survival jobs.” 

Because I’d been waitressing in London for the best part of a year and a half, I figured it made sense to find a waitress gig.  I can’t recall how I found it -- probably my ex or some other friends suggested it -- but I came to work at a really hip restaurant/bar in the heart of the NYU-ville Greenwich Village.  Just north and east of Washington Square Park, One University Place was the address of “One U,” or Chinese Chance, as it was also called.

“One U” had three owners: Mickey Ruskin, from Max’s Kansas City; Richard Sanders (who’d served in Vietnam and suffered from Agent Orange poisoning); and a less colorful guy who was possibly the most functional, a middle-aged man named Va Hagen.  They were quite the trio.  Are three bosses better than one?  Hard to say. . .

I started out there on the bottom rung of the waitress ladder, with the worst shifts.  The 3^rd and latest shift went from 8 PM to 4 AM, the 2^nd shift from 6 PM to 2 AM, and (probably) the best shift, the first, started at 4 PM and ended at midnight.  I didn’t really care how late I stayed out because One U was only about a ten-minute walk from my apartment.  I was young and energetic -- strong enough to carry a massive 3 by 4 foot tray with six dinners stacked on it, then grab a tray stand and whomp! the tray on it, to serve those dinners. 

I’ve not seen that done in years; I doubt many who are now “servers” could do that.  It was indeed tricky, but I never dropped anything from that big tray.  We also had to carry all drinks on a serving or bar tray, and place coasters under the drinks.  There really were rules, ways to do things.

Musically, the jukebox at One U had lots of cool singles from that time.  The most played song I can remember from the time was by the Pretenders, “My City Was Gone.”  How apropos for me, really. . . because, in a way, I’d returned to a place that was a whole new city after spending 18 months in London.

(My signed Pretenders single from Chrissie. . . Not "My City Was Gone" but a good one, despite.)

At the end of 1982, I spent New Year’s Eve alone and in tears, wondering why I had no boyfriend, no love, a crazy waitressing job, and wasn’t making music.

That was to change in February 1983.  Meanwhile, there are still tales to tell about my server stint at One U. . .

6-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #120 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple: love and making music)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

So.  I returned to NYC in November 1982 with two full suitcases, my guitar, a duffelbag, bittersweet memories, and the hope that my old boyfriend was still crazy about me.  Well. . . he might have been, but he also had another girlfriend that he didn’t tell me about.  How I found out about that one?  I forget.  But, once I knew he was a liar and a cheat, I wasn’t standing for it.  It hurt like hell to be lied to and cheated on, but I was actually the third wheel, so that was even more humiliating.

Don’t know if it’s pride, ego, or self-preservation: I don’t make a habit of taking shit from anyone.  Nope. 

So, I moved on.  To hell with love -- I needed a job, and I needed to make music. 

First, as for the music: I had a not-great old Bacon tenor banjo (not a Bacon & Day or B&D banjo, but it suited my purposes).  I wanted to sing & play songs dressed up as a vintage girl country singer, and I had high heeled cowboy boots and a strange looking frilly dress in two pieces that had ruffles & lace and was bought in London.  I learned a song called “I Didn’t Know the Gun Was Loaded” and went to Folk City for a few open mics.  I was nervous as hell and wore “six shooter” cap guns strapped to my waist that I pulled out and shot off at key moments in the performance.

(below: that same banjo!)

At the time, performance art was starting to hit its stride; the likes of Lori Anderson and Karen Finley were making quite a splash and I thought, hey, maybe I can get into that whole thing.

Whatever.  I don’t remember what other gigs I had, but I wrote a few songs here and there and recorded them at home on my TEAC 4-track, which was cool.  I may not have been the best guitar/banjo/piano player and all, but the harmonies sounded good and I played lots of little parts on various instruments to flesh it out. 

Before moving to England, I bought a cute little studio piano (72 keys) and had it moved upstairs to my 5^th floor walkup. . . four guys carried it up the five flights of stairs.  The piano cost me $600 plus delivery charges, and of course I tipped the deliverymen for all that work. . . like I couldn’t have waited for my building to get an elevator (which we did in the late ‘80’s and was a great help, lugging that piano out in 2008. . .).

(House is not a home without a piano. . . my Harrington studio piano)

4-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #110 (Back to Blighty -- again -- and the Mo-Dette’s trial by fire)

(photo by Ralph Alfonso -- small world!  He's BongoBeat records, who released my first solo album, and a friend of mine, too)

After seeing Paris for the first time on my bank holiday trip, I settled back into life in London in the summer of ‘82, living in my bedsitter in the basement at 87 Earl’s Court Road, hanging with Patrick & Nora & other friends, trying out for a band or two.

I kind of remember the time I auditioned for the Mo-Dettes, who were looking for a vocalist/guitarist.  I was nervous and didn’t have an electric guitar so I had to borrow one from the band’s guitarist.  Back home in NYC before coming to England, I’d sold some equipment, among the casualties a sweet cherry red Gibson SG junior guitar, worthy of Joan Jett-dom.  Let me tell you, showing up at an audition without an axe when they’re looking for a rhythm guitarist in an all-girl punk rock band. . . just isn’t good.

They were also scary people with nasty attitudes.  They made me feel really small and uncomfortable.  Part of me was blisteringly angry at them for being such unnecessary assholes.  Another part of me was chiding, “Lauren, why can’t you just be confident?  You were in a BIG NY band -- to hell with these London snobs!”

They’d told me to practice that hit song of theirs, “White Mice,” and added another one that I really liked with a descending chord structure like the Raspberries’ “Tonight,” but of course I don’t remember the title of the Mo-Dettes song -- sorry.

In the audition (in North London?) I didn’t play well, fumbled the chords, didn’t hit the stage with that bigtime pun attitude and charisma (which I can turn on when I feel more welcome)/  Ultimately, as much as I’d wanted to be in a band, especially one with a solid reputation, I really wasn’t into being around these people.

In summary, my Mo-Dettes audition was a total bust (LOL).

According to Wikipedia, they disbanded in November of 1982, anyway, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t do well & get into the Mo-Dettes. . . just another heartbreak I’d have to withstand, another broken up band. . . and the Nervus Rex breakup had affected me more than I thought it would.

That was all a big part of why I left NYC was because I couldn’t take it: our band failed, it broke up, we were no more.  The other reason being, obviously, that I had been an Anglophile and wanted to live there. . .

1-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #10 (Patti Smith Weighs in on Education; Sweet Jane Friedman)

All right. In my last entry, I mentioned some musician friends on the scene who earned life experience credit at the alma mater of CBGB’s in the late ‘70’s (Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads, RISDEE grads), and Snooky Bellomo (NYU student).

At CBGB’s – the place I could usually be found on weekends away from SUNY Purchase in ’74 – ’76, I met Patti Smith and her manager, Jane Friedman, through James Wolcott, the hugest Patti fan ever (at least, at the time). Patti had the greatest way of being instantly intimate with people. I thought she might have been pulling my leg about a lot of stuff she made up about her past, but I do admire anybody who can make up a good myth.

She dubbed me “Our new Ninja” upon signing a copy of Seventh Heaven. I was taken aback when she told me I shouldn’t be going to school: “Go out with all the smart guys! Learn from them! Who needs college? It’s bullshit.”

While thinking in my heart how I had an unspoken promise with my father to graduate with a college degree and he had just died a month before I started, I blurted to Patti, “But I LIKE school! I LIKE learning!. . . “ and then, like Mother Superior, she absolved me and my sin of caring about something uncool. Fair enough.

Patti was really nice to my sister Carrie too, when I introduced them at My Father’s Place (a club) in Roslyn, Long Island, when the Patti Smith group played on a double bill with Television in ’75. I recall Patti borrowed a little corncob pipe from my sister for, um, you know. . .

People like Patti – and many other smart musicians I know – weren’t gung-ho for school but were still great learners and had a constant thirst for self-gathered knowledge. These autodidacts are definitely on the right path for them, but as for me, I like a little more structure and focus. I’m kind of all over the place, when left to my own devices. . . but of course, we all learn in life what we need to (and if you try sometimes, you get what you want, too?). There’s still some of that ceaseless autodidact in me, too. I just like having validation, a degree (or 2 or 3!).

Jane Friedman (Wartoke Concern, Patti’s manager) was a great person who treated me kindly and with immense respect. Somebody told me she was the girl Lou Reed wrote “Sweet Jane” about. When I visited Jane Friedman at her family’s in the Village that Yuletide (they were Jewish; what the hey), at a holiday open house, Jane took me aside and made a special effort to make me feel welcome by giving me a palm-sized round mirror backed with a myriad of tiny seashells, in a circle. Decades later, I still consider that little tchotchke one of my prized possessions.

1-11-12 Survival Jobs etc. – Starter Job #9 (Liberal Education background– towards a Creative Writing/English BA)

Before indulging in more tales of rock & roll, sex & drugs and all that good stuff back in the day, my Education Career deserves some attention – though, of course, R&R does play into it at times, as does the vagaries of boho slum life (before the lower east side got gentrified!).

First of, many back then asked why I was in school. Like, why bother? All we did was make music, wait on tables, bartend, work lower level clerical jobs, and dream of making it big. What possible use could a sheepskin have for people like us (the REAL new bohemians)??

Okay, here’s a BIG CONFESSION: I am a snob. Not your usual snob, but an intellectual snob. Coming from a highly intelligent, ambitious-achiever family (parents with advanced degrees before it became fashionable, aspiring to highbrow culture), education was key.

As little kids, we went to school with the assumption that we’d be top of the class. I fell short by one or two kids (that Joyce Avellino! That Irene Buatti!), but other than that, almost without effort I got great marks & report cards that were commented on with, “Hmmm, that 92 is pretty good, but why didn’t you get over 95?”

You see, that need to achieve academically was drilled into me, early. Besides, I LOVE learning, and although schools are flawed places to learn, at least there’s structure – and the proof that you’ve accomplished something (a diploma, transcripts) that’s meaningful in the world at large.

I started out at Saint Anastasia’s kindergarten, then went to grades 1 through 8 there, too (only one block away from our house in Douglaston, it was certainly accessible – besides, we got to go home for lunch, as “walkers”). After that, I attended Bishop Reilly High School for less than a year (I hate, hate, HATED it), caught “mono” in April, then was kicked out (I planned it all along) for insubordination – and refusing to participate in religion class, one of the freshman requirements. Oh well. I exulted in my victory to attend public school and not wear a UNIFORM every day, as I had all through school up to then.

Sophomore year of high school, I got to go to Benjamin N. Cardozo High School (“Cardozo”) in neighboring Bayside. I wore what I liked, sure, but I had to walk up to the expressway (about ½ mile) and catch the 17A bus to Springfield Boulevard. We didn’t have a school bus; it was public transportation all the way in NYC. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but I was in a bad place back then (drugs, bad companions, severe dieting). I cried, had severe headaches, couldn’t concentrate. I also lost forty pounds in one year – which made me a mess. And I still didn’t think I was skinny, yet. On my 16^th birthday, my parents took us out for a fancy French dinner that I couldn’t eat, then drove me to the psychiatric hospital and had me committed for six months.

If you have come up with the diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa (hysterical lack of appetite), BINGO! Long story short, I finished out sophomore year of high school in Hillside Hospital. My junior year was spent at a boarding school for recovering troubled teens, the Lake Grove School (on Long Island). Had a great geometry teacher, Arnie Pederson, who was ancient, very patient, sweet-tempered, and a Swede.

Back home to Douglaston, I spent my senior year of high school back at Cardozo. Classes were large (over 30 per), and the graduating class must have had about 1,000. I don’t recall attending graduation, but I earned my H.S. diploma, no problem. I had an 89 average or so, and applied to several state schools, my preference being for SUNY Purchase because it was artsy and that suited me to a T. (If a school had a reputation as a party school, like SUNY New Paltz, that was too scary to contemplate – partying was bad news for me in my fragile physical and psychic state.)

IF I HAD BEEN really together and put some thought into it – picking a school for me was a very quick and annoying task, not anything I was thinking hard about – I’d have tried to go to Sarah Lawrence. Not only is it more prestigious than a SUNY, my hero, Joseph Campbell, was teaching there and I could have studied with him. . . I coulda been a contender! But, that’s just a small regret . . .

To wrap up this way-long blog, I studied at three different colleges/universities to earn my degree in Creative Writing (minor in English), the only thing that could keep my attention, the only thing I could truly excel at other than music.

The three higher learning (!! Yes, at times, it really was!) institutions were:

1. SUNY Purchase (4 semesters – I moved to NYC in ’76 & transferred);

2. Hunter College (3 semesters – I lived four blocks away, which was handy);

3. CUNY or City University of New York (final semester – did a creative writing senior project, I wrote, edited, rewrote and finished my first novel, Shrinking, originally No Cal Nut or I Wanna Lobotomy);

4. CBGB’s (I’d say this qualifies as a learning experience – valid life experience, at least).

Speaking of life experience, I sought school credit for my thick portfolio of published work (Trixie A. Balm’s rock writing) because I figured it was a pretty valid request. In the end, I was awarded 18 credits. . . from either Hunter or CUNY. How cool! After four years in college, I graduated magna cum laude, with a 3.42 G.P.A. However, a diploma from CUNY doesn’t impress anybody (whereas a degree from Sarah Lawrence, Vassar or Smith? Hell, yeah!)

Of my rockin’ rollin’ friends who attended the CBGB’s alma mater, Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads were college grads (RISDEE), and Snooky Bellomo of Tish & Snooky’s Manic Panic was an English major at NYU. I was in pretty good company – but one night, Patti Smith made a comment about learning that just astonished me . . .

1-7-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #4 (Village Voice freelance Rock Writer) & 1-6-12 (Happy Birthday, daddy!)

Okay, so it’s the summer of 1974. Beloved father dies, eldest daughter goes to her first rock concerts with her beau, Ira, from the hood in Bayside, Queens. They go to hear Mott the Hoople at the Uris Theater on Broadway, and David Bowie at Madison Square Garden. After attending my second rock concert, ever, I felt compelled to write a concert review, using as may “fifty dollar words” as I could muster, inspired no doubt by the effete stylings of Melville or something from the 19^th century. “Cynosure” was one of my favorite words, but I digress.

I mailed off my proud three-page double-spaced review to “Music Editor, Village Voice, NYC 10013.” I had just turned 18 that spring, and in the fall was heading off to college at SUNY Purchase. I was glad to have something to do to get my mind off that terrible loss of my father. I had no idea how to pitch a story or even the name of the editor. But I did it.

In early September, a letter came to my mom’s house, in Queens, from Robert Christgau, the new music editor of the Village Voice, responding to my review and telling me to “think more and write less.” God bless you, Robert Christgau!! It was one of the darkest times in my young life and it felt like a true miracle. He said to give a call, so I phoned Christgau from SUNY Purchase (at a pay phone down the hall in my dorm) and he assigned the new Jefferson Starship album & concert for me to review. With a new sense of purpose I dragged out my electric typewriter and GOT TO WORK.

For the next four years, while attending college (four different locations – a glutton for punishment, I transferred a few times due to changing location and interests), I wrote for hire as rock writer TRIXIE A. BALM.

Trixie A. Balm was a name I dreamed up on the LIE one night driving with the chunk-a chunk-a roar of tires against the buckling asphalt expressway, sitting beside my high school sweetheart, the aforementioned Ira (heck of a piano player and band leader at the time, although the band had a terrible name, “Chords Melody” – really!). “Trixie,” I thought, was a name so unlike me, so very like a peroxide blonde honky tonk angel, and “A. Balm” was a play on words that could mean “A bomb” or “a soothing unguent-type balm.” That, plus the initials T.A.B. were my favorite beverage at the time, Tab soda.

Trixie wrote for the Voice, Creem, Circus, Gig, National Screw, and many other fine publications. . . and earned her way through college on inspiration, perspiration, and a definite talent for a turn of phrase. This was a rockin’ start to a creative writing career.

1-6-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Remembering Dad and his Jobs on the Occasion of his Birthday (he would be 81 years old if still alive)

My father, Bernard F. Agnelli, was the first of three boys in a second-generation northern Italian immigrant family. His grandfather’s name was Bernard; his father’s name was Joseph: both names figure prominently in several generations. When I moved to Chester, CT, I found out that other Agnellis, our “country cousins,” settled there at the turn of the 20^th century. They were farmers who raised very impressive horses, I’m told. But Bernard Agnelli and Mary Corno, his wife, moved to New York City, where their children assimilated into American life and became executive secretaries (Aunt Toots) and Chief Financial Officers (CFOs) of the Bell Newspaper Syndicate (Grandpa Joe).

Grandpa Joe Agnelli married a non-Italian, Muriel Nissen, whose writing and cooking talent and frequent bouts of migraine headache I inherited. Of their three sons – Bernie, Joey, and Artie – our dad was the best and the brightest, purportedly. They dwelt in a nice little house in St. Albans, Queens, where Bernie met Bobbie (Barbara VDL), our mom.

But mostly, the Agnellis – and our dad – were mysterious. . . that’s the best word to express my frustration at how little we know about them, REALLY. The few dimly recalled facts that remain make interesting reading, nonetheless:

B.F. Agnelli attended St. Francis Xavier High School and Fordham University, majoring in Philosophy and Ancient Languages (Greek and Latin). Jesuit-trained, he thought for a while that his vocation was to be a Jesuit priest. For one year dad attended seminary (in Paris, France), but he came home and decided to marry mom instead.

When first married, dad worked as a reporter for the Bergen Evening Record in New Jersey. Then he went into the Army Reserves in Fort Benning, located in Columbus, Georgia. He was a lieutenant and wrote for the Fort Benning paper. Back in New York two years later, dad started working as a “P.R. Man” for Burston Marstellar, Western Union and Diamond International. He then became Publicity Director for the NY Blood Center. From there, he spent two years doing publicity for the Singapore Investment Center, and our family very nearly moved to Singapore in 1968 (mom wouldn’t hear of it – she loved Queens). After directing PR for the tiny but mighty new nation at the tip of the Malay Peninsula (Singapore!), dad went to work for J. Walter Thompson. About this time, he also went to night school for graduate courses in Economics. He became the head of a new business-focused division at J. Walter Thompson, Dialog. Bernard Agnelli, now the father of four, was doing well.

Then, at age 43, he passed away, a massive heart attack. And his daughter, Lauren, published her first piece, “Intimate Yet Objective: An Elegy to Bernard Agnelli.” Published in the local paper, The Little Neck Ledger, this In Memoriam piece was five hundred words typed on a Smith Corona electric machine, and was my first experience of the Red Smith adage: “Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed.” It is unlike the below adapted prayer -- one of many fun creative writing exercises I enjoy doing because it’s close to lyric writing, finding the right length/syllables word with the right sound and the right meaning, and maybe getting a chuckle or two.

Our father, who art in heaven, Bernard be thy name; thy kingdom done, thy had some fun on earth, if he is in heaven. Give us this day our daily blog, and forgive us our travesties, as we forgive those who travesty henceforth. Most of all, daddy, lead us not into tarnation, but deliver us from Tivo, Amen.

I love you, dad – Happy Birthday again.

1-5-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #3 (Carvel)

Recap: Although making music and writing have always been my main talents and the most blissful things I can think of (out of bed), you just know I’ve had an amazing array of “day jobs” and assorted other gigs to keep the dough rollin’ in. Some of those gigs were on the books, some of them not. I can’t say I’ve made huge amounts of undeclared income (take that, IRS!), but in the past, a few hundred bucks here and there, sure.

So, going back to the ignominious start of it all, off the books I was a professional Dog Walker at age 12, and then, five years passed before I got another job in our neighborhood of Little Neck-Douglaston, in Queens. This was my first “real” on-the-books employment. People from the tri-state area (NY-NJ-CT) know of an ice cream franchise that was famous for its product as much as its spokesman’s gravelly/bizarre speaking voice. “I’m Tom Carvel. Try our delicious frozen desserts, especially our ice cream cakes, made fresh in our stores. . .” Tom Carvel’s big sell was a strange looking cake called “Cookiepuss” – kind of like a cross between Caspar the Friendly Ghost and a cartoon alien. At Thanksgiving, Carvel would hawk a turkey-shaped ice cream cake that was shaped suspiciously like Cookiepuss, only rotated at a different angle and decorated like, well, a Thanksgiving turkey. And at Christmas, the Cookiepuss became Santa Claus. . . what a versatile cake mold, that Cookiepuss!

At the Little Neck-Douglaston Carvel, I had to wear a uniform of sorts (definitely a hat and some kind of shirt), and clock in with a time clock. I was paid minimum wage ($2.30 p.h.) which, at the time, was sufficient to live on, actually (if you keep in mind that rent on a typical Manhattan apartment was $125, and probably under $100 in the ‘burbs). I was good at the soft serve machine and at scooping ice cream. . . but only the manager got to make Cookiepuss! He was probably around 20 years old, a sweet, dark haired, dark eyed guy -- looked like Bob Cowsill with a bad case of acne – and I always felt respect and humor from him. He had a girlfriend or a fiancé and was around the Carvel store half the time when I worked.

The boss, on the other hand, was a kind of creepy man, named Howie or something, a guy once rumored to flirt with and feel up some of the other female employees. As luck would have it, I was in the height of my post-anorexic phase, and too skinny to appeal to a guy like Howie. Or maybe he was afraid of my dark, flashing eyes? Whatever. I didn’t want to take anybody’s s**t, but most of all I’d have been so freaked out. . . I’m glad nothing happened.

At my Carvel job, it must have looked funny to have this terribly thin person serving big cones of ice cream and huge, goopy ice cream sundaes, but there I was. As employees, we could eat ice cream to our heart’s desire (in the back), but my special treat was when they had banana soft serve Carvel ice cream. I’d pour myself a big one in a sugar cone, lay it down on parchment paper, place it in a freezer, then have a treat for later that I could eat VERY slowly for dinner or lunch (always gave me a headache and made me need a nap, but it was yummy). I’d always ask for shifts when they were selling banana soft serve.

At my Carvel job, they knew they could count on me to do a good job with customers, run the cashier efficiently, work hard, and be ultra reliable. I don’t do sick days – mostly, I’m too healthy and besides, why let a little discomfort (illness) get in the way of making money? Especially if you didn’t want to lose your job, you just showed up.

I’ve been showing up for almost forty years now, every job, every single gig, every deadline. Maybe I’ve had five sick days (including one gig I had to miss with the Washington Squares on account of Chicken Pox!). ‘Tis the secret of my survival job success: be reliable and show up!!

PROOF TO WHOM?

Last week I had an amusing thought that I’ve been going around telling everybody: "It's exhausting, spending all day proving to utter strangers how awesome you are--" in reference to job applications and applying to festivals etc. as an artist.

Of late, life is being ceaselessly funny and interesting. . . but sure would like it to be a little less interesting and more peaceful (it couldn't get funnier, trust me!).

It’s like that ancient Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” How much nicer might it be to live in peaceful and contented times?? But then, as my friend Alicia points out to remind me: challenges build character. Nowadays, so many of the characters that I know are challenged almost to the utmost. But have they built character? Are we all better off for these trials and tribs?

These trying days, I know I need to bolster my well being frequently. I need positive feedback. I need support. Without employment, I need a lot, emotionally (not to mention monetarily). Every time I replace the kitchen garbage bag, I think, “By the time this box of bags is empty, will I or my husband be earning a living wage?” There are 50 bags left; we use about three bags a week. So, in 16 weeks (give or take), if the “bag oracle” works (I also do this with other household items just because my hope springs eternal), we’ll be back to work or otherwise in good shape? Wouldn’t that be a relief!

Last week’s fortune cookie read, in its edit-worthy wisdom: “The nearest way to glory is to strive to be what you wish to be thought to be.”

Aha. Or, uh huh. A few interesting words to digest out of the factories producing little white slips of two-sided paper (LEARN CHINESE and Lucky Numbers included on other side of fortunes). Reminds me of the I Ching Hexagram for “Biting Through,” Shih Ho -- #21: “This hexagram represents an open mouth with an obstruction (in the fourth place) between the teeth. As a result the lips cannot meet. To bring them together one must bite energetically through the obstacle. Since the hexagram is made up of the trigrams for thunder and for lightning, it indicates how obstacles are forcibly removed in nature. . . .” That is, the image of a thunder and lightning storm dissipating the ambient tension.

I do love a thunderstorm, and I do love the I Ching, though these days I don’t study it so much as I can remember some of the tao’s wisdom, which is pretty universal. In a nutshell (a very nutty shell), I define that as the concept of much good fortune is found in misfortune, and vice versa (“the seeds of misfortune are found in good fortune”).

Therefore, if we always keep to the middle way – which is really the core of Asian philosophy, getting neither excited nor excessively sad --emotions can’t overcome our logic or wellbeing. And then, life is good. It’s like the Greeks in the days of ancient philosophy: moderation in all things serves humanity best.

Anyway, it’s something to strive for when you tend to be a mood swerver and let everything bug you. As my favorite philosopher, Epictetus, said time and again, self control is the only thing we have control over, and that includes attitudes. Especially our attitudes; we control them, and the world is our oyster (unless you prefer clams).

So. As an unemployed, all-around or versatile/diverse individual with more and more transferable skills – AND as a talented music and word artist – I do spend many of my days on the computer, PROVING to utter strangers how awesome I am. That would, hopefully, lead to more jobs for me, perhaps a decent day job (ideally at a large institution, like my U.N. job, where they let you know exactly what’s expected and think the best of you rather than look for ways to cut you down because then they could fire you or not have to give you a raise).

I hardly dare muse on how proving my awesomeness to the right stranger(s) might lead to more exposure for my life’s work, my creative projects in writing and music. I barely dare think how life could – would – be if I really succeeded in proving my worth to the world and then having it come back to me in monetary and other rewards.

Those recent MacArthur Fellows program award recipients, or “Genius” awards, where people in diverse fields were awarded half a million dollars, no strings attached, to facilitate further creativity? I want one. Lookee, I know I have what it takes: (from website) “exceptional creativity, promise for important future advances based on a track record of significant accomplishment, and potential for the fellowship to facilitate subsequent creative work.” Now, doesn’t that sound JUST like me? And how about that Nobel prize? Gimme!

All right, I’d settle for a Pulitzer – that works for me. Or, maybe I could get another Grammy Nomination (which happened to my Contemporary Folk group some 20+ years ago, The Washington Squares) and actually win a Grammy? I wouldn’t rule that one out, uh uh, not at all.

Proving awesomeness is kind of a 24/7 job until everybody who needs to know that about you, knows. It could take a lifetime.

But ultimately, if I don’t believe how awesome I am, nobody else will. Hence the wisdom of that fortune cookie, exhorting one to carry on acting “as if,” just fakin’ it until makin’ it. Yup, that sort of works. So like the Television song, “Prove it!” I’m not good with hard cold facts, but I sure love to turn a phrase and can write circles (and songs) around almost anybody.

Lastly, is it true: “Better late than never?” The proof, inotherwords, comes from inner confidence, in the heart and in the mind. Meanwhile, I need a nap: it IS exhausting!

Oct. 4, 2010