I Was Bob Dole's Wingman - In Memory of Bob Dole

 "Senator Robert Joseph Dole died early this morning in his sleep. At his death, at age 98, he had served the United States of America faithfully for 79 years," according to a statement from his family.

I hated Bob Dole. I loved Bob Dole. A staunch conservative, he defended the criminal Nixon till the end. He fought for the people of Kansas, including the farmers and the hungry, as a good liberal should. He was uncompromising, and he knew when to compromise. None of these are contradictions. Bob Dole was a great American.

I had the honor of meeting Senator Dole in about 1997 or '98, not too long after his final run for president in '96. I was in Washington, DC, at a conference for nonprofit folks working on issues of hunger and food insecurity. After the first long day of sessions, there was an evening reception and into the midst of it all walked a familiar face, as casually as anybody else in attendance.

Others came up to greet him and awkwardly tried to reach out with their right hands for a proper handshake and failed to understand when he responded with this left (good) hand. When it was my turn, I somehow had the presence of mind to reach out with my left. I think he appreciated that, because I was swept along with him into the next conversation.

Bob and I were then in a group of several of college interns, mostly female, who were working the conference. Rather than talk about food policy, Bob wanted to know what universities everybody attended, and how were their football teams doing. I guess I was still fresh enough out of college (grad school, at least) to participate and chat with the young women and my new best bud, Bob. If neither of us were married, we might have gotten lucky.

Before too long, however, Bob went home to his wife, Elizabeth, and I went up to my room (alone) to call my wife, Leslie, and tell her who I'd been hanging out with.

There was a time in America, not all that long ago it seems, when political opponents weren't seen as the enemy. We could disagree, grumble, and fight, and still find common ground to stand on. There was a time when somebody with a different position than ours could still earn our respect for standing up for what they believed was right. Not every difference was considered proof of evil intent, and it rarely was.

Senator Bob Dole died early this morning. May his memory be for a blessing.

In Memory of J.D. Chandler

My good old friend, John, known professionally as J.D. Chandler, passed yesterday, while in the hospital following his fifth heart attack.

We met in Jr. High School, 1975. John and Crazy Tom were budding film-makers, and they asked Dave and I, future rock stars, to create a soundtrack for their upcoming epic of the Spanish Civil War, The Unknown Soldier. It would take me several more years to catch the Hemingway reference there.

John and Tom would come by my house where Dave and I would set up in the garage and play our latest addition to the soundtrack. We'd ask how the script was coming, and if there were any pages we could see so we'd know what kind of a groove we were looking for. "Any day now," was always the answer. "Any day now."

At one of these garage sessions, my brother Miles stopped in to listen. After everybody had gone home, Miles asked who that older kid with the full beard was, somebody's older brother? No, just our friend John, fourteen like the rest of us.

After Dave moved out of town I joined with John and Tom in the film making and we created Ogilvy Cinema Productions. A Quiet Place to Live was the first major production under John's direction, and filming commenced in a room at the Vagabond Hotel rented for the project. The star was Shelly, who would be the star of nearly all of Ogilvy's productions, and my on-and-off sometime girlfriend through much of High School. But we met in a room at the Vagabond on Ventura Boulevard.

Other Ogilvy films directed by John in that period included Dismembered - a ripped from the headlines story of a jilted wife who dismembers her wayward husband, stuffs him into a trash bag or two, and takes him for a cross-country road trip - and Today is Friday - from Ernest Hemingway's one act play of the crucifixion (I played 1st Roman Soldier). 

Our final major Ogilvy effort, co-directed by John, Tom, and I, was Road Time - a documentary about the Small World Band, a San Diego group ready to burst out of the local scene and hit the big time (and, coincidentally, my brother, Steve's band). Our vision was to make a film that would book-end nicely with Martin Scorsese's Last Waltz, about the Band giving up the road and going their separate ways.

For John's eighteenth birthday we arranged to see eighteen films. We started with some early matinees of current releases, cheated a bit with a mid-day showing of that year's Oscar Nominated Shorts at the Nuart just to boost our numbers, and finished with the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Tiffany on Sunset. It was a fairly typical Saturday for us in those days.

Not to even begin to talk about all the concerts: The Kinks, Warren Zevon, The Kinks, Arlo Guthrie, The Kinks, Tim Curry, The Kinks, Flo and Eddie, The Kinks...

Then, just like that, our teenage years were over, some were off to college, others to work, John entered the Army, and Tom was in protective state custody. 

Not that the good times ended, they just slowed down a bit.

There was the time that we were all gathered at Bill's place just outside the Cal Poly SLO campus for a bout of heavy drinking, but were disturbed by the noise of traffic outside with horns blaring and people screaming. John, always one to take control of a situation, went out and, though he was barely able to stand, somehow got on top of a mail box or a trash can and began directing traffic and cleared up the situation in no time.

There's the story of the Morro Four (John, Dave, Bill, and I) and our arrest and trial for endangering the Peregrine Falcons nesting on Morro Rock while on our way to visit Tom (in protective state custody).

There was the time that John was stationed at DLI (Defense Language Institute) but on leave down in L.A. At the end of the visit he said it was time for me to drop him at the Greyhound bus station. I refused. He said it was either that or take him to DLI. I weighed the options: 20 minutes to North Hollywood or seven hours to Monterey? The answer was clear: one never turns down the opportunity for a road trip. We kidnapped Dave and Bill from their respective dorms along the way.

Visits back and forth slowed down as life and all the complications it brings came upon us, but we were never out of touch for very long.

The Morro Four held a reunion many years later in Reno, with a horseback ride along the Truckee River and visits to Virginia City (where you can see Mark Twain's commode) and some of the locations from The Misfits.

In 2010, John and I made a trip together to Hawaii to visit Pearl Harbor on December 7 (and go back on the 8th), crash every beach-side hotel bar in Honolulu, and still get up for the free Ukulele lessons each morning.

My wife, Leslie, and I visited John in Portland probably three or four times in the last decade and enjoyed his walking tours of Portland's most notorious murders, burials, and hauntings (view my videos of John's Portland tours here...).

John had succeeded as a writer, finding his niche in the lesser known - some might say seedy - history of the Portland area, publishing several books on the subject. Like me, he also continued the film bug with occasional short videos to YouTube, and he did a bit with Podcasts and blogging as well. He'd just recently picked up a guitar and was finally starting to learn that as well. I was looking forward to jamming with him on my next trip up.

And then, earlier this week, he posted to Facebook that he was in the hospital following his fifth heart attack. Last night his sister-in-law posted that he had passed that morning.

Of course, it had to be in a week when I was re-reading the short stories of Ernest Hemingway, and right in the middle of The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

Farewell J.D. Chandler. He loved my Nana's knishes. May your memory be for a blessing.

Memorial Day 2020

Here we are, once again, at our annual day of memory for America's fallen soldiers, the men and women who never made it home, having given the last full measure of devotion for our country.

Memorial Day honors the dead, but its placement in mid-spring, and as a symbolic signal of the coming summer, is also about life. Most any veteran will tell you that we remember those who passed to be grateful for what they have given us: for the freedom to live our lives as we see fit.

Which brings us to 2020, and the uncertainty and despair that so many are feeling now, as our country, and the world, are in the grips of the Coronavirus pandemic.

What has a pandemic to do with a war memorial? It was the President himself who called the fight against Coronavirus "Our big war" back in March. And now, the American death toll from that war is likely to pass 100,000 by the end of this sacred day.

So, this Memorial Day, these 100,000, who perished due to COVID-19, are the "soldiers" I want to honor, and keep in my heart and mind.

Like the dead from any war, we can -- and will -- argue now and into the future whether they died for a noble cause or were the victims of the hubris and folly of inept leadership. But not for today.

For today, I ask that we just remember these 100,000, remain hopeful for the coming summer, and pray that we don't soon lose 100,000 more.

Ray Thomas is Dead. No, He's Outside, Looking In

In October of 1972, at the age of eleven, my brothers and I rode the MTA to Boston Garden for what would be my first real rock concert; The Moody Blues. (If memory serves, we did not ride the MTA home, but our father picked us up at an appointed time and place.)

Our seats (courtesy of Dad, who worked for the Moody's distributor, London Records), were third row, slightly to the left of center, right in front of flautist/singer, Ray Thomas. At one point, while introducing a song, Ray paused, asking "What album was this on?" I shouted the answer up at him (probably the catalog number too). Ray looked down, surprised that the answer came from probably the youngest person in the crowd, then realized I was right, and finished up the intro.

Over the years I saw the classic Moody's perform several times in Boston, then again in the come-back tours in Los Angeles (and, most recently, Justin Hayward solo in Napa).

While I don't necessarily still listen to their music as often as other favorites from over the years, all of their albums continue to hold memories and meaning. Justin's songwriting won me over as a devoted fan forever, but it was Ray's songs, like Dear Diary and Legend of a Mind, that first pulled me in as a child.

And today, at the age of 76, Ray Thomas has died, "suddenly at his home in Surrey, England. No cause of death was announced."

Ray Thomas is dead
No, no, no, no
He's outside
Looking in

The Moody Blues, on tour, 1970

Damn the Torpedoes

Sometimes I get discouraged,
Sometimes I feel so down,
Sometimes I get so worried,
And I don't know what about.
But it works out in the long run,
It always goes away,
I've come now to accept it
As a reoccurring phase.
Why worry 'bout the rain?
Why worry 'bout the thunder?
Century City's got everything covered.

I remember, sometime in late 1976, hearing Breakdown for the first time on the radio and thinking there was something there that set this new kid apart from everything else we'd been hearing. There was the validation of the viewpoint when Roger McGuinn covered American Girl on his Thunderbyrd LP.

By the end of 1979, I had just graduated High School, and I recall being in line at Tower Records, Sunset Blvd, to pick up "Damn the Torpedoes" on the day it was released. I'd already heard much of it on the radio - Refugee for sure, maybe Here Comes My Girl or Even the Losers - but nothing that could have prepared me for Louisiana Rain.

Today that rain is falling just like tears, running down my face, washing out the years, soaking through my shoes. I will never be the same since that album played through. It may only be 36 minutes and 38 seconds, but it opened up the possibilities of what a rock and roll record could be. Now it's just the normal noises in here.

I can't say I remember which was the first time I saw Tom Petty and Heartbreakers play live, but there were many shows, from Hollywood's Universal Amphitheater to Sacramento's Arco Arena.

One of my best concerts ever: Bob Dylan, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers all together (1985?). Three hours of nonstop music. Tom & the band - Tom, Bob, & the band - Tom & Bob acoustic - Bob and the band - just the Heartbreakers - everybody all together.

My other favorite show was maybe the last time I saw Tom Petty. It was the Mudcrutch reunion tour a few years ago, and they played the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium. It was great to see Tom having fun with his old buddies, back in a smaller venue outside of the areneas, not needing to be the lead man on every song.

We missed the final tour this past few months. Tickets were already sold out at 10:01 am, one minute after going on sale. He'd announced it would be the last "Big Tour" and that was fine with me. I hoped it would lead to more Mudcrutch type shows: intimate affairs with the long-time fans, where we'd all rock together. I didn't imagine that could really be the final tour.

Tom Petty was taken from us last night way too early, following an afternoon of rumors and premature headlines.

Today my thoughts are with his kids, and young grand-kids, and with the guys in the band. Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench have been the rock Tom rolled against from the start, and they form the basis of the most under-rated back-up band ever. Mike, Benmont, and the rest are all incredible musicians in their own right, and I hope I have not seen or heard the last from them.

How about a cheer for all those bad girls
And the boys who play that rock and roll
They love it, like you love Jesus
It does the same thing to their souls

Irwin B. Goldstein, 1929-2012, R.I.P.

Last Friday night, at about 1:15 AM, my father, Irwin, suffered a major heart attack. My brother, Miles, had arrived for a visit with his wife and young daughter just a few hours earlier and was able to perform CPR till the paramedics came.

They were able to revive him and transport him to the hospital, but he was in a coma from that point on. 

Leslie and I were called at around 2:40 AM, washed up, threw a bag of clothes together, and drove all night, arriving at the hospital before 9 AM Saturday morning.

Once all the family was gathered at his bedside and had said our final goodbyes, ventilation and all support, other than a morphine drip for comfort, were removed at approximately 11:30 AM.

 

We were told that death would not come immediately. Maybe it would be a few minutes, maybe a few hours. As he hung on, that became "twelve hours, tops." Then, "by early Sunday morning." Despite all odds and expectations he held on another twenty-eight hours with family by his side. 

 

At 3:12 PM on Sunday, December 9, 2012, our father opened his eyes one last time and died looking into the eyes of our mother, his beloved Judi.

 

(What follows is a rough transcript of what I said Tuesday, in eulogy, at my father's funeral:)

 

In trying to decide what story to share with you all today, I wanted to share something that wasn't just personal, but a story that really explains who my father was; something to demonstrate his character. And what came to mind wasn't an early childhood memory, but something from just a couple of months ago.

 

As I'm sure you all know, Dad had been suffering from Alzheimer's for several years. Alzheimer's is heartless and relentless and was slowly taking him away from us.

 

It took away memories and details. It took away being able to have in-depth conversations and ask for advice. But it never took away the essence of who he was.

 

He was still overwhelmingly positive, happy, and loving life and his family. He was always pleased to see people he recognized and give a warm hello.

 

So the story:

 

The last time we went out to dinner was to a local place where my parents know the chef/owner and the chef's mother, Barbara, who is the hostess.

 

About a hundred times during the meal, Barbara would walk by our table to seat another group, and each time she'd pass, Dad would smile at her and say, "Hi! How are you doing?" to her like greeting a long lost friend. It was repetitive; but it was sincere. And she responded kindly each time because she knew he was sincere.

 

Some who only saw him at work might just say he was a good shmoozer, but he genuinely loved people, and everybody he met loved him.

 

At home he was still concerned for everybody else's comfort and happiness above his own, and making sure he was taking care of his family and any guests. "Can I get you something?" "Are you okay?" "Do you need anything?" ... Over and over again.

 

It's true, he wasn't the same as he was before Alzheimer's. But he was still Irwin. We may have already spent a couple of years mourning the decline, mourning the inevitable, and missing the details, but HE was still very much there, himself, with us, and taking care of us, till the very last.

 

... Okay... One personal childhood memory... One I don't even think my brothers know. A secret story...

 

Most of you know that Dad loved to play golf, and if you knew him long enough, that he played hockey as a kid. But we were not huge sports fans in our family. Still, when I was growing up, one of my favorite tv shows was ABCs Wide World of Sports.

 

I enjoyed Jim McCay, but more important was the ritual of how we watched it. Dad would lie down on the couch and I would lie down beside him, with his arm around me, enjoying the comforting aromas of Old Spice and Budweiser.

 

I have no idea where the rest of the family was on Saturday afternoons, but for me, "The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat" meant I would have ninety minutes alone with my Daddy.

 

Goodbye, Daddy. I love you.