I got into India very early a.m. July 13 after nearly two days of flying and layover. That first day was a blur, largely consisting of meeting various Leela executives including its remarkable chairman C.K. Nair, who is in his 80s, has seen it all and remains enthusiastic.

On July 14, we went to the heart of one of the many subcities of Delhi, to old, old markets where I and another journalist on this fascinating press trip occupied a narrow, hard seat in a bicycle rickshaw. Our driver took us through the narrowest, busiest streets I’ve ever seen. I can’t recall ever being this hot ‘n’ sweaty (hey, the heat’s dry in Phoenix and Dubai) or as saturated by atmosphere. The streets were so tight no way anything motorized other than auto rickshaws (covered Vespas seating four thin folk) could work them. The cost of the ride was covered by the PR agency that sent me to India, but at the end, the driver, who pushed a sickly beggar kid off me during it, wanted a big tip. We gave him 300 rupees (about $6.25) when Pamela, my seatmate, added 100 to my 200, exceeding the norm. The guy was demanding and shameless and I didn’t like his attitude. Then I thought to myself, where the hell do I come off begrudging someone who just nearly worked himself to death pampering me? I want to kill my inner Ugly American.

The next day our band of 10, half of them journalists, rode four and a half hours south to the state of Uttar Pradesh, home to Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. Our bus driver was a hero, dodging bullets mechanical and animal over iffy roadway. We arrived around 11:30 a.m. and the sun was relentless as we entered the site, which is much bigger than I thought it would be. Like Beijing’s Forbidden City, it’s massive; that’s why it’s called monumental. It’s also dazzlingly white, even radiant, its calligraphy and gemstone marble inlay gorgeous, its shimmer and magnetism undeniable. I now understand the term “mogul” and am beginning to glimpse how complex and challenging are the area’s politics.

Before I descend into fatuousness, I’ll cut this short. India makes you reconsider your viewpoint, your conceptions, your preconceptions. I’ll write more about the trip to Agra next time I blog. I have to get ready for a trip to Atlanta today (it’s July 20) so goodbye for now.

I’m settling into retirement—can’t help calling that even though it’s by no means the end—in peculiarly unsettling times. Work isn’t easy to get, though I seem to be on the verge of securing a part-time job, which I’m happy for. The days unfold erratically; some crawl, some whiz by. Pearl the dog is getting bigger and sweeter, I’m reading a lot (don’t miss Amitav Ghosh’s “Sea of Poppies”) and becoming more involved in politics, particularly now that Sarah Palin is looking more and more like Joe McCarthy. Time for a change indeed.

Karen, meanwhile, is going through hard times because her newspaper, The Plain Dealer, is going through hard times. She finished her graphic novel, “Thick Through the Middle,” and has sent it to various publishers for consideration; she’s been working with the Aids Taskforce of Greater Cleveland, creating her first graphic brochure (it’s great); she’s exploring and anxious and it’s scary. She’ll do fine; she’s resourceful, multitalented and productive.

I’ve been pretty busy. Last month, I took my first trip as a hospitality-trade freelancer, attending the Lodging Conference in Phoenix for Asian Hospitality, a London-based magazine I’ll contribute to regularly. I also developed a piece on the RGM Watch Company of Lancaster, Pennsylvania for International Watch magazine. It was great to work on it with Rich Roberts, the man who got me to China, Dubai and quite a bit of Europe in the past two years. (Wyndham Worldwide laid off Rich a month ago in what seems like a corporate downsizing with a vendetta at its heart.)

What’s the point of this, you ask? Nothing particular, just what may be a last shot before the Nov. 4 election. I’m working for Obama-Biden—I’m a volunteer coordinator in the South Euclid Blue Knights—and am beginning to anticipate an Obama win, which would be fantastic. Watching Sarah Palin at Florida rallies brings me back to when my father taught at Ohio State University in the ‘50s when being an intellectual, let alone a foreigner (he was German), let alone a Jew, was way suspect. McCarthyism ruled in the very early ‘50s, when I first became aware of politics. Palin suggests McCarthyism is not far from ruling again. McCain? He could be contained, he would negotiate; for a Republican, he’s not totally closed-minded. But Palin? Really scary, and only a heartbeat away.

I’ve been going through some changes recently, wearing a captain’s hat and practicing seafaring. At least that’s what I see in my mind when I’m at the helm of Seawolff Communications, my new business alter ego. It’s a limited liability corporation I’ve formed as my business, dealing in words, concepts and brand strategy. My wife, the multi-talented Karen Sandstrom, designed my new business card. It’s a new way of looking at myself and presenting myself, and it goes with other visual changes.

 I just finished a two-session tattoo on my upper right arm. That’s probably not particularly businesslike, but you can do this sort of thing when you’re retired and in business for yourself. The core of my tattoo is the Chinese symbol for double happiness, or marriage. That ideogram commemorates my domestic situation and my trip to China last year, where the double happiness symbol is ubiquitous. It’s also the name of a brand of rubber I use on my ping pong paddle.

 Another change: a beard. I haven’t worn one for about 10 years. The last time was probably when I had a ponytail. I’m not sure I like this one—it takes getting used to–but it was fun to let it grow—and to use a beard trimmer.

Nothing that heavy this time, though there’s plenty to be heavy about, like gun-toting, snowmobile-loving, God-fearing, baby-making Sarah Palin, the GOP’s “answer” to Hillary Clinton. Not to mention a racist country that’s probably going to do the “If you’re black, get back” on Obama, this time in the name of gender liberation. God help us.

My friend Jack called the other night to see how I’m doing almost a month into retirement. I’m doing fine, I told him before we got into another political argument (he thinks Obama’s a Manchurian candidate). God knows retirement is still weird. I’m getting up maybe an hour later than I used to when I worked so I can hang with my wife before she goes to her job. It’s weird, too, because now that the kids are back in school, my days stretch out and it can be lonely. Glad Pearl Marie, the Newfoundland puppy, is with me; we’ve taken many walks we both enjoy, and this August was a great month to leave work, what with its largely beautiful weather. Late summer and fall can be beautiful in Cleveland.

Last Saturday, my former boss threw a retirement party for me. It was small and relaxed and warm. I miss people I worked with and am learning how to network in new ways. I’m into Facebook (a little), deal with a flurry of Linked In communiqués (can anybody explain what that does for them?) and am e-mailing furiously. I’m also beginning to write more on my own website and vow to learn how to post pictures and links in it. Time to go even more digital.

My other newfound pleasure is our house, a money pit with enough room for all of us. My friend Quinn helped me clear out the garage a few weeks ago so this winter, we’ll be able to park both our Scions in it, and I’ve begun to get the weeds out of the driveway. I hope to tackle the basement and upstairs this winter, clearing the house of material that no longer matters; it feels like outgrowing emotional clothes.

Oh, yes—work. I’m reading a lot of books for review and next week will travel to Santa Fe for my first freelance assignment for Lodging Hospitality. Late in September I’m going to Phoenix for the Lodging Conference, where I’ll be doing some work for Asian Hospitality, a London-based monthly. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’m out of circulation.

I’m getting pissed at the Clintons. Drudge cites a CNN source this morning to say Bill’s going to skip Barack Obama’s crucial speech at the Democratic National Convention Thursday night, and Hillary’s supporters are still grousing that Obama isn’t paying off her campaign debts fast or deeply enough. I thought Bill Clinton was a very good president and until Obama came along, thought Hillary Clinton might be good, too.

But now the Clintons are helping John McCain, the Republican presidential candidate with a mind so open it’s leaking, defeat Obama, a guy with various disadvantages: He’s black enough, if not for all, to be defeated by racism, he’s so intelligent some trash him for it, he’s so charismatic the Republicans can denigrate him for not being one of the guys, and he’s singular. Which makes him suspect. But what makes Obama so vulnerable—imagine, even bobblehead Mitt Romney is throwing celebrity-tainted barbs at him—is his rapid rise. Some admire him for his disciplined, digitally innovative campaign. Others castigate him for his ambition. But if he weren’t ambitious, would he be running for President?

What it comes down to is Obama can be targeted as an uppity nigger, a viewpoint the Clintons would strenuously deny. Even articulating that phrase is ugly; I’m sorry I have to. But that’s what’s going on. Obama’s choice of Joe Biden as vice president would seek to bridge the nation’s racial chasm and fill other gaps in Obama’s vita, like experience, foreign policy and a kind of gravitas. But the Clintons, particularly Bill, a man who prides himself on being colorblind, are undercutting Obama as effectively as any Swift Boater might. Which pisses me off. All we need is another four years of retro rule, right?

Friday was my last day of work. I’m officially retired. Tomorrow morning I’ll get up with Karen to keep her company, not because I have an office to go to. I wrote a blog for my old magazine (hey, I worked there almost 19 years and you can reach what I wrote at www.lhonline.com) about leaving. The last month wasn’t easy because I had to balance the work I had to do with my anticipation about my new life.

Friday, after work, I drove to Dayton with my friend Ron so we could spend the next day playing table tennis in the Ohio Senior Olympics. It was my first retirement activity. The drive was peaceful, though wearing on my back (what a drag it is growing old, though I don’t hope to die before I get old and yes, there is life—a lot of it—after 30). I did badly in the singles on Saturday (that match I lost to a southern Ohio hayseed is a mystery to me) but Ron and I did well in the doubles; I drove back with my first medal (silver, OK, not gold) in years, not a bad way to kick off a new phase. Also cool: Ron asked whether I’d help manage a new ping pong club we’re trying to get going in Lyndhurst. No problem; I’ll have the time.

Tomorrow, I’m going to start cleaning the garage. I want to throw out a lot of stuff, sell other stuff, organize it so just maybe, we can park our Scions in it (they’re small). I’ll keep going through the house over the next few weeks to put it into some kind of order, not the easiest thing. I don’t think I’ll feel the full impact of my retirement for at least another week; this coming one will feel like a vacation. I’m looking forward to it.

A blog is personal, right? But like other forums (or is it fora?), the notion of boundaries applies. The reason I’m pondering this today is I’m sitting in Cleveland Hopkins Airport on the (delayed) start of my last business trip as a full-timer for Lodging Hospitality and have time to ponder some blog-related incidents of the past few months.

I often write about my family, which, sometimes to my regret, is more extended than I’d like it to be. If that sounds snarky, it’s because I’ve learned from a recent posting that when I write about someone other than myself—and the material might be sensitive—I should run it by that other first. Otherwise, who knows might take offense. If I went into detail, I’d aggravate the issue.

Otherwise, some random thoughts: My last day at LH is Aug. 1 and I haven’t lined up anything solid for beyond that. I’m looking for low-level part-time editing work; I’m confident I’ll be able to keep up the book reviews and the occasional music piece, but I’m eager to have some kind of platform. Lodging Hospitality has been very, very good to me these many years, and I’ll miss its security—and society. But I’m pretty sure I’ll find much new to do, and I’m looking forward to time with my family and pets. Also, I have a feeling my wife will be done with “Thick Through the Middle,” her graphic book about weight issues. It may be time for me to come up with another book; it’s been a few years.

I’m continuing this on Friday waiting in Atlanta’s airport to go home after a week of conferences. The one LH sponsored in Chicago ran like a clock and was a smash; the one I’m just ending, the black hotel owners’ and operators’ conference I’ve attended for so many years, was a blast of another sort. Telling people I’m leaving drew all sorts of responses, to congratulations to let’s continue working together to what are you going to do? It’ll be good to get home and feel kind of grounded in one of the most unsettled months of my life.

So I’m about to see “Don’t Mess With the Zohan” in Stone Harbor, New Jersey and the previews aren’t coming attractions—they come later—but commercials: for Verizon, for Samsung (know what a “BlackBerry prayer” is?) and for the National Guard. The last one’s the keeper: It’s a video of Three Doors Down singing “Citizen Soldier,” and you can download it, free, on the National Guard website (you look).

Rock ‘n’ roll used to be about peace and love and good vibes. When did it become an ad for war? Katy, my older kid, tells me she’s heard the song before and doesn’t know if any other rock group does that kind of thing. (Be right back; I’ll check out the National Guard website). Yep, Google National Guard and Three Doors Down and “Citizen Soldier” come up. You also learn that Kid Rock, that scruffy subversive who married Pamela Anderson, has just cut a commercial for the Guard.

I’m not against readiness but I am against war. Any musician who sides with the latter is lame in my book. Going to the movies used to be about entering a world of pure entertainment, a world you could get away to. No more. When did marketing become so mercenary, political and malevolent?

“Zohan” was fun, by the way. Getting there wasn’t half of it.

It’s my last paid vacation. We’re in Stone Harbor on the Jersey shore for the second year in a row. The beach is beautiful, though the Atlantic is too cold for swimming; the weather has been mainly good, with enough sun. I’ve been doing a lot of work here, some of my last as a full-time editor for Lodging Hospitality. The key task is compressing my 10-day China trip into about four magazine pages. Glad to be doing it in a place where I can take a break and get some sun.

I’m looking forward to my last day of work Aug. 1. But I’m also apprehensive. I’ve been employed for nearly 40 years, so lacking an anchor is scary. I’m putting out feelers for part-time work now, though I have a salary cap my first year of retirement (a strange word; tell people about it and the association is ending, dying. No such plans for me). I’m looking to edit, write corporate PR, put together brochures, do travel journalism. Maybe even some serious consumer reporting; now that I’ll have time, my ambitions are beginning to reawaken.

I also am looking forward to the presidential campaign and plan to volunteer for Obama. What form that will take I’m not sureyet, but his campaign is engaging me like none has since Clinton 1, in 1992. Back in February, I said it was Obama time. Still is. I’ll do what I can to guarantee that.

Naturally, time is on my mind, with a big shift in how I spend it coming up. So is continuity; last week, I got a note and some writings from Jack Behar, former husband of Barbara Behar, a former student of my father’s. In the ‘90s, I recall coming across writings of my father’s—dirty writings, sexual fantasies , if not (I hope) factual accounts—involving Barbara, who died of cancer in 1993. Jack sent me a packet of his writings about that “affair,” apparently a matter of phone sex-plus. It made me squeamish; not only does it tarnish my father to me, it shines a light on my own secrets, obsessions, sexual fantasies. Tantalizing? Scary, too. I don’t know how I’ll respond to Jack yet, but I will. Business, it seems, is never finished.

We’re starting a week’s vacation June 21, returning to Stone Harbor, New Jersey for a sophomore sojourn. The place will be great; time for sand and sun and seafood—and tightening up. We’re driving; bought a luggage rack/box for Karen’s Scion xB, and expect to spend a few hundred on gas to and from. But it’s cheaper than flying. It’ll be my last paid vacation.

There’s some finality to what I’ll do in August: quit my full-time job. That’s known as deciding to retire, but “retire” has a false finality, because I’m not ending, just shifting. Because Lylah and Katy are less than 18  years old, I can collect Social Security for them for a few years; combined with my Social Security income, the household should do OK. If prices begin to level off.

Anyhow, I’m looking forward to more time for myself. I still hope to travel, and to write. Though there’ll be an income cap in my first year, I’ll be able to make as much as I want after that, and I hope to do a lot more freelance work in corporate communications and hotel public relations.

On three other fronts: A 2004 BMW rammed into my own month-old Scion xB 10 days ago, wrecking the bumper and jamming the rear of the frame a bit, for $3,200 and change in repairs. The Beemer was totaled. We’ve been having some major auto issues, obviously, and the repair shop is doing well by us. The accident showed me how tough a little car my Scion is. The other front: Susan Green, whom I haven’t seen in at least 25 years, sent me a collection of essays/stories she and Susan Connell-Mettauer wrote. It’s way personal; it includes a few pieces about my relationship with the latter Susan, who died in late March. Weird reading my Susan’s writing about us 45 years ago. The narratives show me how I became such a flaming liberal; happens when punitive relatives frame you for fornication, a Massachusetts blue law of medieval, toxic cast.

Finally, the Obama-McCain campaign is on.  I’m writing this the day Hillary finally conceded and rediscovered her grace. About time; now it’s time for Obama, for the country to regain its balance—at least. Who knows? If he’s elected, the U.S. may even stumble upon a colorblind, positive groove. Here’s hoping.

I’m beginning to grasp a new kind of music, what I call heart music. It doesn’t fall into any particular category or niche; rather, it encompasses many. Two shows I saw recently stirred me so, all I could come up with was that description.

The first was on April 25 in New Orleans. I was there on a press trip, checking out a gang of Marriott hotels. Part of the PR effort involved Marriott giving the participating journalists a ticket to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Fest, an extravaganza that must have drawn over 50,000 to one great whoopdedoo on fairgrounds somewhere in that city. Marriott gave each of us $40, too. My job has its perks.

What knocked me out was a show by Robert Plant, Alison Krauss and T Bone Burnett’s band; delivering material off their fine “Raising Sand” album, the former leader of Led Zeppelin and bluegrass (and then some) virtuoso Krauss served up an hour and a half of heart music, including remakes of various Zep songs. Damn, was I moved. The kicker came toward the end, when Plant delivered a “When the Levee Breaks” as a ballsy affirmation of a city where Katrina broke the levees nearly three years ago. I’d toured New Orleans’ Ninth Ward the day before and seen what Katrina had done. Hearing Plant revitalize that Zep tune (itself a cover of a 1929 Memphis Minnie blues) was fantastic. Not only did it rock with point and passion, it signified Plant’s respect for a city that has contributed so much to this country’s musical character. The show was so good it seemed to stave off the rain that threatened throughout the set, breaking only for a few drops (Billy Joel capped the following day’s show, when it rained and rained and rained. Not sorry I missed that one).

The other heart music show was on Mother’s Day at the Allen Theatre in Cleveland. The Swell Season, featuring Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova and members of the Frames, delivered great tunes of their own, classics-to-be from “Once,” the fine film they starred in, and, to bring down the house, a furious solo Hansard cover of Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks.” Hansard has been around a while; Irglova’s a kid, and, clearly, his lover (wonder if Krauss is Plant’s?). Each can separately command a stage, and together make gorgeous music.

This is the kind of sound I hanker for. It makes the planet seem less desperate.

A few weeks ago, when I told my old friend Eric about how my old friend Jack was doing (maybe not so good), he wrote back sympathizing and told me Susan Connell-Mettauer had died. Susan Connell was my girlfriend in 1963; we danced to the Beatles, had a passionate affair, and were busted by her aunt because she didn’t want me, 20 then, screwing Susan, 16 then. Cambridge police put us into separate interrogation rooms (we didn’t know what each other was doing), got us to confess to the affair, and sentenced me to six months’ probation and Susan to a mental hospital. The charge was fornication, an old Massachusetts blue law. It sucked – the aunt, the law, the situation. It drove us apart, not immediately at first, but for decades.

About 15 years ago, I seem to recall through Eric, I got in touch with Susan again and saw her in Boston. She’d aged a lot; she’d been drinking and drugging and her liver was shaky. It was great to see her anyhow, and strange. It’s funny how your past circles back on you.

A few years later, I saw her again, introducing her to my wife and kids. It was an odd encounter, not a meeting of the minds so much as a meeting of generations. She seemed to have gotten stuck while I had moved on – and even then, I didn’t feel as if I could do anything for her. Then I heard she was married. She wrote, well and tough, publishing some stories online. Maybe two years ago, she told me her marriage was over and she had to move out of her house in Marblehead. She’d been trying to get over her hepatitis but couldn’t lock into the right regimen. She never did get work. I lost touch with her again.

Then came the news, from Eric to me, that she’d died March 26. He’d heard about it from Susan Green, an old friend of his in Burlington, where I, Eric and Susan used to hang out in the ‘70s. Susan Connell and Susan Green, I discovered, had been friends, semi-related through rock ‘n’ roll. After we were together, Susan married Lee Mason, a drummer who was in a ‘60s rock group in Boston called the Bagatelle. Susan Green, meanwhile, was associated with Willie Alexander (once of The Lost, later of Willie Alexander and the Boom Boom Band), a friend of Lee’s. So the network deepened and extended and I’m glad it’s held; I’ve been in touch with Susan Green about this and hope I can join her and other mourners of the late Susan Connell-Mettauer (expired March 26 before she could secure the liver transplant she needed), probably in Boston, where, it seems, it all began and still continues.

I miss Susan. I wish I could have helped her. That she died the way she did is very sad. That she didn’t live as rewardingly as her passion promised may even be sadder.

In other car action, I traded in my four-year-old Acura TL last Sunday for a, would you believe, Scion XB with a manual transmission. I didn’t realize I’d missed a stick shift until I imagined, what the hell, probably feels real good. It did when I went to a Mentor Toyota dealer, told the salesman I wanted to trade straight up—and two-and-a-half hours later, drove away with a stick-shift, boxy silver Scion, a kind of mini-minivan, a box with high-tech stereo and display, enough power appointments to comfort me, and a radio I’m going to add XM to next weekend. I like driving it; I miss the cushiness of the Acura—my only quarrel with it was its mileage—but this offers its own, future-retro pleasures.
Best thing about the XB: it gets 25 to 31 miles a gallon, so a tank in the Scion lasts 140 miles longer—on regular—than the Acura did on premium or midgrade. Kinda matters these days, when it’s all about getting back to basics. If Karen trades her 2005 Odyssey Touring (bargelike, amazingly appointed, still high-tech after three years, but gets only about 16-18 mpg city) for a Scion XB, we’ll be a two-toaster family. And actually save some money. Which would be nice these days.
Pearl Marie, our Newfoundland puppy, is growing fast. Maybe that’s why we’re downsizing on the car front. If you’re looking for sequiturs, you’ve come to the wrong place.

Karen and I and Lylah drove to West Union, Ohio on St. Patrick’s Day and bought an eight-week-old Newfoundland puppy from Herb Erwin, a fast-talking farmer/realtor/auctioneer who rules a huge roost , not to mention a whole gang of roosters. A surreal scene, indeed, when our yuppie Odyssey pulled up, zippered “crate” from Target in tow to transport the pup back 250 miles north.

Karen and I came across Herb’s farm following a barn sale sign in mid-January, when we spent a weekend at Murphin Ridge Inn, a fabulous b&b a few miles from Herb’s. We met the Newfoundland elders, the great landseer Madison (a landseer is a genetic rarity, a Newfoundland with a black head and black-and-white body) and Madison’s “wife,” all-black Katy.
Madison was our first view when we pulled into the driveway that sunny January day, and I liked him: funky, big, matted, very calm, very kind – and beautiful. So when we saw Katy, gigantic with imminent litter, we told Herb we’d like a puppy when she dropped. The one we got was the last, a girl, black with a white tuft on her chest and chin and a dash of white on a paw (or is it two)? We brought her back north with minimum fuss – yes, there was whining, but it was moderate – and when Lylah’s sister Katy saw her, she went nuts. So has everybody else who’s seen her, and we had a gang of visitors over this Easter weekend.

The Newfie girl’s name is Pearl Marie; settling on the moniker wasn’t easy, but it works and everybody agreed on it. Pearl, or Pearly, is very calm and friendly. She barks occasionally; she seems already kind of housetrained, as she goes outside to pee and poop and really, really likes to play in the snow. At eight weeks, she weighs 18 pounds. I suspect she’ll easily top 100, and she’s going to be hairy and drooly. But I already love her, and look forward to hanging out with her a lot.

The crate Karen bought in advance of the puppy is one to grow in for sure. It occupies a goodly portion of our family room, and Pearl already seems comfortable with it. I plan to take her for a walk today and see how she fares with that (Karen tells me it’s tricky). I also hope the cats settle down about Pearl; they seem not only scared but downright hostile, particularly Elliott, who’s done his best to avoid the dog. Her curiosity keeps the engagement going, however. Pearl Marie feels like a peaceable kingdom unto herself.

Karen and I are traveling to West Union, Ohio tomorrow, then driving back with a fresh cargo: a Newfoundland puppy, yet to be named. It’ll be a girl, one of seven born to Katy and Madison, a happy and productive Newfoundland couple at Herb Erwin’s sprawling, wacky farm.

Violetta, the Russian hottie who commandeers our biweekly house cleanings, told me yesterday Newfoundlands are sloppy and high-maintenance and big. I kind of sensed this and hope I can handle that. Our last dog, Ramona, certainly qualified on maintenance and sloppy (she was cute, too). But this Newfoundland will be a new dimension, not only in size but also in intelligence. Madison, the dog that got me to renege on my pledge last year to never own a dog again, seems really bright and affectionate and responsive, and Karen has vowed to train our imminent dog well and deeply and to be responsible for her. Names under consideration include Louise, Belle and Pearl. Any ideas? 

On another issue: the elections. My last blog was Obama time, which I still think it is. I also think it’s Democrat time, or liberal time, or shift time. It’s a year of wrenching changes, one in which the economy is a tilt-a-whirl, unpredictable and way shaky. Time for a new perspective, for a greener, more collaborative world. My parents raised me to be idealistic, and for them, Jewish immigrants escaping Hitler, America meant hope and opportunity. I wonder what they would think now. I hope the Democratic Party gets through this competition to be the best and the brightest – Obama and Hillary are both  formidable candidates and indisputably smart – so Obama can lead a ticket that not merely reflects today’s constituency but moves it to a higher plane. Is he perfect? No, no candidate is. But he seems to confront his imperfections with unusual grace and in so doing, speak to our better nature. Here’s hoping. 

I know Ohio Gov. Ted Strickland, an obviously intelligent and sensitive guy, backs Hillary Clinton, suggesting her grasp of specifics and her detailed plans outweigh Obama’s hope-fueled bid. Hillary would make a good president, too. But Obama’s inclusiveness and his willingness to engage with the world without preconditions appeal to my deeper, less strategic nature.

A colleague at work tells me he plays poker with a gang of East Side Cleveland-area Jews, like both of us, and they won’t vote for Obama because he’s black. It would be naïve to assume racism is dying because of Obama’s campaign, but I hope it is, and his drive would seem to signal its imminent death. I remember picketing Woolworth’s in the early ‘60s in Cambridge, Mass. because it wouldn’t serve blacks. We’ve come a long way since then, for sure. But there’s a long way to go. Electing a man who looks like the rest of the world is the right step.

I’ve always been a politics junkie, and 1992 was the first year I ever volunteered for a presidential campaign: Bill Clnton’s. I’m going to work for Obama this year and do everything I can to put him into the White House. He’s clearly a brilliant politician, he has ambitious, populist plans and he’s calm. He’s also a genetic hybrid, like this country was always meant to be.

Too bad 2008 also is the first year a woman is within striking distance of the White House. Among my most fervent hopes is that Hillary drops out of the race gracefully so she can wield a powerful influence in the Obama administration.

It’s Obama time.

and the St. Petersburg Times, a Florida newspaper that regularly publishes my book reviews (check out the archives at www.tampabay.com), ran a big takeout of mine on Beijing a few weeks ago http://www.sptimes.com/2008/01/13/Travel/For_Far_East_intrigue.shtml

I’ll be writing more about China in the coming weeks.

I went to University School, an arm of Ohio State University, from the time I was 5 until I was 15, when my family moved to the Boston area. That year was 1959. I spent my last two years at Newton North High School in suburban Boston.

But University School, which I recall with great affection for its open-mindedness and progressiveness, was essentially where I learned to think. So it matters to me that my association with it is accurately chronicled. I went there as a faculty brat; my father, Kurt H. Wolff, was a professor of sociology at OSU before Brandeis University hired him northward.

Today, I called Columbus information and got hold of the numbers of the AAUS.NET publisher and archivist; the latter told me she couldn’t recall who had informed her of my alleged death, and the publisher called me later apologizing for the error. I expect my reanimation will surface soon on the website. Weird how the Internet can spread bad information. Glad I caught the error.

Anchored by an 1830s brick farmhouse, Murphin Ridge Inn features a handful of cabins, none older than seven years and some of them named. We stayed in the Frolic, a 2004 cabin with a big Amish king bed, a Jacuzzi, one of those neat electronic fireplaces, a glass-enclosed shower with a rain head shower head, a coffee maker and some furniture. No TV; semidecent WiFi. Breakfast was part of the package. We ate it in the farmhouse, and it was great, like dinner was. The first night Karen had tiger shrimp, while I had steak au poivre. Nice wine, too, served by our hosts, Darryl and Sherry McKenney.

We spent Saturday at the Serpent Mound, an eerie earthworks in the shape of a serpent, dating from about 1100 A.D. We visited Miller’s Furniture, an Amish empire featuring gorgeous furniture (natch), a killer bakery and a bulk-foods building. We wound up at Herb Erwin’s barn sale. Herb’s a hustler; a realtor and auctioneer, he lords it over a sprawling farm where he keeps peacocks, mules, goats, sheep, hens guinea and otherwise—and raises Newfoundlands. We might get a dog, though I’m still mixed about this. We went back Sunday to tell Mrs. Erwin we might be interested in a Newfoundland pup.

The countryside in this Appalachian-Amish region is hilly, winding, the poverty deep and inescapable. How little Adams County towns like Peebles and Meigs and Franklin survive, I have no idea. But I do know how Murphin Ridge Inn gets along: Quite well, thank you. It’s a magnet sure to draw us back.

The show ran from 7:15 to just before 9:30. The production values were impeccable; the Jonas Brothers opened with a half-hour of their perky boypop, a skillful amalgam of ballads and boisterousness that at its best stomped with the authority of early rockabilly. They were pretty good, and they were indisputably athletic. Screamfests greeted “S.O.S.,” “Kids of the Future,” “Year 3000” and “When You Look Me in the Eyes.”

Then Hannah Montana, the blonde half of the Miley Cyrus-Hannah Montana presentation, came out for about 45 minutes. Her songs were perfect pop product, their cues straight from the ’70s and ’80s songbook of ABBA and Journey. The empowerment message, compactly calibrated for her proto-teen audience, came through loud and clear in “We Got the Party,” “Nobody’s Perfect” (an acute expression of feeling like an outsider, a message many young girls relate to) and “Old Blue Jeans.” That last was nifty in its blend of saucy and cute, Hannah and her girls prancing, all buff and casual, to lyrics about the joys of familiarity. Hannah makes girls feels safe and edgy at the same time.

After ducking into a little room onstage, Miley Cyrus came out, hair dark and clothing rougher than Hannah’s. A biker chain dangling from her tight pants, Billy Ray Cyrus’s daughter, who stars in the Disney TV show “Hannah Montana,” delivered “Start All Over” (she was tough here), “Let’s Dance” (all she missed in this busy presentation was Lionel Richie) and “G.N.O.,” or “Girls’ Night Out,” a pitch for bonding with her audience. Not a problem.

The show was a triumph of branding and packaging. The drummer was great, the messages sharp as those in a good political campaign, and the way Hannah-Miley wove those cuddly Jonas Brothers into the act was well thought out.

At the same time, with her commands to yell “Hannah” and “Montana” and her self-referential remarks, Hannah-Miley spoke to the narcissism at the core of her appeal. Hers is a branding effort geared toward some of the most impressionable among us, girls on the tip of adolescence. By delivering three separate brands – The Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus – she’s keeping the product, itself a commercial for Disney (world/channel/radio) diverse and marketable. God forbid scandal befall her, something the cheerily purposeful Miley, in contrast to predecessor Britney Spears, seems unlikely to generate. Miley Cyrus is only 15 – and already in control. May she retain that as she grows up.

For one, the group last played the city July 15 ’05, at Scene Pavilion; their reunion show, after 30 years, was Nov. 26, ’04. That was the one that sold out in four minutes. For another, “I’m a Rocker” is a Raspberries tune, not an Eric Carmen tune; they second Carmen tune they played was “That’s Rock and Roll.” My bad. My sincere apologies.

If I seem a little rusty, it’s because I don’t go to that many concerts as I used to or listen to as much music. I do more reading than listening these days. But I did manage to come up with a Top 10 CD list. No, I haven’t listened to the new Kanye, Rihanna or Dap-Kings. I thought Amy Winehouse was pretty cool but that her album was too calculatedly old-school. This list speaks to what I heard and liked. I list the CDs first, then add remarks on other stuff. I’m finally beginning to download, by the way. And if I’d bought it before I put together this list a few weeks ago, I would have included the Alison Krauss-Robert Plant “Raising Sand” album on Rounder; it’s haunting and amazing. Anyhow…

1. Radiohead
In Rainbows
ATO (as of Jan. 1)

I list Radiohead at the top more for the group’s subversion of the record industry than its music, though I think these tracks are largely beautiful (my version of “In Rainbows” is a Beijing-bought double bootleg CD I acquired in November on a mind-blowing China trip for US$2; what’s that you say about intellectual property?).

2. Michael Brecker
Pilgrimage
Telarc

Brecker’s posthumous album is the toughest modern jazz of the year. Everybody in this trophy group plays for his life, making jazz of the rarest order: essential.

3. Feist
The Reminder
Cherrytree/Interscope

For the diversity and texture of her Europop; in particular, for “Sealion.”

4. Fountains of Wayne
Traffic & Weather
Virgin

Count on smart pop from these Jersey guys;  what’s extra-cool is their take on consumerism and desire, in tunes like “Yolanda Hayes” and “Strapped for Cash.” Subversiveness rarely sounds so tuneful.

5. Maria Schneider Orchestra
Sky Blue
ArtistShare

Big band jazz at its most lyrical and expressive; this soars and more than lives up to its title.

6. St. Vincent
Marry Me
Beggar’s Banquet

Annie Clark is a punchy singer and a resonant writer, making “Marry Me” one of the most striking alternapop (does the concept even work anymore?) CDs of the year.

7.  Various Artists
I’m Not There
Columbia (soundtrack)

A concept album of Dylan covers for a concept movie about a real guy. Or is he? The songs are, that’s for sure. Fave: Charlotte Gainsbourg and Calexico pillow-talking “Just Like a Woman.”

8. Suzanne Vega
Beauty & Crime
Blue Note

A meditation on New York and film noir, Vega’s underappreciated jazz-label debut delivers what Norah Jones, that smoky folkeuse, hasn’t all these years: character and wit.

9. Bruce Springsteen
Magic
Columbia

The Middle East meets Phil Spector in this sequel to “The Rising,” a resonant, politically charged return to E Street Band form. Greatest pop surprise (and a step forward for Springsteen): the gorgeous “Girls in Their Summer Clothes.”

10. The Redwalls
The Redwalls
MAD Dragon

For the fun of it.

Singles: Timbaland, “The Way I Are”; Christina Aguilera, “Ain’t no Other Man”; T-Pain, “Buy UA Drank”; Alicia Keys, “No One”; Crushcrushcrush, “Paramore.” Standout rock track: “Borne on the FM Waves of the Heart,” from Against Me: New Wave.
Reissue of the year: Miles Davis, “The Complete On the Corner Sessions,” Legacy
Best rediscovery: Primal Scream, “Live in Japan” (Sony Music Japan International). Recorded in November 2002, this is one of the best live albums of all time. Makes you want to go out and scream — alone, in company, really doesn’t matter. Neither does whether it’s in joy or anger. Guess that’s what makes it great rock ‘n’ roll.

The Raspberries were very good and occasionally great. They soared on “I Don’t Know What I Want,” the Beatles’ “Ticket To Ride” (featuring fabulous Wally Bryson vocals and guitar), the Who’s “Substitute” (Eric Carmen sounded and looked triumphant here) and the final encore, their thrilling “Go All the Way,” one of the best pop songs of all time; I rank it with the Who’s “I Can See for Miles” and Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” as a tune that shouldn’t end, it’s so transporting.

It was a cool show, and to their credit, those “musical differences” that sundered the group in 1975, mainly due to tension between Carmen (the group’s more polished heart) and Bryson (its gruffer, edgier soul), didn’t surface. They even played several Carmen solo tunes, including a fabulous “All By Myself” (the longer version) and “I’m a Rocker,” one of those generic, pulsating tunes of the ’70s that you can’t help grooving to.

Carmen’s voice didn’t always reach its former heights, and Bryson sounded rough, if true. Dave Smalley shone on his “Should I Wait,” a sweet slice of proto-country rock; Bryson’s “Last Dance” was – Bryson will cringe if he reads this – sunny and lovely. The show did better when it rocked harder, equalizing the mix between Carmen’s powerful voice, Bryson’s slashing guitar and Jim Bonfanti’s indefatigably exciting, Keith Moon-styled drumming.

Nostalgia, however, only goes so far, and nostalgia may be all the Raspberries have to offer. Raspberries tunes are largely pre-political, pre-social consciousness. There is little questioning, skepticism or irony in them; above all, there is yearning and desire. “Go All the Way,” “Ecstasy,” “If You Change Your Mind,” “Overnight Sensation (Hit Record),” “Don’t Want To Say Goodbye” are all, essentially, love songs (“Overnight Sensation” cleverly conflates commercial and sexual ambition), harking back to a simpler, more personal time, a time when the Raspberries – and their audience – were so much younger. That subtext made the show both exciting and bittersweet. What it means for a Raspberries future, only time will tell. There’s no question that their past, even their second life, is glorious.

The reason I took the course was, first of all, prompting from a friend who took a course in grandfather clock repair; secondly, I figured if I learned about the workings of a watch, I might be able to maintain and even repair my own wrist watches (I have a collection that, depending on what I buy and sell, ranges from a dozen to 20). I learned, for sure; I can at least identify most of the components of a watch now. But I doubt I’ll be able to service my own wrist watches, because they’re a) a lot smaller than pocket watches and b) they’re much more sophisticated, even complicated.

Still, taking the course was instructive. The teacher, Lehr Dircks, an amazingly dexterous man from central Ohio, was the soul of patience; he told me the last day that as the most obvious novice in this class of seven (and one of only two still working), he was worried, on the second day, that I wouldn’t make it. High praise indeed; I felt pretty good about that.

It’s good to step outside your comfort zone. It’s even better when it’s about working hard and learning a little bit about mechanics (not my field, for sure) and, better yet, patience.

I’ve never been so jet-lagged. I was so sleep-starved I couldn’t describe it except by analogy: I felt like I was dying of thirst. China is 13 hours ahead of Cleveland time, so flying home felt like flying back in time. We left Hong Kong at 11:20 a.m. Nov. 19 and arrived home in Newark, 15 ½ hours later, just before 2 p.m. — the same day. Two days ago, I slept normally. I finally feel human.

You can’t imagine the scale of China. People everywhere, cars all over the place (Buicks, Audis, VWs are especially popular), highways bursting, big pollution (the Beijing sun “sets” around 3 p.m.), stores and sidewalks thronged. Beijing is powerful, monumental, mystical, kind of formal; Shanghai is even bigger (it might be 25 million) but more negotiable and human; Xiamen, a virtual hamlet of only 2.5 million, is still developing and quite indigenous; and Hong Kong is a pip, a Western-feeling megalopolis of high style and friendliness. Socializing in China is very different from in the U.S.: In Beijing’s Forbidden City area, people did Tai Chi, Tai Chi with a ball, juggling, stickball, kite flying, banner competition, group singing, voice lessons, miniconcerts with traditional Chinese instruments – or simply walked, often hand-in-hand, the remarkable, 15th-century area, a place of kings (and concubines) indeed. The socializing was rich, cross-generational, non-commercial. In America, we go to malls; in China, they go to historic sites. That’s a simplification, but it’s a profound difference.

I’m beginning to put together a narrative of my trip. It will include being flimflammed in Beijing; the Temple of Heaven/Forbidden City; the Silk Street Pearl Market, a wonderful emporium of counterfeit goods; the Bund and maglev in Shanghai; searching for jade in Xiamen; shopping for jewelry and clothing in Hong Kong.

It’s good to be back in America. And good to finally get some sleep.

I don’t know where I stand on this issue, because intellectual property is something I value, particularly since I generate some “intellectual property” of my own. Maybe there are so many counterfeits in China because the originals cost too much. Maybe when the Chinese middle class gets even stronger — and it’s booming now — people will buy the originals at full retail, but I doubt it.

Which leads me to my next brainstorm: a Chinese travel portal aggregating hotel, air, cruise and rail, linked to every major hotel brand including international and domestic. It would also link to third-party vendors like Travelocity and Expedia and, like many such sites, provide information and personal reviews (and perhaps blogs) of the components of the travel experience. The portal would have to be in both English and Chinese and likely would be based in Hong Kong, where government regulations are more lax than on the mainland. The first cities on the menu would be Beijing and Shanghai, mainly because Westerners already know them, or at least recognize their names. It’s an idea.

By the way, I really liked Shanghai. More cosmopolitan than Beijing, and more Western, it’s even bigger. But you can walk around downtown, the people seem friendlier, and there’s a gregariousness to it that’s more engaging than Beijing, which seems more formal.

No conclusions here, just an update. Since my post about being conned in Beijing’s Forbidden City, things have gotten better. China’s unbelievable and very exciting.

In other Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories action (God, I love newspaper formula), I spent Nov. 3 in Wooster at the Buckeye Book Fair, sharing a table with Marilyn Seguin, a writer of history-based children’s books. It was great: I sold out, signing 44 books (a case) over eight hours. Good to know my book has life after a year on the market.

To check out my WNCX visit, click on the link:

We get to the Days Inn Forbidden City after a 15.5-hour flight, splash some water on our tired faces and meet in the lobby for a brief walk before we’re to go out to dinner with a phalanx of Chinese Wyndham people. We walk into a cool, pop cashmere store where I might return to buy gifts; construction workers—at least 20—stare at us. Then we walk into the Forbidden City area and these girls approach us and strike up a conversation. We fall in with them, they ask would we like to have some tea with them? We agree.

Ten minutes later, we’re in the American Tea House in a private room. I’m sitting next to Mary, Rich next to Angela. Angela is “directing.” We sample eight different teas four ways, complete with explanations and a ton of ritual. We get the bill: 1,245 RMB, or about $167. Expensive for less than two full glasses of tea. I protest; Rich forks over 400 RMB, me 300. The girls seems flustered, maybe caught out; Angela pulls out a credit card and says they’ll cover the rest. She disappears with the “waitress” who served us our exotica. They come back, we leave, they walk us back to our hotel (we are so lost in so foreign a place, it’s not funny) and we wish them luck with their “student” careers. We’ve been flimflammed. It can only go up from here. It’s a souring opening to a stay in an amazing city. More about that soon.

On Nov. 4, Springsteen and the E Street Band played for more than two hours for 20,000 of the faithful at the Q in Cleveland. The band was on; so was Springsteen. He and the E Street Band, which I hadn’t seen since 1974, are touring behind “Magic,” his latest album and the second, following “The Rising,” to mix Middle Eastern strains into his otherwise hard-rocking, white sound. He was great; not only did Springsteen perform nearly non-stop and balls out for more than two hours, he also featured his wife, Patti Scialfa,” on “Town Called Heartbreak,” a particularly soulful track from her recent, very solid and funky album, “Play It As It Lays.” The set list was heavy on “Magic,” which it should be, though it also featured a wildly adventurous version of “Tunnel of Love” and a killer sequence of “Reason To Believe” (done John Lee Hooker style), “Saint” (done Latinate and florid) and “She’s the One” (Bo Diddley and Buddy Holly never sounded so good).

Tunes from “Magic” like “Radio Nowhere,” the downer anthem that launched the gig, “The Last To Die” and the austere title track, which Springsteen said was about tricks (the implication was of the dirty kind), are political commentary about the Bush era that is as astute as any you’re likely to read in those controversial liberal newspapers. Before I forget, the first encore was “Girls in Their Summer Clothes,” Springsteen’s channeling of the Beach Boys and a gorgeous, instant pop classic.

The Q was packed with Springsteen’s faithful, who are particularly idolatrous in Cleveland, where he broke out in the mid-’70s. Lots of singalongs, fists pumping, cheers of “Brooce,” homages to The Boss. Springsteen deserves a better title. Better yet, he doesn’t need one. He’s always been political, always been the voice of the working man, and he’s particularly so on “Magic,” a curiously strong and satisfying album that speaks truth to power without succumbing to hatred or the black-and-white viewpoint the Bush administration promotes over and over as it pursues its narrow agenda of fear and divisiveness.

Springsteen’s no boss; he is, rather, a spiritual leader dedicated to helping people better themselves. It’s why he performed on the 2004 Vote for Change tour; it’s why he touts institutions like the Cleveland Food Bank, which donates food to poor families. His style of leadership isn’t top-down. It’s inclusive, embracing, empowering. What he’s saying ever more clearly in his albums and on-stage pronouncements is that the people have the power and the people have to look behind the façade of authority that the Bush administration—the right wing in general—have so effectively constructed. That’s all theater, he says; it’s all deceit and manipulation, delivered in the name of defense against terrorism. He’s saying there’s a difference between protectiveness and defensiveness, and between an America that used to welcome immigrants and the current one, which fences people in and keeps people out.

I bet if you asked him whether he likes that “Boss” tag, Springsteen would say no. He’s grown out of it. It’s time his fans do, too.

Just catching up, trying to make good, with myself, with Jack, with time; as usual, it’s been a few weeks since I blogged, and there’s been a lot going on, like being glued to the TV to watch the Indians nearly make it (again; hello Cleveland!), read and write about a whole lot of books, play two ping-pong tournaments in which I lost some ratings points but didn’t totally embarrass myself, and get ready for China.

I’m leaving a week from today for 10 days in China. I’m going with Rich Roberts, head of corporate public relations for Wyndham Hotel Group. Rich was my partner almost exactly a year ago, when I covered Wyndham Hotel Group’s development efforts in Europe and Dubai. What a trip. This year, we’re doing four cities—Beijing, Shanghai, Xiamen and Hong Kong—instead of six countries/cities, which we did last year (London, Dublin, Berlin, Budapest, Malta, Dubai). I expect the pace will be slightly less frenetic but the input will be even more exotic. I have a feeling China will be the most foreign place I’ve ever been to.

On another front: Nov. 18 marks the anniversary of the release of my book, “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories.” I’m beginning to promote it again: Just two days ago, I guested on a Cleveland oldies radio station, WNCX-FM, to push my book and to talk about the nominees for the 2008 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions. This weekend, I’m traveling to Wooster to be in the Buckeye Book Fair, a gathering of about 100 Ohio authors for signings and sales.

I’ll keep you posted. All I’m doing with this entry is getting myself up-to-date. Sometimes, a blog is a kind of diary. That’s okay, even though it’s modest.

The east side is French, the west side English. I used to walk down St. Catherine, the key commercial boulevard (like Michigan Avenue in Chicago), enjoying the crush and variety and commerce. Still true. I also used to hang out around McGill College, in the English section. That’s where I and some coworkers used to go to get sexual education printed material for Planned Parenthood of Vermont, where I was a counselor in the earliest ‘70s, before Roe Wade. You had to go to Canada for freedom in the sexual sense, too. Montreal’s a sexy city. Feels free, like we used to in America.

It’s friendly, too. I went to the Bay, a big department store on St. Catherine, in search of winter cargo pants. Couldn’t find them. A guy I asked about them made some suggestions and when I told him I didn’t know how to get to where he advised, he took me there. We spent 15 minutes talking and walking. I don’t know whether I’ll ever see Suilun again, but I’ll remember him. Montreal’s a civilized city, at least most of the time.

Not always, though. I got here on Saturday the 13th and stayed at a Candlewood, a limited-service InterContinental hotel. The place was OK, except that there was a fire on the second floor early in the morning, rousting all the guests, who had to be evacuated. There we all were, in the cold, for about 45 minutes. It was literally alarming. The drunken young louts who kept mock-fighting didn’t raise the calmness level.

This morning, however, the Candlewood let everybody stay beyond their scheduled departure times. That almost made up for the chaos of the morning.

The biggest event was my friend Jack visiting from Boston for three days at the beginning of October. He’d never been to Cleveland. I hadn’t seen him since ’04, when I last went to Boston to tie up business stemming from my father’s death in late ’03. But we’ve kept in touch, as we have ever since we met in 1965 at Boston State Hospital in Mattapan, where we were sent to “cure” us of narcotics addiction. It didn’t work for either of us, at least not then. But we made lifelong friends of each other.

In 2001, Jack broke his neck in an accident at work; he slipped on paint. It permanently disabled him. A settlement with his former employer has given his family a degree of comfort, but it didn’t make Jack whole. The accident, combined with drug and alcohol use far heavier than mine ever was, seems to have damaged him deeply. His short-term memory is shaky, and because he can’t work, he hasn’t really engaged for the past six years. He told me his visit to Cleveland made him more relaxed than he had been in years; what life at home is like I can’t imagine, though his wife is a well-organized sweetie, his son a gifted artist. It’s how he spends his days that’s disturbing, and I worry for him.

When I brought him to the airport, he was apprehensive and timorous, not the Jack I used to know. He wasn’t confident I knew where we were going. He wasn’t sure he’d remembered to pack everything (in fact, I had to send him his phone charger later). I love him. I also felt like I did toward the end with my father: more competent than him, caring and angry. The anger part is the problem I have to resolve. I don’t want to see Jack this way. I want him back in life, so we can talk like we used to and assume each other is strong like we were.

Part of the issue is growing old. When I met Jack we were in our early 20s (he’s six months younger than I am) and felt immortal. Seeing him in Cleveland brought home our mortality, the fact that we’re on time’s downside. I’m going to work on my patience and affection and see if I can tamp down an anger that can have no possible beneficial effect. It was great to see Jack, stressful though it was at times. It wasn’t so great to see how I reacted to him.

I can’t believe I’m teaching my stepdaughter to drive. Is it that she’s nearly old enough to drive (she’ll turn 16 in February, just in time for icy roads)? Or am I just musing about how time flies? Maybe it’s that summer’s almost over; today was a gorgeous fall day, sunkissed and warm at the end, though it sure did take its time. Which reminds me I never did mention how our family spent the July shaded into August in Stone Harbor, a New Jersey resort town where it was hot and dry and there was beach and Atlantic Ocean and we drove up to Asbury Park and posed outside the Stone Pony and relaxed and watched dumb movies and ate great seafood and shopped for useless, beautiful things and sunned and swam and ate great seafood. I repeat myself. That’s nostalgia for you. Hope we get back to Stone Harbor, a long day’s drive away.

Other topics occupying my mind: the surge and the drawdown. It’s two minutes before Bush starts yet another speech saying how democracy is just around the corner in Iraq, we should be patient, stay the course. Sorry. The guy’s the worst president ever, and while the Republicans deserve their Larry Craigs and Mark Foleys (what do you expect from prigs of such high sanctimony?), Iraq doesn’t deserve what we’ve inflicted on it in the name of liberation. But I digress. Which is my prerogative. I’ll pump more politics into this blog as the stew thickens. In fact, I will now, the day after the speech. Bush is living in a fantasy world, which makes me think I’m living in “The Manchurian Candidate.” Sure hope reality comes to rule the world again someday. Maybe in 2009.

Some thoughts about where I live: The local music is good, especially by the older guys. “Raspberries Live” is a strong double album featuring the reunited originals, and Michael Stanley’s “The Soft Addictions” is a keeper, particularly the great “Lover’s Lane” and “Drinkin’ in the Driveway.”  Raspberries and Stanley are the kind of rockers that are badly out of date. They’re not particularly danceable, they’re kind of old-fashioned, and they emote (particularly Stanley) about real things, like love, the death of love, the death of place, what makes you hopeful when all around is despair. Upbeat? Sometimes, though aspiration is hard to come by, especially in Cleveland. Authentic? For sure. Too bad there’s no market for that anymore. Read the president’s lips.

I don’t know of many record stores anymore. In greater Cleveland, My Generation is long gone. Wax Stacks is longer gone. I haven’t been to Time Traveler yet, but I’ll go. I do go to Record Den sometimes, because I’m sure to come across the latest versions of geezer rock there, along with cool imports. But Record Den is basically the only area store I personally know of still going strong.

At least that was all I knew of until the last week of August, when I stopped into Music Saves, just up the street from the Beachland Ballroom in North Collinwood. Music Saves is one fairly large room. It’s about 70 percent CDs, 30 percent vinyl; most of the stock is new, including the vinyl, though there’s some used and even some bargain (the vintage vinyl includes some highly collectible 45s; sorry, no eight tracks or cassettes).

I was meeting my wife for dinner at the Grovewood Tavern and had about 45 minutes to kill. I was alone in Music Saves except for this much younger woman at the cash register. Glasses, nose ring, hennaed hair, minding her own business. I’m going through the bins and coming across a lot of stuff I’d heard of but hadn’t heard. I asked the woman if she had a local section. She said yes, steering me to two bins plus part of a third.

So I’m going through these and I realize I knew one band out of what must have been a hundred locals. I was shocked; the only band I recognized was Gem, a project of former Cobra Verde/sometimes Guided by Voices guitarist Doug Gillard’s. Otherwise, I was clueless. I told the woman I was amazed that I was so unfamiliar with the local scene, particularly since I used to cover it. That conversation was how I met Melanie Hershberger, owner of Music Saves. That’s also how I learned a lot about new music and ended up buying four CDs: One by Feist (great), one by Broken Social Scene (cooler conceptually than musically), one by St. Vincent (brilliant pop here) and one by Machine Go Boom, a Cleveland band with lots of range and chutzpah.

What was even cooler than the music was that I’d discovered a real record store. My kids don’t know from vinyl, never saw an eight track or cassette and couldn’t care less about CDs. They’re downloaders all the way. Me, I’m still into the tangible, and I know that even if I sell my bloated CD collection, there’s a lot about it that I’ll miss.

The existence of Music Saves-Melanie tells me business is good, and judging by her tasteful, selective inventory, it is-is reassuring to me. It means that no matter my age, record stores will survive, keeping music-and, hopefully, me-current. It also means that even though the formats are changing more rapidly than ever, music can still mean community.

http://www.musicsaves.com/

http://www.beachlandballroom.com/

http://www.grovewoodtavern.com/

Shelley died, awake, at home, on Aug. 16. He was in his 70s. The cause was cancer. Shelley told me he had cancer when we met; I saw him one more time after that, at the launch party of my book, “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories,” where Shelley is quoted — at length. His stories were long but not boring; you didn’t want them to end.

I never saw him in anything but good spirits. He was a mensch, a sweetie – and, as Daffy Dan told me at the funeral Aug. 19, a salesman who “touched thousands.” He was one of a dying breed, a record guy. A hustler with a heart.

Shelley mangled clichés, the rabbi said at the service at the Cleveland Heights funeral home where all East Side Jews seem to be memorialized. “There were too many cooks and not enough Indians” was one of Shelley’s mangles.

Shelley bought Melody Lane in 1965; the Lakewood establishment remains the oldest continually operating record store in Ohio, according to the rabbi. It’s where Lakewood kids used to go for the latest sounds.

Wonder how long Melody Lane will last? Let’s hope it perseveres like Shelley did; he beat back cancer for a long, long time. The rabbi said Shelley first encountered it in 1993.

Shelley was a nice man; he was gracious to me and, apparently, wonderful to his kids. His son, Ryan, choked up when he told the hundreds gathered to honor Shelley that he never heard his father saying he hated anything and that no matter how much he traveled, Shelley never felt distant to his family.

The rabbi said Shelley was selling to the end. Only recently, Shelley told him about a great buy. “This month’s special is a two-CD Pavarotti album – at a fantastic price!”

Shelley was such a deal.

I did okay, though I didn’t display my wares at the Goldmine table at the rear of the show (I’ve contributed to Goldmine since 1984 and should be considered a kind of regular). The way I did okay was by going around and talking to dealers about my book; call it cold-callling. Three bit. One was a guy from Cleveland who was familiar with my work. The others were dealers from Dallas and Baltimore who’ve been coming to the show to sell their vinyl for a few years now.

The show was something else. Not only did the rock hall not promote it at all—like there was no banner on the building saying it was going on—there also was a marathon that day. So there were lots of runners in downtown Cleveland but woefully few rock ‘n’ rollers. That added up to poor attendance, little business and fewer wares to check out.

The lower level of the hall seemed a little busy, but a lot of it was browsing rather than buying. There were some big-ticket items, like old soul albums of the ‘50s and ‘60s, but there were far more cheap albums – and cheap compact disks. Several dealers told me the show’s been shrinking steadily; fewer and fewer vendors are coming, not to mention buyers.

It occurred to me that within 10 years—make that five years —this show will be a thing of the past. The magazine’s been slimming down noticeably, and the editors are considering a major reformatting to reflect the shift to digital in music. My kids buy CDs primarily for travel, to pop into the car’s player. But generally, they download. I myself am considering selling my compact disks; I’ve amassed thousands in the 36 years I’ve been reviewing.

I won’t sell them before I download the music I want to keep. I’m going to put it all on a big hard drive on an iMac so I can play it throughout the house and transfer it to an iPod or burn a CD. But I no longer need the disks, I figure. Nostalgia is powerful, but it can be a burden, too.

In April, Brian was laid off from his job as a title attorney. Diane, also a lawyer, had lost work several months earlier. It wasn’t a good winter for the Schorrs, who have never lived anywhere but suburban Cleveland. Brian was cut from a company that never treated him that well during his eight years there; when he got an offer from another firm in 2006, his boss forbade his departure, citing non-compete. I don’t know the particulars of that situation and never have had to deal with non-compete. I do know it made Brian sour about his work.

So being laid off was a kind of godsend, if a wrenching one. Without an employer to corral him, Brian was free to entertain offers, including one from the Texas firm that had wooed him the year before. What he had to decide was whether to stay in Cleveland and hope he (and Diane) could find work or leave family and friends and try something new. To his credit, Brian went with the latter. I encouraged him all the way, not because I wanted them to leave but because in Cleveland, these days, hope is scarce, good jobs even scarcer.

Over the past six weeks, Brian started work in suburban Dallas. He and Diane bought a home in Frisco, an eight-year-old community north of the city. I was out there the week the Schorrs left – it was the first week of July – on a hotel business story. I visited my cousin and his wife in Dallas, where I was born and my father and mother got their start in the U.S.; I got lost on the freeways north of the city. I marveled at the impersonality and energy of the place. The towns north of Dallas – though not Dallas itself – are booming. Built around consumption (and, from what I hear, good school districts), they’re heavily trafficked and bold, unlike Cleveland, a city in a decline so steep it’s hard to tell whether it’s bottomed out. The place is, to put it mildly, growing. Cleveland, meanwhile, is shrinking.

In addition to missing the Schorrs, there’s a vacant house next door to us. The Schorrs have already dropped their price, but there have to be close to three dozen houses in that price range for sale in South Euclid, our community. It’s gotten more integrated over the years, as African-Americans replace the Italians who used to figure so heavily in its makeup. It’s a city in transition, for sure. I love my neighborhood. I love stepping outside my door (sure wish there was a porch) to marvel at the median on my street, at the trees, at the graciousness, the wildness. But for now, there’s a hole in the neighborhood, left by the Schorrs.

I don’t know what to expect, and I’m apprehensive. The Schorrs can’t carry two mortgages indefinitely. I just hope they sell their South Euclid house to some good people. I hope they don’t rent it. The neighborhood’s changing, and that’s all right. I just don’t want it going.

I didn’t hear from him for weeks. I thought I’d been too pushy. I didn’t know what to do, because e-mail protocol is prickly.

Finally, Cary e-mailed me to discuss the telephone interview. He said he’d taken early vacation and apologized for not having gotten back to me. We did the interview. Here’s the clip:

This is where Cary Burkett works: www.witf.org

Here’s the link to my review of Dylan’s latest, from Blogcritics: http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/09/10/140056.php

Before the show, we eat at House of Blues. The food’s pretty good; Tom had catfish nuggets, I had voodoo shrimp. The drinks were fine, the service more than adequate, the atmosphere comfortably funky and unexpectedly idiosyncratic.

The show was very good: about an hour an 15 minutes of rock ‘n’ roll, featuring tunes old (“Mexican Wine” and that smash, “Stacy’s Mom”) and new, like “Someone To Love” (the first T&W single), the funny, pulp fiction “Strapped for Cash” and my favorite, that homage to Department of Motor Vehicles hotties, “Yolanda Hayes.” The Wayne boys didn’t say much; Chris Collingwood, the stringbean, geekily charismatic lead singer, drank O’Doul’s like he was wearing a badge, and the occasional backup singers added the requisite cheesiness. Too bad Collingwood’s voice was a little thin; sounded like he was fighting a cold. But the tunes were great: smartass, witty, sociologically acute, they suggested there’s plenty of life left in what used to be known as power pop.

The scene was cool, too. Not only did Tom and I run into several friends, we discovered that R. Scott Krauss, the great, original drummer for Pere Ubu, Cleveland’s legendary underground band, is working in the House of Blues store, and liking it. Nice to see downtown types have a downtown to enjoy. One can only hope the city begins to leverage the House of Blues vibe.

Some backstory is in order: Seems Helen was in Lyndhurst several months ago and came across my book at the Joseph-Beth bookstore in Legacy Village. Intrepid reporter and rock ‘n’ roll fan that she is, she bought the book and tracked me down. Of course I agreed to an interview with her. What’s even cooler is that we met at an Indians game and again, at a rock hall event in early May where I signed hundreds of CRRMs for new members of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.

Nice to have fans. Nice to be one, too. Thanks, Helen.

A pet is part of the family; funny how clichés assume gravity when you live through them. Ramona’s survivors, besides her humans, are Oscar, who must be 15, and Elliott, the baby of the house at a mere, I believe, 4. Oscar and Elliott are cats. Ramona, who Karen brought back as a totally endearing puppy in, she says, 1997, spent the last two years of her largely happy life largely infirm. First, her hind legs began to give her trouble, preventing her from jumping onto the nicely upholstered living room chair where she curled up and dreamt. Then, last fall, she developed a tumor way inside her, necessitating a major operation — which coincided with another one in which she lost her left eye. In the last month, the glaucoma that killed that eye took over her right one, rendering her blind and blundering and, if the human propensity for projection is at all accurate, unhappy. In Ramona’s last two weeks, she slept and slept, ate (with decreasing appetite) and shat and peed, at times in the house. Not a pretty sight, Ramona made everyone sad.

Enough about her debilities. I prefer to recall Ramona (whom I also called Momo, and sometimes Momogrammatica) as a sweet, floppy-eared and incredibly affectionate animal. She was so soft, so warm, so friendly. She loved to bask in the sun, lying in the driveway. Until about a year ago, she also enjoyed a walk down Belvoir to Mayfield and back to the house, a total of about three blocks. She was never an athlete; basset backs prevent that kind of doggy expression and, because these hounds are built so low, the backs, the legs, or both, tend to give out.

To the end, however, her tail retained its energy. “Putting down” a pet like Ramona — or any animal — is difficult. But once Katy and Lylah suggested to Karen that Ramona’s time was over, the decision to euthanize her — Karen’s, fundamentally, for it was she who chose and loved and nurtured and medicated this sweet dog — kicked in. It’s about quality of life, your pet’s and yours.

Came Friday afternoon, when we took Ramona to Green Road Animal Hospital. The vet had to sedate her, stripping her of what’s left of her drive. Then, as Karen and I stroked her and a nurse patted her head, the vet injected her with pentobarbital. Ramona was already on her stomach, thoroughly tranquilized, legs splayed. As that barbiturate hit her heart, she gave loud, deep breaths, then stopped. We cried. And still do, though it’s better for all of us, Ramona included. The quality of life may better, but there’s a hole in this family’s heart.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Frank, an older gentleman who fondly recalls the very early days of rock ‘n’ roll, focused on legendary Cleveland disc jockeys like Alan Freed (www.alanfreed.com) and Bill Randle. But he also allowed me to stretch out and drop a gang of other rock names.

The video’s been airing for a while now and will again before my appearance at the Learned Owl, a Hudson bookstore and gathering place for local literati. I’m signing my book there between 2 and 3 p.m. June 9.

Thank God for local TV. And local bookstores.

Here’s the Learned Owl link: http://www.learnedowl.com/

Here’s the Hudson Cable TV link:
http://www.hudson.oh.us/departments/hudson_cable/index.asp

Another thing that helped was the friendliness of Skip Fulton, the warm proprietor of Ashland’s independent and valiant Cookie Cafe, and of Wendy Flesch, manager of the Barnes & Noble in Mansfield. That Barnes & Noble is the only full-service bookstore between Akron-and Columbus, 70 miles farther south.

That Saturday night, after I returned from Ashland, I went to Public Hall, where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum was staging its annual gala, a low-priced, oldies-laden concert for new members. I was the star of a May 19 pre-gala reception where new members got free copies of CRRM, courtesy of the publisher, David Gray. I barely had time to eat at the reception, but I was treated like a celebrity, pumping hands and signing autographs. It felt like a breakthrough in that I finally, personally connected to the rock hall, a natural outlet for my book. If the hall winds up making my book an inducement for membership by including a copy of it in the membership price, the promotion will have been well worth it. Here’s hoping.

Here’s the DeRogatis piece that the Sun Times ran April 22. Naturally, it disses Cleveland (Chicago always tries to lord it over its smaller Midwestern sibling). But DeRogatis was nice about my book:

http://www.jimdero.com/News2007/rockreads.htm

I’m going to the South Euclid City Council tonight to discuss CRRM. The council invited me there because I’m a local guy. It should be interesting. I’ll keep you posted.

We spent a week in Fort Lauderdale, staying at a modernized Doubletree with some finish problems. The elevators clanked, the engineer never did figure out how to keep the HDTV from switching on at 6:30 every morning, and the front desk seemed a tad shaky. Rousting me to pay my bill before I left didn’t improve my mood, but apparently someone had gotten our schedule wrong. The accusatory tone was not welcome. As for Fort Lauderdale itself, it’s not the best family vacation area in Florida. Next time, we’ll go to Naples, where the rest of my family really wanted to go. The sun and warmth were great, but the vacation was more stressful than it should have been. My losing $600 in American Express Rewards certificates for an Avis car rental didn’t help, either (my dumb). And when AmEx twice told me it would mail duplicates of the certificates to the hotel, then didn’t, and then a third AmEx “customer service” representative told me I was out of luck and would have to eat the expense, I was miffed. I’ve always liked AmEx, but this incident did nothing to increase my affection.

Very close to home indeed: My next-door neighbor lost his job. Three weeks vacation pay, no severance, after eight years. His wife lost her job in March. These facts affirmed my belief that the Cleveland area is not only losing its line workers, it’s losing its brains. I suspect that if my neighbors can land work in Texas (where a company has expressed interest in hiring the man), they’ll leave. They’re both attorneys so they shouldn’t have trouble getting work, though in Cleveland, that might not be easy. A sad development, even though being laid off frees the man from a hateful work situation where his bosses have chronically nicked-and-dimed him and forced a non-compete that has hindered him from looking into alternatives. Now the field’s relatively open to him. I hope the family lands on its feet. That’s likely to be someplace other than Cleveland.

On the new Nine Inch Nails Year Zero CD: I’ve been a fan of Trent Reznor’s efforts since 1988, when I saw the embryonic Nine Inch Nails at the Phantasy in Lakewood. His best stuff is stunning, NIN’s live shows largely riveting. The new album is too long, too doomy, lyrically repetitious even though sonically, it’s as well-crafted as anything else in the dark NIN canon. I just found myself less willing than before to slog through the murky graphics and muffled vocals to get at the core of the new album, a paranoid picture of a bleak near future. I suspect I’ll turn to Year Zero every so often for sonic stimulation, but I care less than I used to. Seems NIN and I are growing older at different rates.

So here’s what’s happening: I’m going to spread my (and the CRRM) word at the city council meeting in South Euclid April 23, thanks to Sunny Simon, the councilperson who publicizes local writers (I live in South Euclid). A few days later, Karen and I are going to the Indians game (they’re playing Baltimore), and from May 5 to 10, I’m traveling to EuroDisney, outside Paris, France, for a hotel conference. On May 16, I’m doing a CRRM-related taping at Hudson High School, preparatory to a signing at a Hudson bookstore June 9. Before I drop into the Learned Owl, however, I’m doing a signing at a Barnes & Noble in Geneva-on-the-Lake on May 12.

So maybe things aren’t that quiet on the CRRM front.

In other developments:

I’ve gotten three $95 “speeding” tickets in East Cleveland in the last two weeks. This is the electronic variety, consisting of snapshots of my car, allegedly going too fast, “validated” by an alleged policeman. I’m getting dunning notices for these from a Providence, Rhode Island address, which makes me think they’re not city notices. Rather, they’re coming from the company that installs these surveillance cameras, and I don’t think I’ll respond to them. But I might go to East Cleveland in late April to contest them. They accuse me of going 24 in a 20 mph school zone one day and 25 in a 20 mph school zone the next day. This zone is a stretch of about 150 yards just west of Coventry Road, where Cleveland Heights ends and East Cleveland—arguably the most corrupt and primitive of Cuyahoga County’s cities—begins. Can you spell speed trap?

Before I battle these local injustices, however, I’m taking a week off. Starting tomorrow, my family will be in Fort Lauderdale in south Florida, where we expect to enjoy the sun, the beach and the water. Temperatures there look like they’ll be around 80, which will be great (particularly considering how cold it’s been in familiar, grey Cleveland).

Until we meet again.

Even in his 91st year, my father was writing; in fact, some of his work was published in Japanese—for the first time in his long career—that year of his death. Since then, he’s been eulogized in numerous academic journals, but nowhere near as copiously as here. I haven’t read the book much; I was interested mainly to note that Backhaus, a prickly sort in inordinate love with the comma, credited all the contributors with short biographies except for me, my wife Karen Sandstrom, and Jim Kaufman. All the contributors he credited were academic, tightening that little circle, no doubt; I and Karen are professional writers, while Jim is a broker in Boston who made my father quite comfortable in his later years. Jim provided the artwork from Kurt that graces the cover, along with a very funny, very moving essay about my father, whom he advised for years and came to love as a kind of father, too. I wrote about my relationship with Kurt as honestly as I could; Karen, meanwhile, arranged to have a lovely essay she wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer in 2002 reprinted here. It speaks eloquently to my father’s persistent foreignness and deep love for the United States, the country that gave him freedom and an illustrious career after he fled Europe in the late ‘30s.

I must admit I didn’t read much of my father’s work; I likely won’t read many of these essays, either. It just strikes me regrettable that Backhaus and Psathas, whom I know, couldn’t find it within themselves to credit the laymen who contributed to this book—in both an editorial and financial sense. Sour grapes? Maybe. But also typically stingy of academia, which I grew up with (and under). Academics, it struck me as a young man, stick to themselves and find it difficult to converse outside their own field. Perhaps that’s why it’s hard for them to give appropriate props to those less specialized and rarefied. (For those interested in the book, there’s a link to it at the bottom of this blog.)