December 29th

What a terrific week it was with Christmas and getting ready for the New Year! We’re also happy to announce that Russ and Tracy have finished casting for Ought, with production to begin in just a couple of short weeks.

We are also in the midst of casting for Budd, which will follow Ought in the 12 Movies in 12 Months—the Extra Ordinary Film Project.

I’m going off this weekend to write on a script sent to me by Cheryl Roth. Also keep your eyes open because starting February 14th, I will be putting out a book with a chapter a day, to run through the end of February so that people on the internet, especially you blog readers, can get a chapter everyday and download it if you want to.

So there are good things going on. I’m really looking forward to perfecting the music for the Bernee soundtrack on Monday and Tuesday and especially looking forward to the premier in Gallatin at the Palace Theater on Thursday night, January 25th.

Well, I’m going to keep it short this week because I know you all have plans and things to do. But for me and all of us here, we want to thank you for your ongoing support and wish you a Happy New Year.



Yours,

J

12/23/06

I passed my latest birthday. I’m sitting in my room getting ready to send this blog out into the vast oblivion of Ethernet, wondering what everybody does right after a birthday celebration. Does it really make any difference?

Every year at my birthday, I ask my friends not to purchase presents, but instead we collect funds and go out in our community and do a giveaway of free lunches and just general surprises to the citizenry of our burg. I’m always astounded that the reaction of people, after the initial shock of being offered something for free, is a mixed bag of emotional disruption based upon how cynical and jaded that year’s events had caused them to become.

It still doesn’t take away my fun of just giving away stuff for no particular good reason. But it does somewhat sadden me that people seem to be losing the ability to just ease into a blessing and wear the goodness of life like a pair of three-year-old Indian moccasins. Suspicion seems to be the national pastime, as we no longer believe that general appreciation and kindness are feasible among our peers. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t feel defiled or beguiled by the circumstances of our time. Actually it is a very easy time to strive for excellence because those who formerly were C students now have been thrust to the head of the class. 



But that brings me to Christmas. Christmas suffers under the malady of our times—that being a general depreciation of everything. The Christmas carols seem to be working harder this year to be joyous. The Santas seem to struggle to keep the red in their cheeks. And the retailers are finding it more and more difficult to portray any level of gratitude and reverence in their perpetual quest for Ebenezer equivalence. 



Still, it is the best we have. Christmas is probably what every social and political committee would have to come up with if we suddenly discovered that there was no God and Velveeta cheese doesn’t melt well in the microwave. We are a people who need reverence in the most relevant way. We need to pause without stopping. We need to reflect without reflex. We just need to feel without being bombarded with what should be felt.

In other words, Christmas is the spontaneity that still surprises us with the notion of gentleness. So Merry Christmas to each of you and I look forward to talking to you in the New Year. If you’re actually out there. And if not, I look forward to amusing myself with the coagulation of syllables that seem to form some sort of cohesive thought, even if it’s only in my cavernous space of brain cavity.

Yours,

J

December 16th, 2006

It should be a wonderful week to share with you great news of great events. Pardon me while I pause to see if I can insert the word “great” one more time, which now, having succeeded in doing, I will move on to even greater subjects. Wow.

Anyway, we are happy to report that there will be a premier of Bernee—the latest movie to be produced by F3 Films, on Thursday night, January 25th, 2007, at the Palace Theater in Gallatin—admission a mere $5.00. A fiver. A fin. A Lincoln greenback. Five items on the dollar menu at MacDonald’s. Or the average amount in tolls you would spend on the Illinois roadways driving approximately seven miles.

I do believe you will deeply enjoy Bernee, even though I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, especially since your life is in that delicate balance of “How much more Christmas wrapping paper should I buy to cover the need of the existing Christmas presents and not end up with a plethora of paper on December 26th, that I sentimentally stuff into some sort of carton for containment, only to open it next Christmas and wonder ‘what in the hell was I thinking?’”

Many thanks go out to Sheryl Roth on sending me the nugget of an idea of a story, which I will try to add my meanderings to, to form into a feature length screenplay. Sheryl, I have you down on my writing schedule for the day before New Year’s Eve, which on any normal Gregorian calendar, should be December 30th.

I had a delightful week visiting a brother in my home spawning waters of Ohio . I don’t know why we all get so worked up about family. Is there some special “something” about having the unwanted information that we all descended from a particular glop of goo, more familiar than the goo to our right or left? I mean, honestly, I grew up in an era when it was the “family of man values,” not just “family values.” 

But anyway, I digress. Which, because my occupation is that of a writer, somehow is accepted as being clever and cute rather than alarming signs of pending dementia. 

I am on my way to Christmas shop. I am not a great foot patroller of the world. I usually last about an hour and a half. So at the tale end of my shopping trips, anything that is within grabbable distance suddenly becomes the perfect gift for that special someone. And the amazing thing is, as I age, I convince myself that it’s exactly what I wanted to do in the first place. Perhaps that’s the beauty of getting older—acquiring greater skill of accepting “what is” as “what will be,” while simultaneously generating much more creative and elaborate ways of expressing displeasure over the choices made.

Well, that’s it for me this week. Russ and Tracy are busy auditioning people like crazy for the upcoming movies for 2007. They’re actually running across people with talent, which is hard to believe, considering that I would have assumed that the reality shows on television would have exhausted the pool by now.

Have a great Christmas week, and the next time I see you I will be a year older, even though only seven days have passed. Man, that’s as frightening as the first Alien movie. Or nearly as frightening as the prospects of Rocky VI.



Yours,

J

December 8th,

The fighting in Baghdad had been particularly fierce that day. So much death. A hopelessness of ongoing struggle and bloodshed that was mind numbing and soul—yes, soul destructive. There seemed to be no end. There was always one more brother to avenge the death of a child or wife needlessly slaughtered by the brutality of men fighting to gain a few yards of ground to call their own until another came and stole it away again—of course—more death—more blood.

Fighting becomes an issue of survival. No longer high principles of freedom and tolerance or the restitution of great ideas. Just kill or be killed—a burial ground of desperate men and sometimes women trying to survive by snatching the life of another desperate struggling soldier—one they really did not even know, let alone hate.

Five young soldiers had just had their fill of killing. They met next to a tent in their camp and decided—“I can’t go on”. Even though only one spoke the words the other four nodded. A plan was devised. An escape plan. Yes, though they had been trained to be men of the military, loyal, true, and killing machines—they all agreed to desert. The word sounded so foul and cowardly but they had lost the stomach for the conflict, the mission seemed vacant, hopeless to achieve. They knew they would not be able to return to their homes so, under the cover of night, they struck out across the desert heading west into what seemed to be a cold dark expanse of nothingness—no plan no real destination. They stayed on foot to avoid attention, shedding their battle gear in favor of the garments of nomads.

They were only three days into their journey when one of the five fell ill. He was always the most frail of the quintet—the desert chill catching up with his bones. They decided to hide out in a town and pose as traveling merchants until their comrade could regain strength. They took their last few possessions and sold them in the market to purchase some wares that they might sell on the street to take attention off of their presence in the little town. They stayed for a week. Their friend grew worse and then one night just died in his sleep. Saddened by the loss of their comrade and reminded of the horror of death they chose to leave and travel on.

It was difficult to avoid passing patrols and columns of infantry on their way to the battles. Even once they were detained and taken to a local magistrate who questioned them on their mission, trying to discover exactly who they were and what they were doing.

“On a journey, through the night, using the stars as our guide”. It was a quick answer and seemed foolish but the ruler accepted it and jokingly added “If you find anything of value come back and tell me so I can come and enjoy your prize with you”. They all laughed nervously.

Onward they traveled. Every once and awhile guilt would seep in. Were they cowards for leaving the war? What did their friends think? Would they ever be able to go back home? Then one of the four shouted” What if they had a war and no one showed up?” The other three stood startled for a second and then they all began to laugh—there was no going back. The wise path was to head westward and find new lives.

About a month into the journey they awoke one morning and one of their friends was gone. Had he been captured? Was he alive or dead or had he just grown tired of the journey? They did not know but now there were three—three lost men traveling by night through the desert, the sky so close to the earth that you could almost touch the stars—stars giving light to the journey—purpose.

One particularly beautiful starlit night they arrived in a little village, so weary from the journey that they yearned for shelter—just one night spent inside a warm home free from the elements and the hard cold ground. They knocked on the door of a nearby little house. A young woman greeted them shadowed by a burly gentleman gazing at them suspiciously. “We have traveled far, searching, well searching for, well I don’t know. It seems that the stars have brought us to your doorstep.” It was the best that they could present. They wanted mercy and shelter. The young couple welcomed them. They all had supper and met the couple’s young son—a sweet boy, with the eyes of an aged sage—filled with warmth, wisdom and moist with tenderness. After dinner one of the three former soldiers spoke-“We have not much to offer for your kindness. From our brief time as merchants we have this small golden statue, some incense and a jar of bitter ointment—but it is yours—for you and your little, well your little king.” Everyone smiled down at the little boy, now peacefully asleep. In the morning the three vagabonds left. There was no going back. No way to return to the suffering of Baghdad and the war. It was a wise decision to leave the bloodshed. Maybe no one from their families and country would understand now but maybe when that young boy grew up he could make it a better world. And who knows, maybe if he does, he might remember the three strangers in the night—deserters of sorts—who brought gifts to his house—some gold, a little incense and bitter ointment called myrrh. Yes, maybe he will recall the night visitors and time will remember the traveling soldiers who deserted their post, not as traitors and cowards but as men who made a better choice, yes-- wise men. 

December 1st 

December 1st, 2006. Of course, the more astute readers will notice that this is not being posted on December 1st, 2006, but rather, written and posted on Monday, December 4th, and auda-ciously post-dated, as if it were written on Friday, December 1st. 



Why? Because I procrastinated.

I used to be an “amateur-crastinator.” But now, having crossed the magical number of 1000 incidents, I have become a “pro-crastinator,” although there seems to be no wage or benefits attached. The most aggravating thing about procrastination is not that we do it, but rather, the excuses that ensue when the atrocity has been thoroughly accomplished and has been challenged by someone who is particularly aggravated because THEY had to wait.

The excuses usually follow into three inglorious categories:

First and foremost (and certainly overused) is, “I was busy.” It has become a new tradition in America that when you invite people to any event or social gathering, to preface your invitation with, “I know you’re busy, but on Friday night…” Are we really any busier than our parents and forefathers? I mean, they didn’t go to the store and purchase their meat for the hamburger helper. Many of them hunted it down, often risking life and limb—or at least, a hangnail from loading ammunition. Do we actually have to grow the vegetables that garnish our plates? Do we have to wash our clothes in streams? Of course, we do have the excruciating duty of “watch and care” on the remote control and the vigorous hunting sessions on the internet. But is it a new American tradition to believe that we’re actually busy? I wasn’t too busy for the blog this week—although I could certainly make a case for how my time was mashed together and munched away. 



Actually, what happened in my case is excuse number 2, which is: “I forgot.” Now, “I forgot” should be the most popular of the three excuses, because it is the most truthful, but it is also the lesser in nobility and makes us look coarse, callous or even, perhaps, stupid. But some more honest souls will actually turn to you with that dull expression that we develop during high school chemistry class and speak aloud the words. “I forgot.” Why do we forget? Because it didn’t cross our minds. Because we become overly-zealous about the latest little pwang in our schedules, or the little bump in our consciousness that has shaken our attention away from reality to the horrific realm of “what might be.”

Which leads me to the third and final category of excuses, which is the least of all of them and the most vicious in content: “I thought you were going to do it.” This is the most popular one among husbands and wives, who, after more than five years of marriage, discover that the reason for having a mate is not for sexual pleasure, nor even for dinner companionship, but rather, a perpetual in-house scapegoat for all ongoing, if not ever-increasing, foibles. 

It began with Adam, who, while still having apple juice dribbling down his mouth, mumbled, “It’s my wife’s fault.” May I point out that he tried to pull off this nasty façade in front of God, who, by the way, didn’t buy any of it? Nor would I. Nor would you.

So that’s this week’s blog story—a blog which was late. 

Oh, I almost forgot! A fourth excuse that perhaps is better stated as an insert is the infamous statement rendered, often with a silly grin: “Better late than never.” Really? Try offering that one to the gas company. 

No. I wasn’t late because I was too busy, or because any partner that I’m related to and related with failed to perform their function, but because, quite frankly, I forgot. And the reason I forgot? Right now I can’t remember. 

See you Friday night at our Christmas concert at Trinity City at 8:00 P.M. By the way, all tickets are free. And by the way Part Two, we’re still making movies and trying to shake the world up one frame at a time.

Yours,

J

November 24, 2006

Cranberries must have found one fine damn agent. 

Here’s a fruit sour to the taste—so pungent it can frighten young children, a fruit previously relegated to twenty-four hour cures for urinary infections and occasional duets with more palatable and notable fruits as drinks in punches. The little red, round berry must have been on the verge of despair; or dare I say, without being too silly, crushed. Then somebody comes along with a lamentation: “The turkey’s too dry!” 

Let us pause here for a moment to consider the power of the lamentation. Within my generation, lamentation has been the way we eventually achieve change. In 1965, a few wacky Harvard professors and bohemian activists were against the war in Vietnam . By ’67, the rock and roll community and the creative forces that dared to lift their heads joined in the lament. In 1968, left-wing politicians and civil rights leaders picked up the banner leading to the untimely demise of a couple of notables. By 1969, Mr. and Mrs. America became troubled with the loss of many of our fine, young sons in the conflict. In 1970, it trickled down to middle America, landing with a large thump in northern Ohio , in a university called Kent State . By 1971, Ma and Pa Kettle and all the corresponding pots and pans began to rattle and join in the unison of anti-war. By 1973, even the evangelicals, who seem to enjoy a good war more than most, had to admit that things weren’t going real well. 

What would we do without lamentation? What would the cranberry have been if it hadn’t wished for more than unblocking urinary passages and singing background to apples and oranges? Turkey was dry, and for some inexplicable reason, cherries, boysenberries, orange marmalade and all possible jellied fruits had failed to rise up and vie for the position of the condiment ala holiday. 



The cranberry hired one damn fine agent.

Now a day called Thanksgiving, which was once dominated by the golden bird, must share billing with a sour little berry that used to be functioning only to piss us off. 

Now THAT’S America . You want something to be thankful for? Be thankful for the fact that we live in a country that allows O.J. Simpson to continue to meagerly exist, Michael Richards to use the “N” word, or any alphabet beginning of his choice, President Bush to recreate the English language to his preference, Anna Nicole Smith to live her life out in the tabloids, and the sour puss cranberry to be regaled as a sauce of choice for at least one day a year.

Is there room for you? Hell yeah. Thank God and God bless America .

Yours,

J

November 17, 2006

A crisp November morning has greeted me with a chilling blast in the face as I climb into my car and head off for a weekend in St. Louis, having spent four days at home as a brief vacation away from my twenty-five-day tour of the USA.

I am in my car only a couple of minute before the outside world is absent from me and the warmth of my heater leads me to believe that I am truly warm, content, tucked away and satisfied. Of course, the reality is, the world is just as cold as it ever was. I’ve just created a bubble to protect me from the elements.

Having just finished writing a new feature-length film entitled Ought, which is the story of a man who hits a young boy with his car and drives away without reporting the accident because he is afraid of the repercussions and being accused of mayhem during a drug stupor, I was transported back nearly a quarter of a century when my own son was struck by a stranger in the middle of the night and left for dead, only to be catapulted into a 100-day horror trip through hospitals, coma and eventual disability.

It was fascinating to write about this character that, of course, I never met and was never found, and to speculate about what form of insulation he provided for himself to escape the alarming facts of his own actions. It’s very easy to be condemning of people who do obvious atrocities, but not quite so easy to find the lumbering inefficiencies in ourselves that lead to much less drastic results but accumulated over time, do create our general dismantling.

Russ and Tracy are off to Lynnville tonight, to have a Lenders Morgan party and show the movie to fifteen or twenty friends of the film. You should consider having one of these parties of your own—an evening of adult introspection and entertainment, culminating in the finest of entrees—conversation of quality amongst mature people.

On Wednesday I’m going to be completing the music for Bernee, and we have tentatively set either New Year’s Eve or New Year’s week for a premier in Hendersonville , Tennessee . You certainly do not want to miss this movie. Heather Horton has a break-out performance you will thoroughly enjoy. 



Well, I will keep it a little shorter this week, and look forward to talking to you again next week on my way to Springboro , Ohio .



Yours,

J

November 10th

War just does't work. 

Even when you remove the morality issues of murder, mutilation and mayhem, the concept, and if you will, the business practice, of war, is non-fuctionable, non-profitable and never-ending.

We seem to be the latest in a lineage of nations to discover this reality, as we line up behind the Babylonians, Persians, Macedonians, Greeks, Romans, Huns, Franks, Moors, French, English, Germans, Japanese and Soviet Union to take our dubious honor as power-of-the-day and dunce of the cause.

Beginning with the American Revolution, which lasted an excruciating eight years, our young country did not win its freedom, but rather, temporary restraint from the British--until they decided they wanted to practice conscription on our sailers at sea, so we took them on again. This time they burned our fledgling community and symbol of freedom-- Washington , D.C. 

And then we took on Mexico (which ended up becoming a training ground for the generals in a later war where brother would fight against brother) and we convinced ourselves that we defeated those infidels in the South--until, a hundred and seventy- five years later, they are still attacking our borders, streaming across in huge numbers, illegally.

And then there was the American Indian, who, in the pursuit of our gaining our manifest destiny, was advertised as a savage who wanted to rape all of our women and possessed weapons unknown to us which could destroy all of our innocent settlers as they rolled across the plains to take over lands which really didn't belong to them in the first place.

So did we defeat the Indians? Or merely pass the responsibility for them from the Secretary of War to the Secretaries of Welfare and Human Resources? 

Of course, we have the Civil War, a blunder-blast of false bravado and parochial patriotism which was finally purported to have been fought to free the slaves--a battle which every black American will tell you, is still being raged in the streets every day.

And then we got itchy and decided to kick the ass of Spain , a war which everyone agrees today was propagated by the press and promoted as important, even though there really was no actual basis or national security issue involved.

We reluctantly entered World War One--latecomers, and stood by as England and France punished Germany , creating a militancy in the German people which culminated in a wave of insane nationalism headed by a short paper-hanger named Adolf Hitler. It took three--count them, three--superpowers to defeat this one maniac. Yes. It was England , the US and the Soviet Union joining together. God knows (or maybe he doesn't) it took two atomic bombs to stop the little island of Japan . 

It was less than five years later that we entered a conflict in Korea, unresolved, with the northern portion gaining nuclear capabilities even today.

Vietnam was a bloodbath frenzy of promotion and puff and glory, ending with the result we feared the most.

And now there's Iraq . 

It's not even that I'm anti-war on spiritual or ethical principles. I don't have to go that far. I don't have to search my soul to wonder about the validity of shedding blood to prove a point.

It just doesn't work. 

It's because murdered fathers have already birthed angry sons who grow up to be fighting men who have children of their own--children who watch their daddies die and become angry and start the whole goddamned process over again.

War just doesn't work.

Perhaps we should celebrate the restraint observed both by the United States and the Soviet Union through the 1950s, 60s and 70s to escape the cataclysmic result of trying to prove their point at the end of a bayonet.

Where are the Kennedys and the Kruschevs who, upon reaching the pinnacle of national fervor, take a second to look over the edge before leaping off the precipice into the fiery pit of a hellish war?

For war is hell. At least as close as any of us dare come.

Mainly because it just doesn't work.

Do you think the Republicans and the Democrats know this? We keep bandying around a number of 3,000 soldiers killed in Iraq . How about thousands, walking around without limbs, or perhaps better stated, NOT walking around, as a constant reminder to each of us of the failure of war?

I know the question people will ask: so what do you suggest? How about ignoring the tyrants of the world? That's what they fear the most. After all, the Soviet Union was not killed or stabbed to death, but rather, it just got hungry for a Big Mac and Starbucks.

Next question: Would it have worked with Hitler? Of course, we'll never know. We do know there were attempts on his life by his own generals. That's the way it usually works out, you know. For every Caesar there's a Brutus to bring the knife in at the right point and execute a takeover.

I don't have the answers, except to tell you that war doesn't work.

I love my country, but we suck at war. It's nothing personal. Hundreds of nations before us got the same failing grade. Stop yelling at me about supporting the troops. Is it non-supportive of the troops to warn each of us not to invest in this Edsel of an idea called war?

I think the most patriotic thing to do is to find a way to become intelligent and fiscally responsible by encouraging us to cease to throw good money and good people after bad money and bad people to try to change our world with bullets and blasts. 

Can you smell the napalm in the morning air? If you can, start getting ready to lose your life savings--and your children.

I am returning from my twenty-four-day tour energized and rejuvenated and ready to take on the next monster--of course, that gargantuan beast is always in me.

Russ and Tracy have just completed entering Lenders Morgan in thirteen film festivals and I am getting ready to write the music for our new movie, Bernee.

So, for me, a stock tip: buy into adjustable beds and avoid investing in war. 

Because it just doesn't work.



J

November 3rd

I was six years old and had discovered the most delightful place to scratch myself. I was eagerly pursuing this new adventure when my mother walked into the room, gasped and bellowed, “Stop that! That’s dirty!”

She then turned on heel and sashayed out of the room, content that the perpetration of evil had been eliminated.

I learned.

I learned to fiddle with my diddle when the old lady was in the other room cooking bacon.

The question people always ask is, “If we don’t stop dirty, evil, bad things from happening, and preach against them, won’t the world fall apart? Or at least, tupperware lids warp and not fit on their bowls?”

I don’t know. Because we’re always off somewhere trying to instill righteousness into some foreign land, forbid some group of people from having their rights because they “do it differently than we do,” or smacking little boys’ hands because they’re squeezing the unholy lemon.

I guess I would be impressed with self-righteousness if I could find somebody who was a satisfied follower, but it just seems like the harder people preach against immorality, darkness, evil, or even bungee jumping, the more they themselves want to do it. And of all the human vices (and there are many) none are considered worse amongst our species than hypocrisy. 

I think Hugh Hefner is around today not because he’s a sterling representative of our society, but because he did not conduct his lewd lifestyle in between Bible studies.

I’ve had a wonderful week on the road watching two men approximately my age totally self-destruct out of dissatisfaction over the very life and style which they propagate and breed. John Kerry said something stupid because he’s not satisfied to be just a senator from Massachusetts who occasionally comes up with a brilliant piece of legislation to help our children or the poor people of America . He’s convinced he’s supposed to be President of the United States .

Pastor Ted in Colorado , another man of my vintage, was so intent on spreading his evangelical form of religiosity that he felt deprived to the point of being depraved to go and purchase methamphetamine and at least get a massage from a known homosexual escort.

One is a Republican and one is a Democrat. But both of them are discontent with who they are and where they are and what they’re doing in the context of wanting to lead others to the same emotional and spiritual putrid stream, which is poisoning their own consciousness.

No thanks.

I don’t have all the answers. I like that. I’m not always right. I really like that. I don’t know if gay marriage is the next thing that should be done or not. I’m glad. I’m glad that many things are not my business. I’m glad I don’t have to decide them. But I’m also not willing to let men who are merely my peers and just as uncertain as I am, decide these issues on default that somebody happened to remember their name a little clearer on the way to the voting booth. Or that they convinced fourteen thousand people in Colorado that they “done preach good.”

I think it’s time for us to work on contentment. Am I asking other people to pursue my philosophy? Why am I doing that? Is it because I am enjoying myself so much that I want everybody to be as happy as me, or is it that I need comrades to bear the burden of the misery? Because truthfully, if I am content, I don’t have to advertise anything. People sense it, they smell it, they perceive it and privately pursue it.

If I find myself aggressively campaigning for some cause, trying to change the mind of the populace to my bend, I become a propagator of pathetic proportions.

So let me talk to my two buddies here: John, I don’t think you’re going to be President. I don’t think you’re suited for the job and I think you should go try to find yourself and do some good for others.

Ted, I don’t want any religious experience that you have to offer. Nor should anyone else, until you settle down, or settle in, to some sense of your own well-being that is free of condemning others, open to new ideas, and that makes you not want to constantly experiment like a seven-year-old boy at a candy shop.

As I said, my tour has been great. I’m going to come in and out of Southern California , never appearing on the Tonight Show or Showbiz Today. I just had fun, met a lot of wonderful people, laughed, cried a little and slept real well at the end of the day because I knew who I was sleeping with.

I can recommend it. Forget that shit. I can live it. You decide for yourself.

Yours,

J

October 27th

Running on a fever-pitched high from the exciting results of the Cackalacky Film Festival, while racing through Dallas , Texas , in front of some wonderful people to rave reviews, last night I landed in Deming , New Mexico with a gigantic thud.

Why is it that life feels like it needs to balance us from becoming overly-enthused and generally whimsically happy? It is what life does well, though. Balance, that is.

I remember when I lived in California, the people were constantly talking about the drought and how we needed to conserve water, and in talking about even the simple things like the toilet, they would come up with catchy rhymes, like “If it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down.” Then about three years later, I returned to California on a tour to discover that the topic of the day was the severe dangers of flooding. Once again, nature balancing itself.

Deming , New Mexico , is a quaint little town of about fourteen thousand people, who were afforded the opportunity to have a traveling author and the conductor of a symphony come to their burg to present a dynamic, Broadway-style show complete with music and dialogue and just the general aroma of entertainment and inspiration. 



Their response? Four people showed up. Which might have been nice if we had been playing bridge, but is a bit too quaint to qualify as an audience. 



We went ahead and performed anyway, and those four souls were some of the most generous people I have ever met. But one of them made the mistake of telling me, at the book table after the show, that I “needed to understand that there was something else going on that night and people just couldn’t get away to come out to see us.” Well, I explained to this lovely person that I didn’t need to understand that. 



The greatest danger in America today is not terrorism, nor is it conservativism, or liberalism, or any particular “ism” to fill the chasm. The greatest danger is that there is an ongoing arrogance in our Americana make-up that makes us believe that we have the God-given right to just pan things. Don’t get me wrong—it is never so aggressive as a form of rejection. Instead it is a universal shrugging of the shoulders, a sigh, a raising of the eyebrows and forming of the word, “whatever” on the lips of an over-pampered populace.

Supposedly in the greatest health awakening in our country’s history, we also have the introduction of the Triple Whopper at Burger King and the Foot-long Philly Cheesesteak at Sonic to mock any of our attempts at healthier choices.

A paradox? No, I don’t think so. Just the power of the free market? Once again, no. I believe we want the ability to discuss virtue while pursuing vice. We want the option of appearing righteous while aggressively attaining avarice. In other words, we want to be able to pan and pass over whatever suits our fancy at the moment. 



Deming , New Mexico , didn’t know anything about us one way or another. They just chose to ignore our existence because it was ignorable. That’s right. There are so many things in America now that are ignorable that we really don’t know if they would have been of any value or not. 

If we would have had better intelligence, would we have stayed out of the Iraqi war? That is not supposed to be even discussed, because we are in the war now and we want to be supportive of our troops. 

Is there a better way to access information from prisoners than torture? We really don’t have time to think about that because, after all, we’ve already ordered the torture manuals and the interrogators have been trained and they need someplace to put this information into practice.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m always grateful for a Deming in my life, lest I ever take for granted things like Cackalacky and Dallas that happened before. And I don’t take them for granted.



I don’t take you for granted, who may be reading this article right now. You certainly have other things you could do, and you certainly have the freedom to pan me, my blog and our attempts at promoting Lenders Morgan. We certainly are not overwhelming you with our great press coverage and recent appearances on the Tonight Show. I’m grateful for the chosen few out there who still give every idea a chance to fly.

It’s like Wilbur and Orville once said on a windy day in Kitty Hawk , North Carolina : “Who knows? Maybe some day we could start an airline and give away peanuts that people can complain about…”

Until next week, greetings from Arizona , where I pursue a long tour.



Yours,

J

10-21

Live from North Carolina its THE BLOG.

Salutations from Russ, Tracy, Jasson and Stephanie at the Cackalacky Film Festival.
We arrived on Thursday and spoke at Central Piedmont Community College . George Cochran the 
film teacher welcomed us in to show clips and talk to aspiring film makers about creativity,
passion and telling a sophisticated story that moves people. 

Lenders Morgan premiered on Thursday night at 8:30. There were 28 people from all aspects of film making and some Indie movie goers. The response as exciting. I've heard from many people that the talked about the film a night long. Lenders Morgan is doing its job getting people to respond on an e motional level and resonates with it's themes. 

We h ave learned so much about producing and the does and don't of getting into festivals. This film creates rabid fans. We met Blake and he was so sensed by CD'S character, he was almost unable to separate meting Jasson and the character he played. Thankfully he did not make good on his threat to "Beat the hell out of CD." 

Friday morning we were at the Arts Institute of Charlotte . We screened the whole film for their video 2 class and talked for about an hour afterwards about the film. Te comments were incredibly insightful and challenging. Bringing up plot points, acting, style, and character development. 

We have seen a couple of films so far and are impressed with the passion of the artists. We met Frederic Lumiere who directed "Today is Tomorrow", a heart filled feature. Last night there was an party for the film makers. We talked, exchanged DVD's and schmoozed the night away. 

Dutch Stamey, the director of the festival is so down to earth. She really wanted a mixture of high quality story telling and from what we've seen so far she has done a great job finding new art.
Today we are speaking on a panel about low budget filmmaking and tomorrow the big awards party will take place. We have already received our trophy, being here and seeing our $1300 film end up the talk of Cackalacky. We have all been enlivened by our experience and can't wait to do it again. 

Love from Cackalacky Russ, Tracy, Jasson, and Steffie. 

October 13, 2006

Sitting on a plane, munching on a honey-roasted nut, listening to people around me describe a country which I was about to visit, one they insisted was poor beyond description and beguiled by the treachery of the ongoing affliction of want; it was 1983 and I was on my way to Haiti.

I know the immediate question may be why I felt the need to fly to this underprivileged nation. Well, that explanation would be much too lengthy for this blog. Suffice it to say that I was in a particular phase of my life when I felt I possessed so much, both spiritually and financially, that I felt compelled to go share it with the untoward masses.

Within a brief few hours, I found myself on the streets of Port-Au-Prince , the capital of this island. Did I see poverty? No. I saw lack. 



In America I see poverty. Indigent people walking by banners touting the glories of wealth, subjected to the indignity of being “without” in the presence of such great “with.” But in Haiti there was ongoing lack—the occasional grimace of a hunger pang and the obvious insufficiency of adequate clothing and shelter. Yet, no sense of aggravation or screams of unfairness.

Instead, I saw a man exchange a wood carving of his own making for a tomato, which he carved up and stirred into a pot with a few grains of rice which had fallen on the street from someone else’s nearby sack of plenty. And then, after he had heated up his feast for the day, he sat and ate out of the same pot with his fingers, food dribbling down his chin, with a big smile on his face. Aha. Made it through another day.

We have convinced ourselves in this great nation that there is a quota of things and happenings to unleash the potential for joy. 

I don’t know, maybe our problem is that we keep calling ourselves a great nation instead of humbly bowing our heads, realizing that the gift of plenty is really the curse laid upon the soul who must now go out and find others to share the blessing.

Walking around Haiti for the nine days I was there, I never heard anyone complain. I walked through poverty, but felt no shame. I saw personal human devastation due to starvation and deprivation, but felt no frustration from any of the participants. 



I don’t know, Six String Slim. If we continue to believe that circumstance dictates not only our fate, but the complexion of our countenance and the outlook we have on destiny, maybe we become the lower creature in the great chain of human life. 



For no tears are ever shed by a fallen leaf.

There is never a lamentation from the frantic ant preparing for winter.

And the birds never stop singing because the worm supply is depleted.

It’s been a terrific week in Virginia . We have met many wonderful people. And if we lack anything, I shall not speak of it.

Yours,

J

October 7, 2006

I am sitting here in my car staring at a disk of the preliminary edit of the entire movie of Bernee. Isn’t it amazing that all the work that Tracy has put into this project—the hours and hours of tedious and meticulous dissecting—comes down to this little piece of plastic?

It has been an exciting week.

We completed the second feature-length movie, and also did nine shows at schools in Gallatin , Tennessee , with a new production we put together called Janet’s Planet, complete with music and filled with commentary on social diversity and the dangers of bullying.

We also slid in the Portland Rotary Club on Friday in front of a handful of eager, gregarious and appreciative folks. 

I am off now for ten days in Virginia , to do twelve shows and meet a lot of the folks that the politicians and the commentators have forgotten about and just don’t care to be around. It really is amazing that most of the carpetbaggers who want to represent us really, in the long run, think we’re just a bunch of dumbasses that can be manipulated through commercials and misinformation bent toward our particular prejudices. Screw them and the lobbyists they rode in on.

Russ and Tracy are excited about the upcoming film festival in Charlotte , and there seems to be a really good buzz about Lenders Morgan. Stephanie (Taylor Feazel) and Jasson (CD) will be attending the festival with them.

In the works are plans to begin, or perhaps I should say open, a headquarters in the Rivergate Mall area for the Sumner Pops and also to provide live theater and a screening area for independent films. Somebody asked me if there was a market for such a thing in Middle Tennessee .

Hell. If I did a market study on everything I thought was important to do, I probably would never leave my house. Some things are important just because they’re important, whether everybody thinks they’re valuable at this stage of the game or not.

If we had done a market study in 1962 in Nashville , Tennessee , on the issue of civil rights, black people would still be toting that barge and lifting that bale. Sometimes you have to take what’s right and force it down people’s throats in the hope that as it passes by their taste buds they might develop a liking for it.

America has become a much weaker country as we have tried to govern and set direction by consensus instead of conscience.

Well, I will be telling you of my journeys and I’m hoping that your journey will continue to be fruitful and you will persevere with us as we Johnny Appleseed our way creatively across the minds and hearts of Middle America .

Yours,

J

September 29, 2006 

Greetings from the road right near Clarksville , Tennessee on my way to Illinois . I received a lovely email from Six String Slim, a fine fellow of sorts, who has recently performed a theme song for the Bernee movie at the cast/wrap party. Buddy from the movie also performed some songs that night. There is perhaps no better, warming sensation in all the world than the fellowship that exists among artists who temporarily let down their guard of ego and protectiveness to absorb a common cause and pursue the betterment of a shared project.

Thanks to these wonderful folk for lending not only their abilities but their passion to our works.

It has been a busy week. We are in the midst of school concerts, performing a piece called Janet’s Planet, a musical extravaganza extolling the virtues of diversity and appreciation of one another. We also had a fabulous satellite concert in Franklin , Kentucky , to benefit the Franklin Senior Center .

Russ and Tracy have also been editing like crazy on Bernee and now are within striking distance of completing the project, waiting for me to insert music and sound and final editing cues.

They also have been collecting numerous newspaper and radio interviews for the upcoming appearance at the Cackalacky Film Festival in Charlotte , North Carolina , debuting Lenders Morgan. It’s an exciting time to have two projects in the works—one a drama, another a comedy—and to know that creative juices are flowing and people are being enriched by the experience.

I must take exception with Six String Slim on his quoting Mellencamp’s Jack and Diane. Six String wrote that “life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.” All songwriters are guilty of a bit of demagoguery, in other words, writing what the populace wants to hear. But it is a noble art that allows us to entertain and exhort to higher thinking all at the same time. 



Actually, we bring the thrill or life just doesn’t go on. Isn’t that the way it is? I choose to be thrilled or I choose to give a modicum effort while looking for all the holes in the dike. That’s just my opinion. But it sure worked for me so far.

Well, I will be coming back next week to do some more of those schools and then taking off for a tour to Virginia . There are exciting things happening. Lenders Morgan looks like it’s ready to launch, and it looks like Russ and Tracy are about to give birth to a new baby named Bernee.

Hang in there with us.



J

September 22, 2006

The McDonald’s Restaurant in Elmira , New York is NOT right off the freeway as advertised. I offer this as a warning to future travelers who will pass by this small burg in New York State —one made famous by a single mention in the movie, It’s A Wonderful Life. I am happy to report that that has really been the only drawback on my New York swing on my tour.

Russ and Tracy held a wrap up party on Bernie this week with twenty people in attendance, entertainment provided by sock puppet versions of scenes from the movie (sometimes it’s just better not to ask…)

Russ also caught Heather (Bernie) at a local comedy club—a good time.

We have some great news—at the upcoming Charlotte film festival, it appears that Russ and Tracy will be showing Lenders Morgan at a couple of colleges in addition to the festival venue. Things are popping right along.

It is happy birthday today to Tracy —and she will be going to Chattanooga to have lunch with her brother, which she considers to be a present. Thank God for undemanding women.

I will be arriving home on Monday if anyone really cares. 

We are beginning a series of schools, concerts from the Sumner Pops, and then off to St. Louis and soon to do ten days in Virginia . Have a great week and enjoy the journey.

J

September 15th

I am in my car on my way to New York State . Of course, that means I must “needs go through” Ohio , the place of my birth and early adolescent ramblings. I used to make a yearly trek back to my home town, showing my children and anybody who happened to be trapped in my vehicle the high spots of each location of where my coming-of-age occurred. I went through a real nostalgic time about ten years ago, where I felt there was a piece of me still locked up in central Ohio which I needed to excavate to regain some sort of personal gyroscope of internal equilibrium.

Of course, I went back, walked around my town, visited some haunts and knew absolutely nobody. Nor did they have any recollection of me. It was very disappointing in an uplifting sort of way. Do you know what I mean?

Disappointment can be very uplifting. Why? Because it causes us to shed fantasy in favor of future undertakings. 

Today I will drive by and exit on I-71 for Sunbury , Ohio , and not even stop. I have so much buried there—including my virginity, some false dreams and a couple former parents.

But if you spend too much time chasing the past or wondering what could have been, or even remembering how it was, you just don’t have the time to make today’s memories that can be yearned for later on.

Maybe that’s why we die. Somewhere along the line, we stop making memories. So one day there’s nothing to look back on fondly. And our heart just gives up. Maybe.

See you next week.

J

September 8th 

Truly the most phenomenal experience in life, more wonderful than extra cheese on a pizza, and non-stale gumdrops, is the fact which ever shall remain, that truly the best moments in life are when I am proven wrong.

Think about it.

If I were right all the time, or even most of the time, the world and all of its potentials would be no larger than the vision I can stuff within my tiny soul and brain.

What a miserable planet this would be, if everything played out the way I thought it was going to play out.

So it is with great joy that I report that I was wrong. 

In last week’s blog, I said that I didn’t think that any film festival would be courageous enough to accept Lenders Morgan into their lineup of winners. I was wrong.

Less than an hour after the blog was posted, the Cacalackey Film Festival in Charlotte , North Carolina , accepted Lenders Morgan into its lineup of film festival winners for its October 17th - 22nd extravaganza.

Bless my soul and kick my ass (which, by the way, is the way it usually works…)

See, you believers out there? You’re going to see some dividends paid for your investment of time and energy into this project. And maybe that’s just the beginning. Maybe there are more brave people out there than I ever thought.

Keep your eyes open and we’ll keep you posted.

I returned safely from my trip to Illinois , where I met a fine, young, aspiring artist named Nathaniel Price. We have been emailing. He is just starting out in his career, and like everybody begins in anything, he thinks the real fun is in getting better-known.

The real fun in life is being unknown and enjoying the race to promote what you got, while relishing the treasure that you have not yet been able to share with so many unseen friends.

Good luck, Nathaniel. And enjoy the journey.

Tracy has edited eighteen minutes of Bernee. She is a crazy woman, and I mean that in both the literal and general senses.

Russ and Tracy are already beginning to seek investors on their third movie, which is simply entitled Iz and Pal. It’s about problems in the Middle-East seen through the eyes of two twelve-year-old boys. It’s a killer. Or maybe better stated, a non-killer.

I am on my way to Indiana . I don’t do a whole lot of work in Indiana . It’s not because Indiana ’s a red state (you see, I grew up in time when being red had an entirely different meaning) because I am really not liberal or conservative. I think there are assholes on both sides of that issue.

I just think we need some practical people to come along and not be afraid of the truth, and come up with a few ideas, knowing that those ideas will probably end up being crap and evolve into new ideas, which may end up being a little less crappy.

For after all, as I said earlier, the greatest thing in the world is in being wrong.

Well, keep your eyes open. Keep your ears tuned. And if you want my advice, keep your mouth shut a little bit more. 

I found out this week that a close friend of mine has cancer. He’s not too happy about it. And he could sure use your thoughts, and prayers if you’re of that kind. His name is Richard. And I’d like it to continue to be.

Until next week, I am your traveling troubadour of transition.

J

September 1st 

I’m on my way to Illinois —again. I’m really quite impressed with this state, considering the fact that its name, when pronounced correctly, forms two negative words: ill and annoy. I’m happy to report that I’ve never experienced either one there, although I have had hints of the latter.

It has been a very good week. Russ and Tracy tied up filming on Bernee. It was two weeks of comprehensive shooting with all the actors giving sacrificially of their time and energy to the good of the project. I am grateful for creative people. They are the least appreciated individuals in our society because the evidence of their value cannot always be measured in a bottom line or a spread sheet. They just do what makes it possible for all of us to think and feel with more sympathy to ourselves, one another and the planet while simultaneously manufacturing a joy which fosters human tolerability.

I got to see some of the footage and it really is quite good. Bernee is a comedy. I hesitate to use the word comedy because then I am insisting that you believe that it will be funny. How could I possibly know what you really think will be funny? Some people think Will Ferrell is funny. In the broadest sense of the word, I probably would join them. But narrowing it down to what makes me laugh, Will Ferrell does not click my meter very often. So forgive me for calling it a comedy if, when you see Bernee, you barely proffer a smirk. 

I think real life is funny and it really doesn’t need that many set-ups. I think the idea of a forty-year-old virgin may be worth a titter, but really, any forty-year-old man thinking that they truly are a sexual dynamo is hilarious. 

I do not know whether or not you like to think about others in their times of need or if you meditate or pray for the consolation of your fellow-man, but if you do, would you just say a name to whatever force you believe makes a difference in the lives of us human types? The name is “Richard.” I don’t need to say any more. And you don’t have to know details and go into lengthy thoughts and recite incantations. Just say the name every once in a while. He could use your energy and your wishes.

I’m getting ready to do a series of schools through the Sumner Pops, so I wrote a new show. I did not want to write the new show, because I wrote a perfectly good show a few years ago and I really didn’t see the need to write another one. It felt a little like trying to duplicate goodness. But I did it anyway. And I like it. 

The latest front on Lenders Morgan is that it is moving forward. There is interest, intrigue and it is being reviewed by some film festivals, though I doubt if any of these committees have the balls to honor it out of fear of their constituency. In other words, most people are scared shitless of the really loud people who end up shouting down worthwhile ideas.

I am so glad I’m neither conservative nor liberal. Michael Moore and Carl Rove equally disappoint me. The best thing about the zealots of life is that within a very short period of time you can visit their graves.

Most people in America would welcome a practical solution to almost anything. That’s the problem with most of the social issues. They don’t fall into one category or another of being conservative or liberal.

It certainly is not my damn business whether two men or two women want to have sex with each other, but by the same token, you can’t pretend that aborting a baby is not killing something. You see what I mean? The liberals would condone and advocate both actions. And the conservatives would condemn both. But they’re really not the same, are they?

Yes, I believe a woman has a right to choose any way possible that she wants to protect herself from having an unwanted pregnancy up until the time that the young sprout is hooked to the wall of her uterus. Then the little prick has decided to live and if you terminate it at that point, well, it’s a termination, right?

What I don’t get are liberals pretending it’s all right because we want to do it and conservatives who don’t want to advocate birth control because they’re afraid of the guy in Rome who wears the funny hat and too much jewelry. You know what I mean?

And concerning homosexuals, I really don’t want people who wrote down ideas back in the time when they believed in ghosts and witches and in sacrificing animals to get rid of sin to determine the destiny of people I meet on Main Street of USA today. I’m glad those old-timers had an opinion. I’m curious as to how they came to that conclusion. And I would like to learn from both their insights and their mistakes. But—I do not want to blindly follow their decrees.

Can we stop with the conservative and liberal and just be practical? I know it’s important on planet earth that we have a Jerry Falwell and a Hugh Hefner, because they create the extremes that make a broad playing field for people like me.

And that’s who I am. Me. I’m not always comfortable with it, but I’m becoming more willing to adapt to the importance of all its subtle nuances. 



Congrats to Russ and Tracy and the cast of Bernee. Talk to you soon.

J

August 25th 

Pluto is not a planet??? Have you heard this? It now has received the status of Little Dwarf, which is at least redundant if not an oxymoron. Pluto is not a planet? What’s next? Republicans don’t like poor people?? And Democrats have turned their backs on taxes? Old Mother Hubbard was really abducting children? And Mother Goose was really her stage name for working in a strip club by the airport? 

Who really has so much time that they can sit around finding ways to downgrade planets? I’m not comfortable with eight planets. I want nine. So I think I will declare myself to be a planet unto myself—if I can just get someone to orbit me.

I’m on my way to Virginia Beach , Virginia (also a bit redundant) and it is a beautiful sunshiny day. Russ and Tracy have been having a fabulous time filming Bernee, which is a comedy by design. I make that distinction because there are theatrical pieces and movie projects that I have been a part of and also viewed that were accidental comedies. But this one was planned to be laden with mockery and mirth. 

We want to thank the fine folks of Lynnville who wrote to us expressing their kind words of support for Lenders Morgan and a few disparaging thoughts for public officials with moralistic agendas. We also would like to thank those who have ordered Lenders Morgan on the website and hope you will enjoy an adult tale of what happens when repression becomes the social byproduct of a town afraid to move forward. 

It is exciting to put together such a diverse collection of movie projects. I know we are taught to try and find our niche but I never really believed in that. Niche, to me, always felt like a grave—just waiting for the dirt to cover up your face. I like to play around with things. I like to express ideas. 

And I like to be wrong. Because when I’m wrong, I learn a helluva lot more than when I posture myself in the catbird seat of Mr. Right Holy Joe. 

Being wrong is how I finally came up with my fourteenth attempt of the perfect recipe for my now-famous scalloped chicken. People who don’t like to be wrong scare me because they spend all of their damned time trying to prove that they’re right. Or maybe it’s that “right” and “wrong” scare me because I don’t know whether people who wear skin are able to determine such lofty matters. 

There’s an old-time word I really like which is rarely used: “edifying.” I think some things edify some people and not others. I just don’t want the majority deciding that. To me the word “edify” means anything that comes along and makes me feel, so that I think more about being a better human instead of stomping around about how good I already am.

Russ turned off the freezer at the Blue Goose Café and all their milk spoiled. They were nice enough to let us continue to shoot there after we agreed to help fund the owner’s building of a deck onto the back of his already overstated mansion. 

Always remember: people are naturally good. They’re just like Hershey kisses. You have to really peel off a lot of shit to get to the chocolate.

I will be gone for about five days. We will be thinking about you as Russ and Tracy tie up the filming of their second feature, Bernee. 

Can you believe it? We actually will be done shooting a second movie. You don’t know how hard it is to do a second movie. It’s kind of like Michelangelo being commissioned to duplicate his drawings from the Sistine Chapel down at Bob’s Bar and Burgerama. I mean, can you really do it again? And is this the right place to do it? We shall see.

If life was easy no one would ever get stuck playing with the pig icon in the Monopoly game. You know what I mean? Well, I’m gone for now. 

J