Jamie Beckett's Open Salon Blog

Davy Jones, Andrew Breitbart, and the Rest of Us

Fri, 2 Mar 2012 09:03:33 -0500

I suspect there were few news readers, or television viewers, who didn't experience a pang of real regret when the news broke that Davy Jones had died. With a career that spanned more than half a century, Jones was known to virtually every American and most Europeans of a certain age. He is ever-young in our imaginations, but oh so human in reality. His death comes as a small shock, and a significant wake up call. Sixty-six seems very young to boomers who are in the same age bracket and every bit as susceptible to the inevitable.

Andrew Brietbart was very nearly the polar opposite of Davy Jones. A citizen journalist on a mission, Brietbart was never considered to be cuddly, cute, or harmless. He was a man with an opinion and he wasn't the least bit afraid to walk into the lion's den to deliver his perspective, even if his take was entirely unappreciated by the audience gathered before him.

While both men died of heart related issues, Jones had to power to break the hearts or raise the spirits of his audience with a nothing more than a wink and a smile. Brietbart on the other hand was seen by a considerable number of his countrymen as not having a heart to begin with. And while I suspect nobody is cheering his death, millions who opposed his ideas feel no inner need to shed a tear at his passing either.

I've got a different perspective. Admittedly I never met either Davy Jones or Andrew Breitbart, however the media attention they garnered over the course of their lives allowed me to know both of them better than I most of the people I work with. They were open books, both of them. And they lived their lives right out in the open, embracing the attention that was showered on them. That's the story, as I see it. The conversation should not be about their deaths, it should be focused on their lives.

Davy Jones and Andrew Breitbart, lived their lives fully, openly, and with remarkable zest. The fact that they died is immaterial. You and I will die one day, too. But will we live as fully as these two did? For most of the unfortunate answer to that simple question is; probably not.

Now there is no need to get down in the dirt with the memory of either man. We don't have to battle over whether one was a truly talented enough singer to be taken seriously, or whether the other espoused views that were contrary to our own beliefs. Those arguments are subjective, largely pointless, and miss the message of their lives entirely. Davy and Andrew lived. They worked at something that mattered to them. They brought their best game every time they played. Sometimes they won, sometimes they lost, but they kept playing to the best of their ability – and they became champions in their own right as a result.

You don't have to own a single Davy Jones record, or have subscribed to Andrew Brietbarts political views to respect either man. They earned the lives they got, and they lived them bigger, louder, more colorfully, and with greater zeal than most of us get out of our best day.

Rather than bemoaning the passing of men most of us never knew personally, we would do well to adjust our own lives to emulate the level of Davy and Andrew we include in our own daily existence. Like them, we will expire one day, too. Unlike them, it's entirely likely that very few will notice when we're gone. Nor should they. Because it's what we do with our lives that defines us, not the age we've attained when our light finally blinks out.

Three Reasons E-Books Rock

Wed, 8 Jun 2011 10:06:08 -0400

Sunday was gorgeous here in central Florida. Not too hot, not too humid, it was just about right. To celebrate yet another in a long line of spectacularly wonderful days, I took the opportunity to meet a friend for lunch at our favorite local restaurant.

The restaurant is in a building that offers free WiFi. Even in the hinterlands of this sandbar to the south, free WiFi is becoming common. Just like our neighbors to the north, we're becoming an online society that can barely get through a chilled beverage without having to check a stock, read an e-mail, or look up the latest news about Anthony Weiner's dick.

It occurs to me that he should get his package its own representation. If Oprah's show was still on I'm sure it could score a guest shot. Maybe Letterman would let Weiner's wiener read a Top Ten List one night.

That's all beside the point. Forgive my transgression. I strayed from my point.

After parking my trusty motorcycle in my usual space, I sauntered in my best Floridian casual style to the doorway where air-conditioning lives. In the process, I noticed three people, a man and two women, were clustered together near a bench in the shade of the entryway. The women were older and standing. The man was younger, and seated on the bench. He held something in his hand that was clearly the topic of conversation.

It was only when I drew close that I realized these three were engaged in a vigorous discussion about books, technology, and the Kindle. The object in the man's hand was the latest and greatest version of that mighty e-reading device. He explained to the women, who were well into their 70s, that they could carry an entire library of books on this one, compact device.

They were interested.

He got up and stepped into the sunshine to show his audience that it was indeed possible to read even in direct sunlight. And he made significant points when he demonstrated how easily a reader could shop, select a title, and either purchase it, or grab a sample, right from the bench outside the restaurant.

He clearly wasn't a salesman, even though he was selling. He was just a consumer, a reader, who was truly impressed and enthused about his newest techno-toy.

Nothing sells like true enthusiasm.

The women were getting excited. They chattered like busy little birds. They asked questions. They poked at the Kindle and asked more questions. They were getting hooked.

As a writer who has two titles available for Kindle, and another in the pipeline, I found this chance encounter to be encouraging. I stumbled, entirely by accident, on three random people who were tremendously excited about, of all things, reading!

Technology has given us a new way to light the fire of imagination in kids and adults, alike.

The women I chanced upon were born in the 1940s, more or less. The man with the Kindle was roughly half their age, I would guess. Yet when I got home and began relating the events of the day to my wife, our youngest daughter announced from the safety of her bedroom down the hall, “I still want a Kindle for my birthday, you know.”

She's twelve years old, and she's suddenly placed herself on an even playing field with the adults I ran into – at least technologically, and as a reader.

There is hope for writers after all. For Kindle, Nook, and whatever else comes down the pike – reading is reading.

I'm feeling pretty good about that. Oh, and the three reasons that e-books rock; those would be the man with the Kindle, and the two women who were so taken with it.

My daughter is just a bonus point that I get to enjoy on so many different levels.

Keep reading, my OS friends. Keep reading!

Yvonne Griswold's Light Blinks Out

Sat, 28 May 2011 13:05:36 -0400

Last night, while most of us were sleeping, Yvonne Griswold's light blinked out. That momentous occurrence has shaken my family this morning. Although the event itself was entirely predictable, expected, and a very long time in coming.

Yvonne was born in 1908, before the Titanic took to the sea, before Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand's assassination launched the great war, and before electricity was common in the American home. Wyatt Earp and Mark Twain were still alive and kicking when Yvonne came into the world. Radio and movies were both true rarities during her early years. Yet she lived to see astronauts walk on the moon, Christiaan Barnard successfully transplant the first heart, and inexpensive intercontinental travel become a reality.

My wife's grandmother saw nearly the entire sweep of the 20^th Century roll by before her eyes. She noticed quite a lot of that activity, too. She had stories to tell, and she told them well.

She was in her 90s the last time she visited us. Gigi, as we called her (the nick-name stood for Great Grandma) was a world traveler. She'd been all over the U.S., traveled Europe, and even strayed as far as New Zealand on her jaunts about the planet. A side-trip from her home in Connecticut to ours in Florida was nothing but a hop, skip, and a jump for her.

We were sitting at the table after dinner one night when I asked if anyone wanted ice cream. There were the usual complaints from the adults gathered together about waistlines, cholesterol, sugar, and such – and then the question made it's way to Gigi. “Never say no to ice cream,” she said with a smirk.

The lesson was a good one. It was hard earned and well taken. Her point was simple - embrace the fleeting joys of life. When you're gathered with loved ones you rarely see, sharing time, and smiles, and memories – don't waste the opportunity by worrying about long-term issues that have little place in the moment. Have some ice cream. Share your life with your friends and family. Live.

Yvonne Griswold certainly did live. For 102 years she wrung the last bit of juice out of this life, before moving on to whatever comes next.

On the night after the ice cream incident I popped a DVD in the player that I'd found at WalMart. How this particular title got in their collection I'll never guess. But I sat the family down to watch Buster Keaton's “The General,” without much commentary.

My daughters were small then. No doubt they thought the movie was a bit odd, since the frame of the film was square, not rectangular as is the custom today – and it was black and white to boot. Even stranger was the fact that it is a silent movie. Not one word of dialogue is uttered throughout the entire feature.

Gigi had no questions, however. She sat upright on the edge of the couch, absolutely enthralled. It was obvious that she was in her tenth decade of life, stooped, wrinkled, and suffering all the maladies of age that come with putting so many miles on the frame of any machine, whether biological or mechanical. But her smile and the twinkle in her eye betrayed the subtle charms of the 18 year old girl she was when The General was a new release – as new and exciting as the cinema that was showing the film.

Gigi was in her element. Her tired old ears didn't miss a word, because there weren't any to miss. Her faded sight was still sharp enough to take in the images of Buster riding the rails, taking a beating, and rising up from mishap after mishap, as deadpan and able as ever.

She laughed out loud. Truly, deeply, and with real joy.

Yvonne Griswold died last night. I will miss her forever. But I will forever remember the simple lessons I learned from an old woman who loved my wife so much. Never say no to ice cream, and be sure to take the time to enjoy the wonders of your lifetime – even if you encounter them in the oddest places, many years after you thought they were long gone – forever.

Good night, Gigi. Good night, and God bless you.

The Fur-Lined Homeowner's Guide to Dogs

Thu, 19 May 2011 09:05:43 -0400

I believe it is time for somebody to write a book titled, The Fur-Lined Homeowner's Guide to Dogs. I won't be writing it. But my lack of productivity is not based on my lack of interest, or my lack of insight. It's because I'm vacuuming and I just can't stop.

Help me, please!

I have two dogs. Or I should say my family has two dogs. Both come from the pound. These are lovable, cuddly, cute little balls of fur that somebody else had the foresight to treat badly, then abandon. Their loss in our gain. Because I truly love our dogs and wouldn't want to spend a day without them. But they shed. In fact, they shed a lot.

Every corner of my house is a fur-lined mess.

Annie is twelve years old, more or less. She's blond, beautiful, terrified of thunderstorms, and enjoys sleeping and eating more than anything. If she's not doing one, she's doing the other.

Sally is the newcomer. She's no more than four years old, runs at full speed even if she's only going three feet away, and once got so exuberant that she ran headlong into the glass door leading to the back porch. Apparently she thought it was open. It wasn't.

My daughters named the dogs. They evidently prefer the pedestrian to the exotic. Annie and Sally. They're not exactly adventurous names. The dogs themselves are pretty ambitious, though.

When Annie was young she could clear the six foot fence in our back yard. She only did this when she was hunting squirrels, which she is thankfully too old and creaky to do which much success anymore. There was a time when she was a real threat to the squirrel population of central Florida, however. I believe the squirrels taunt her now – just because they know they can.

Sally isn't a killer. She's a thinker. She takes notice of squirrels and birds, and creatures that scurry through our yard. But she doesn't seem to have the slightest inclination to cause them harm. Except lizards. She's the scourge of the lizard community. She roots them out with wild abandon. In fact, she'll spend the bulk of her day on the back porch hunting lizards, if I let her.

I put up with a lot from these dogs. They both lay at my feet as I write this. But I'm not dumb enough to think they stand guard because they love me or wish to keep me company. Nope. They're waiting for me to drop a piece of cheese, or crumbs from a crispy piece of toast, or a Brussels sprout. They don't care. If it hits the ground, it's gone. Someone will ingest it. Someone named Annie, or Sally will lap it up way before the five second rule comes into play. Then again, I'm not sure the five second rule applies to dogs.

Uh, oh. I just realized I referred to the dogs as, “someone.” That makes them practically human. I've inadvertently elevated them to a status that is equal to that of my daughters and my wife – and myself.

I can live with that. I can live with the dogs too. And the fur they leave all over the house. Because they've wheedled their way into my heart, and it has been decades since I woke up to a house that wasn't filled with the sound of dogs scampering around in blind excitement. “He's awake, he's awake – stick with him – he might drop some food again!”

I'm pretty sure that's what they're thinking. But they're so sly and beguiling, I just can't tell for sure.

Can anybody recommend a really good vacuum cleaner? There's fur on my keyboard.

A Mortified Teenager Comes Clean, 35 Years Later

Mon, 16 May 2011 11:05:28 -0400

I loved my grandfather like I have never loved any other member of my family. Granddad taught me to swim, to ride a bike, to drive a car, and pilot a boat. I spent at least a month with him every summer, and looked forward to holiday visits as if Granddad was Santa himself.

He didn't give many presents. In fact, Granddad was tight with a dollar. So tight in fact that when I once asked him to buy me a bicycle seat in August, that request opened the door for him to teach me an important lesson. He made it clear that he'd buy me the seat, no questions asked. But when my birthday rolled around I would have to recognize that I'd gotten my present months before.

I agreed, he bought the seat, and I found out just how literally he meant what he said on my next birthday.

Born in central Florida in 1898, Granddad was a racist. I'm not proud of that fact, but there it is. He truly believed that non-whites were somehow lesser beings than whites were. That one point of contention is the only aspect of our relationship that caused friction during our time together on this planet.

True story:

As a seventeen year old kid with long hair, a laissez faire attitude about life, and not much else – I was granted the plum assignment of picking up Granddad from the airport. He still lived in Florida as a retired gentleman of leisure, but he visited Boston each Fall to see an ophthalmologist due to the fact that he was blind in one eye, and had a cataract that limited his vision in the remaining one.

For the first time, I was picking up Granddad on my own, without adult supervision or caretakers. I felt like the king of the world as I rolled into the parking lot at Bradley International, in Windsor Locks, Connecticut. I sauntered inside with confidence, found the right gate, and settled in to wait for his flight to arrive.

This was before metal detectors, TSA guards, security checkpoints, or anything else that would identify the modern airport as a high intensity screening facility. In the late 1970s you could walk right onto the airplane with your departing loved ones and chat for a while before the flight. The airport was a fun, light, enjoyable place. It was practically fun to spend time there.

Granddad's flight arrived from Atlanta on time, and I met him with a big smile as he stepped off the jetway. We began walking at the pace an old man walks, headed toward the baggage carousel. We were about half-way there when I realized that the man walking behind us was Bill Cosby, the comedian.

Cosby was about as famous as famous could be. And although he was known to be funny, engaging, and smart as a whip, the man looked tired, haggard, and in no mood to hear from a pimply-faced teenage fan.

The fact that he had just recently experienced the inauspicious ending of a television series probably wasn't helping his mood at all.

Granddad and I continued on to the baggage claim, where we lined up facing the conveyor belt in anticipation of the luggage that would begin spewing forth momentarily. We talked about the weather, the flight, my grades in school – all the usual things. And then Granddad noticed the tall black man standing next to him.

Granddad turned so that his good eye could take in his neighbor more fully. He looked the man up and down, then turned back to me. He leaned over and in the sort of booming voice that the nearly deaf think of as a whisper, but the rest of us think of as a well projected voice, he said, “Son, isn't that that nigger boy who just got his television show cancelled?”

I stood there looking at the baggage carousel as if it was the most fascinating object in all the world. Slowly I turned my head. Bill Cosby stood silently, studying the carousel just as I'd been doing, studiously providing no indication that he'd heard the insult at all. I knew better. There was no way he could have missed it, standing no more than a foot away from the man who had just demeaned him in public.

I stammered, I paused, I thought as fast as I could think – but I couldn't imagine any response that wouldn't make the situation worse. “Yes sir, I think it is,” I finally replied.

I loved my Granddad, and I still do – flaws and all. But I have always wished that one day I would bump into Bill Cosby again, just for a moment, so I could stand before him as an adult, with more confidence, and a better understanding of what that moment in time might have meant – so that I could say what I should have said then. “I'm sincerely sorry, Mr. Cosby. You didn't deserve that. Nobody does.”

Cosby walked to his car in silence, threw his bags in the trunk, and left. He may have forgotten that slight fairly quickly. Certainly it was neither the first, nor the last time he suffered public insult. But it was a first for me. And I have remembered it vividly ever since.

The irony is that I learned to keep an open mind from a man who didn't have one. And I learned that unconditional love is not an easy condition to live with. I also learned an important lesson from Mr. Cosby. Pick your battles. Even if you're in the right, that doesn't mean it's time to throw down and go to war over even a completely unwarranted comment made by a racist old man.

Tomorrow is another day. Perhaps, I can do something to make it just a bit better. Because of that one, brief exchange, that is my mission in life. So I try. That's the best I can do. But I try, and I will keep on trying until I can't raise my head off the pillow anymore.

I hope you'll try, too.