Feline or Foe?

I’m going to make a confession despite the ensuing calls that are sure to come from my daughters, my sister and my vet if they happen to read this blog.  Okay?  Here goes.  I would be happier if my two cats – the orange tabbies Fred and George Weasley Heinz – would suddenly…um…not be alive. 

There.  I said it. 

Now don’t get your undies in a bunch.  I promise not to go all “Apt Pupil” on them and commit felinicide.  (Haven’t read the Stephen King novella?  You should.)   I’m not insane.  But yes, the cats do, from time to time, drive me insane. 

“Oh, come on,” you might say.  “What on Earth could two cute little cuddly cats do to upset you so?”

Well, I’ll make a list of the things my two cats have ruined since they joined the family nine years ago, right after my sister’s dog paid a visit to my home and played with our two hamsters until they were dead, hence clearing the Heinz household slate as far as pets were concerned.   We had an opportunity to replenish our deceased pets with something grander.  A dog?  One would think, but no.  We heard about someone getting rid of two flea-ridden kittens (the adjective unknown to us until we got them home), so we took the bait, and here we are nine years and many ruined household items later.  Allow me to share the items my cats have destroyed either by tearing them apart with their teeth, knocking them over onto the floor, or via urination:

A futon mattress.

A futon cover.

A shower curtain.

Three bean bag chairs.

Dozens of stuffed animals.

Four pillows.

A rug.

Two antique vases that had survived for eight decades, only to last two nights in my home.

Two plants.

Countless cut flowers, to the point where we don’t buy flowers anymore, and if someone gets us some as a present, we store them on TOP OF THE REFRIGERATOR!

Several scarves.

Several gloves.

Several hats.

Several blankets.

Several sweaters.

Several Crocks.

A few pairs of flip-flops.

Still think I haven’t earned the right to be mildly disenchanted with my feline friends?

“Oh, but the joy they bring,” you say.

Yes, the vomit I’ve had to clean up on an almost weekly basis.  The litter boxes they’ve failed to hit with their apparently malfunctioning weaponry.  The rug I had to spray from edge to edge while using an ultraviolet light to illuminate virtually one big mass of cat urine.  The $1200 I spent bringing George back from the brink of death after he swallowed a toy.

Joyful indeed. 

We now have to keep our bedroom doors shut at all times because doing otherwise will invite the Weasley twins to tear apart clothing and any other moderately fuzzy artifact lying about in our house.  But here’s the thing:  on hot days when the air conditioner is running we have to keep our doors open, so lo and behold there were days this summer I spent vacuuming up the little plastic beads spilled from the torso’s of stuffed bears, lambs, and other assorted Beanie Babies.  And since our doors were open, the cats felt obliged to wake us up at 6AM for their morning breakfast, be it a work day or otherwise.

(I know what some of you are saying: “Paul, you don’t work anyhow, so who gives a shit?”  I DO work.  I work cleaning up after my two demon cats!)

We must be among the first generations of mankind to put up with this kind of nonsense.  Would an average Joe living in 1850 put up with this crap?  Of course not.  He’d kick the damn thing out of the house and maybe even drown it for good measure.  Hell, I know a person who shall not be named who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip,” and only one living organism returned.  The wife is much happier now as a widow.  (I’m only kidding, but not entirely.)

“@@ I know a someone who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip.” The wife is much happier now as a widow@@”

I will not resort murder, though a blurb in TIME Magazine last week certainly put me on edge.  Seems a cat in Oregon named Corduroy has claimed the title as the oldest living cat.  Get this: TWENTY-SIX YEARS!  And that’s NOTHING!  The oldest cat ever on record is Crème Puff, who lived to be over 38 years old!

So Fred and George, I promise to keep feeding you and keep cleaning out your litter boxes.  I promise to play with you and talk to you.  I promise to let you hang on me when I’m watching TV.  I promise to continue to spend a small fortune on your checkups with the vet.

But do you think you could promise to bow out gracefully after, say, another nine years or so?  That seems like a fair deal, don’t you think?

Squire's Death and Concert Memories

I was shocked upon hearing the news earlier this week of Yes bassist Chris Squire’s death at age 67.  I didn’t worship or even revere Squire – the last time I saw him perform, my main impression of him was that he could lose about fifty pounds and definitely lose the leather pants – but he was one of those guys back in the early 80s that inspired me and my love for music.  And as I read the details of his passing, it occurred to me that this is only the beginning.  If you’re a music fan of the old bands from the 60s and 70s, the next couple of decades are going to be rough.

I went through a mental list of all the performances I’ve seen since I saw Billy Squire at Summerfest in 1981 with my buddy John, followed by Crosby, Stills and Nash and Rush the following year.  The truth is that except for a few supporting members like Clarence Clemens and Danny Federici of the E Street Band, Howie Epstein of the Heartbreakers and two of the Wilson brothers of Beach Boys fame, the guys I’ve watched perform are still around and still performing, which is something I never fathomed.  When I saw Yes for the first time in 1984 I recall thinking that a whole fifteen years had passed since the band originated and that I was lucky to be seeing them before they call it a day.  Well, now more than double that period of time has passed, and lo and behold, Yes will be performing this August in Chicago.  Crazy.  I mean, who would have thought back in 1982 that in 2015 you could see The Who, Rush, Yes, Paul McCartney, Elton John, and CSN? Insane.

But here we are in 2015, and Squire’s passing has prompted me to try to recall all the concerts I’ve seen over the years.  Unlike some of my prolific concert-seeing buddies, I’ve never been a huge live music guy.  I see a few big concerts a year, maybe a small one every couple of years, and that’s about it.  And with me, I tend to see the same bands over and over (Rush, Rufus Wainwright, Bed Folds).  I’m happy to say that most of these guys are still around (I just remembered seeing Big Country in 1993, and sadly, Stuart Adamson is no longer with us).  It’ll be very sad to see more of these guys go, as more and more of my record collection turns into a sort of memorial to artists of yesterday.

Here’s my list.  Not included are the 12 or 13 times I saw Pat McCurdy, and many of the bands listed were opening acts or part of a larger event (Steve Miller in 1994, for example).

’80 – Off Broadway (from the back!  I didn’t realize kids got discounted tickets for lower grand stand seats).

’81 – Billy Squire

’82 – CSN, Rush

’83 – Beach Boys, Supertramp, Genesis

’84 – Yes, Bruce Springsteen, Spyro Gyra, Rod Stewart, Elton John

’85 – Jean Luc Ponty, The Tubes and Utopia, Til Tuesday and Tom Petty, Patrick Moraz and Bill Bruford, Supertramp

’86 – Leo Kottke, Marillion and Rush, GTR, Julian Lennon, The Moody Blues

’87 – Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon, Tom Petty

’88 – Sting, Bruce Hornsby

’89 – Elvis Costello, BoDeans, Violent Femmes and Cowboy Junkies and Edie Brickell, Joe Jackson

’90 – Innocence Mission, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffet, Rush

’91 – Blake Babies (I think this year?), Elvis Costello, Al Stewart, The Guffs, Innocence Mission, Rush

’92 – Genesis, John Mellencamp, Indigo Girls, Randy Newman, Wallflowers and 10,000 Maniacs

’93 – Michelle Shocked, Da Da and Sting, Big Country, The Connells

’94 – Rush, Melissa Etheridge and Steve Miller and Natalie Merchant, The Pretenders

’95 – Van Morrison, They Might Be Giants, Elvis Costello

’96 – Wynton Marsalis, James Taylor

’97 – Bar Scott (I think this year?).  Generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

‘98 – Lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

‘99 – Bruce Springsteen, but generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

’00 – Joe Jackson, but generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

’01 – Eve 6, Joe Jackson, Paul Simon, Yes, Ben Folds

’02 – Harry Connick, Jr., Rush, Paul McCartney, Yes, Ben Folds

’03 – Joe Jackson, Leo Kottke, Tom Petty, The BoDeans, Steve Earle, Jackson Browne, Randy Newman

’04 – Yes, Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds, Patti Austin, Harry Connick, Jr., Barenaked Ladies, Marc Cohn

’05 – Paul McCartney, James Taylor, Indigo Girls

’06 – um…what the heck was I doing?

’07 – Rufus Wainwright, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers

’08 – Randy Newman, Yes

’09 – Steely Dan

’10 – Company of Thieves, Craig Ferguson, Rufus Wainwright

’11 – Yes, Weird Al Yankovic, Rufus Wainwright, Paul Simon, Sting

’12 – The Hush Sound, James Taylor, Rufus Wainwright, Bruce Springsteen, Rush, Joe Jackson, Ben Folds Five

’13 – Sara Bareilles, Rush, Barenaked Ladies, Ben Folds Five, Paul McCartney, A Silent Film

’14 – Roger Hodgson, Devo and Arcade Fire, Jackson Browne, James Taylor

’15 – The Who, Rufus Wainwright, Graham Parker, Rush

The Dreaded Bucket List

Many of us have become adept at selling an image of ourselves – our brand, if you will – especially since the advent of social media.  We want to show the world that our lives are exciting, our kids are brilliant and that we’re well on our way to checking all the boxes on our bucket lists.  When I jumped out of an airplane in 1988, I took pictures, but I had nowhere to post them.  Today, if I were to jump out of an airplane, every person I’ve been in touch with in the last decade would know about my feat within seconds, and they might even get the false impression that I’m daring and interesting.

(This reminds me of my favorite line from the 1987 movie, Broadcast News.  When William Hurt’s character asks, “What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?”  Albert Brooks answers, “Keep it to yourself.”)

The problem is that we’re constantly exposed to other people’s accomplishments, and I find myself reading other people’s posts and thinking I don’t measure up.  What’s particularly bothersome to me are the dreaded Bucket Lists whose entries make me question whether the happy life I’m leading is all a fraud.  I resent the implication that I haven’t lived until I’ve (fill in the blank: scuba dived, bungee jumped, swam with whales, dolphins, sharks or any other large aquatic creature, gone on safari, traveled to anyplace that takes longer than a ten hour flight to get to, rock climbed, run a marathon or any other kind of “thon”, attended the Kentucky Derby, deep-sea fished, fished anywhere for anything, eaten liver or tongue…). 

Sure, my life is tame compared to some, but so what?  Well, social media keeps telling me what, and I start to get defensive.  I’ll even catch myself comparing my life to the lives of fictional characters while watching TV (“I don’t see Andy Taylor training for a marathon, and he seems pretty happy.”)

Yeah, it’s come to that. 

So, in the spirit of the old t-shirt that displays an unemotional face with the caption, “Have a day,” I'd like to share my bucket list that mostly involves not dying:

1)      Live at least another three and a half decades.

2)      Stay happily married until death do us part.

3)      Maintain a good relationship with my kids for the rest of my life.

4)      Regularly challenge myself in small ways.

There.  Throw in taking dance lessons someday and traveling to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and I think that just about covers it.   And lest you think my goals aren’t aiming high enough, I leave with a question: how many people live to be eighty-two, happily married, and still have good relationships with their kids?

How Good Do We Have to Be?

Several years ago a friend of mine said to me: “I don’t believe in heaven, but if there is one, I think I’m going.”  I loved how self-assured he was despite his obvious flaws, and wish I could go through life with as much confidence, not because I’m worried about an after-life, but because I want to believe that I’m doing “enough” for my fellow man (and environment) while still being able to enjoy my indulgences. 

For me, I’m constantly wrestling with the question: how good do I have to be?  I don’t mean “how good” of the self-help variety, a la Stuart Smalley’s daily affirmations on SNL as depicted by Al Franken.   I really mean, “Okay, so how good do I have to be so that I can spend time doing things I really want to do, and do them with a clear conscience?”  If this question seems rather seedy, I’ll conceded that point, but ask that you hear me out (and bear with me as I lean on religious teachings).

The very fact that I’m asking this question probably deflates some of the good I do.  In Judaism, there are eight levels of charitable giving according to Maimonides, and the worst is giving grudgingly.  So now, on the days when I dread going to a nearby homeless shelter because I’d rather stay at home and watch football, not only do I walk away feeling like I haven’t done enough, I feel like what I’ve done isn’t even worthy.  Say it with me: oy!

Monetarily, Judaism offers straightforward guidelines, as there’s both a minimum (10 percent of one’s net income) and a maximum:

One who wishes to donate (generously) should not give more than a fifth of his income, lest he himself come to be in need of charity. (-Babylonian Talmud, Ketubot 50a)

Of course, there’s really nothing easy about donating 10 percent of one’s income, so the maximum is probably irrelevant for most people, but one could just as easily apply this “upper limit” logic to volunteering and perhaps give credence to the idea that there’s a point at which someone’s done enough to help others.

Without delving into specifics, I volunteer and donate here and there, and sometimes I feel pathetically proud: “Well, wasn’t that nice of me?”  It feels good to mentally check the box “volunteer one’s time” so that I can enjoy the rest of my day (week? month?) without the nagging feeling that I’m not contributing enough to the care of others.  But of course, the reality is that I could always do more.  Much more.

So how much is enough?

Well, if the story of the Good Samaritan from the New Testament is any indication, probably a lot more than what I’m currently doing.  (I get a double dose of religion many weekends by attending synagogue on Friday and then hearing a Sunday morning sermon at the Presbyterian Church where I play piano.  This allows me to feel doubly inadequate.)  In this story, a lawyer asks Jesus what he needs to do to receive eternal life, and when Jesus asks the man what the law says, he answers in part, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  Jesus tells him, “You are right.  Do this and you will live.”  But then the lawyer asks, “Who is my neighbor?”

Ah ha!  Well, this gets more complicated.  I suggest you read Luke 10:25-37 for the whole story, but the short answer to the question is: everyone is your neighbor!

Oh goodness.  This is where the anxiety starts creeping in.  In this day and age of unlimited information about every ailment and calamity facing people all around the world, one could hardly blame a well-intentioned person from becoming so overwhelmed with charitable possibilities that he’s not even able to buy a coffee or a beer without sinking into a hole of self-hatred, like Steven Spielberg’s Oscar Schindler on steroids: “This coffee!  Instead of buying this coffee, I could have fed a family an entire meal!  Instead of watching this baseball game, I could have volunteered at a homeless shelter!”

So how good do we have to be?  Harold Kushner wrote a book with this exact question as its title, but he doesn’t really talk about what’s required of each of us when it comes to helping others.  He discusses familial relationships and acceptance for one’s failings.  That’s all well and good.  But the reality is that as I write this blog that maybe fifty people will read, I could be delivering food or mentoring a child.  I might already be doing those things, but shouldn’t I do more?  If yes, how much more?  Can I spend a day writing without thinking that I could have done something nobler with my time?  If yes, can I spend two days?  Three days?  Four?  Can and buy myself a $400 bass amp (as I did last week) without thinking that my money could have (should have?) gone to a nobler purpose?  How about a $1000 guitar?  A $2000 keyboard?  I already own two keyboards, you say?  So why would I need another?  Wow, have you got a lot to learn about musicians.

Look, for me, these are not easy questions, and there are no easy answers.  I suspect I’ll never be as content as my friend who believes he’s a shoo-in for the ultimate reward, and maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe by questioning what I’m doing I make better choices here and there that lead to the betterment of others. 

I sometimes play piano at funerals for people who – by the accounts of their loved ones – have done remarkable things:  formed foundations, served on every society known to man, volunteered for every cause, and I leave these funerals feeling partly depressed and partly inspired: depressed because I haven’t done enough and inspired because I see what people are capable of.

So maybe that’s the answer.  How good do we have to be?  Better than we are, but less than perfect.

A Lesson from St. Vincent and The Fisher King

** SPOILER ALERT *** If you haven’t seen these two movies, consider reading this essay after you do.

Watching Bill Murray’s film St. Vincent last week, I was reminded of another movie: The Fisher King, starring Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams.  Both the 1991 and 2014 releases are similar, not just because they’re manipulative and contrived, but because they could potentially lead one to view the more downtrodden among us differently.  How?  Well, that depends on how you look at things.  For some, the movies might invoke a spirited response similar to that of Christopher Tookey, who wrote of the Fisher King:

"The sagacity of the saga is diminished by screenwriter Richard LaGravenese's naively sentimental approach to homelessness and insanity.  Madness in this film can be cured just by knowing that someone cares about you, and homelessness is not a social problem, but a picturesque way that individuals have of coping with personal tragedy.”

Whereas Tookey feared people could stop viewing homelessness as a real problem, I remember walking away from The Fisher King with a more positive thought:  that its tale of a personal tragedy might lead people to view homeless in a more humane way, concluding that perhaps it wasn’t drug use, crime, or other poor choices that led their downfall, but rather a terrible event over which they had no control.

Never mind that generalizing a film’s depiction of a fictional character as a universal truth is unfair to a medium that’s primary purpose is to entertain.  After all, just because Robin Williams’s character suffered a horrendous tragedy doesn’t mean all homeless people have.  But it might be a positive step when we’re confronted with, say, a panhandler, to help use the movie as an example, and consider that this person asking for money may once have been living a full and rich life only to have a tragedy propel them downward (of course, you could argue that it shouldn’t matter one way or the other.  A person in need is a person in need, no matter what led to their circumstances).

St. Vincent walks a similar line to that of The Fisher King.  Its egregiously manipulative screenplay has the main character – who’s been a complete ass for most of the film – conveniently throw out the remnants of his nobler past just as a neighborhood kid watches through a window, thus casting the curmudgeon in a new light.  Like The Fisher King, this film seems to shout out, “Don’t judge a person too harshly – you don’t know what he’s been through.”

And as contrived as this message may be, this is exactly the default setting we should be employing in our lives.  When someone cuts us off on the highway, treats us inconsiderately at the cash register or demeans us at the doctor’s office, it’s easy for us to conclude that the person we’re dealing with is simply a low-life asshole who thinks of nothing but himself.  And you know what?  The easy conclusion may actually be right on the mark. 

But aren’t we much better served by assuming that the person who’s cut us off on the highway is in a terrible hurry because he just found out his spouse has cancer, or the inconsiderate cashier just discovered she can’t pay this month’s rent, or the demeaning physician just had to tell a patient that he’s dying.  Unlikely scenarios, perhaps, but possible, just like it’s possible the homeless person you encountered lost his wife in an unspeakably horrific way, and it’s possible that the cranky neighbor who everyone dislikes is a war veteran who’s been taking care of his wife with dementia for years.

It doesn’t hurt to assume the best in people, and it could even do a lot of good.  As Atticus Finch said, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”  It’s a difficult ideal to live up to, but it’s certainly one to aspire to, and movies like St. Vincent and The Fisher King are helpful – if a bit melodramatic – reminders if that ideal.