Author Archives: Zachary Klein

NOW I’M 64

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If it weren’t for the Beatles, turning 64 wouldn’t be a significant event.  Well, I’m needed, feeded, and loved so I’m in the black.  But the song no longer has the ironic, rollicking feel as it used to.

Historically, I’ve felt happy on my birthdays, growing older and farther away from my childhood and adolescence made them a liberating experience.  When I hit 60 though, everything changed.  I scraped bottom with no idea why.  Eventually it dope-slapped me–a Woody Allen moment.  Woody, like most of us, believed that life basically revolves around sex and death. But for me at 60, death had subtly slipped into first place.  Not the fear of it, but the heightened importance of life.  Which has meant pulling my head out of my ass and, at least once a year taking a real hard look to assess what I see, where I’ve been, what I’ve done, haven’t done, what I still need to do.  I guess my birthday has become an atheist’s Yom Kippur.

And in truth, despite some tough road bumps this past year (the death of my father, my and Sue’s injuries), I’ve also had the wonderful experience of one son’s marriage and the other’s serious commitment to becoming an electrician, though my thoughts didn’t end there.

Relationships:

Been both a difficult and uplifting year.  Sue and my injuries affected our lives in significant ways for a long enough time, to make our home life strained and logistically problematic.  We tried to help each other as much as possible, but for both of us “help each other” wasn’t enough to get past our incapacities and the lousy moods that rode along with them.  This caused some tension since we were unable to get out of each other’s way.  We work at home and neither could drive until very recently.  To our gratitude and respect, Jake stepped up and relieved the tension though his acts and attitude.  In and of itself, this made the past year memorable. (Better that than shoulder pain, no?)   Another really important memory and lesson–in tough times, friends step up.  Forever in their debt.

Work:

Gratifying and frustrating.  Two false starts on a new website were pretty disappointing, but the people who created Sue’s new site (www.susangoodmanbooks.com) are super talented and I now look forward to getting mine finished.  And talking about the kindness of friends–one has helped me with areas of creating a business that I not only didn’t know and understand, but would have hated to do by myself.  I also appreciated the pinch hitters who came off the bench to post and keep my Mondays going after the operation when I could barely move, type, or think.

The other interesting work-related phenomena was proofing my three published books for eventual digital downloads and then skimming over Ties That Blind.  Since I hadn’t read any of them in more than a decade, it was a huge relief that all four books stood the test of time.  Despite enjoying the stories and writing, it was still a boring, mind numbing, ass-wiggling job proofing the same books at least three times.  (Each book needed to be proofed after their original scanning, then reproofed after being formatted for different platforms.)

Regrets:

This year, other than the constant physical pain and my lost time, not many.  But the older I become the more regular wistful shoulda’s, rear their birthday heads.

Shoulda learned a subject deeply enough to become expert in it.  For example, understanding movies to the depth that Pauline Kael did.  Of course, being able to publicly review them with brilliance would have been nice too.

Shoulda  been a wildlife photographer.  (The laughter you hear in the background is coming from everyone who knows me.  I’m the guy who breaks out in a cold sweat driving beyond Boston’s beltway and who refuses to stay at any place that doesn’t have cable.)

Also, this year it has hit me even more strongly that the cultural divisions in this country are Red, Blue (or, in my mind, just a very pale Blue), and those who are flat out alienated.  Worse, I don’t see a framework for any reconciliation.  Progressives look down at the Reds, Reds see us as the devil.  The alienated can’t figger out what politics does for them except fuck ’em.

But even politically, I see a candle burning.  The 98/99% movement is banging on one of the two fundamental issues of our time.  Class.  Maybe something’s gonna give.

And so another year has passed and I expect to make it through the next.  You all can look forward to a NOW I’M 65.  Meanwhile, I take heart in the stages of life described by a philosopher whose name I forget: 0-15 = Infancy,15-30 = Adolescence, 30-45 = Maturation, 45-60 = Empowerment, 60 + = Wisdom.

“The human potential which at its best always allows for:
(1) turning suffering into a human achievement and accomplishment;
(2) deriving from guilt the opportunity to change oneself for the better; and
(3) deriving from life’s transitoriness an incentive to take responsible action.”
Viktor Frankl

WALK A MILE IN HER SHOES

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THIS IS A GUEST POST BY HARRY K

When I started representing poor people accused of crimes, I wrote some of my experiences in emails to my mother.  Much of what happened back then would not happen now.  I couldn’t buy cigarettes for a client in the lock-up for example.  But much remains the same.  Like how little we have to offer people in need.  Here is one of the stories I told my mother.

A girl was charged with “common night-walking.”  I say “girl” for a reason.  She didn’t look much older than 14 despite her Florida “identification card” which listed her age as 17– an adult in the eyes of the law.  She had been arrested several times in the same area during a short span of time and, on this occasion, I was appointed her attorney.  I went to see her in the lockup.  The girl wore clothing suited to a warmer climate.  Her silver bra top and tight matching mini required repeated adjustments to cover what they could of her pale skin.  Her stunning clear plastic platform shoes brought her from the height of an average 12-year-old to a stratum reserved for fashion models.  She was lonely and crying, her stringy blond hair falling in her face, wet with tears.  She was mistrustful and reluctant to share her story with me, but her unmistakable accent helped me to get her talking about growing up in Texas. (I lived there for part of my life.)  She had little family to speak of and had come from Texas through Louisiana and Florida with a man she called “Poppy.”

When I later went looking for Poppy in the courtroom, I found him to be about 30, with a beeper, a cell phone and a pending criminal charge.  This was her “only friend in the world.”  I suspect he was the only person she knew in Massachusetts, other than perhaps, the motel desk clerk where they’d been “staying.”

I tried to imagine what it must be like for a teenager alone in a strange place, locked up, without much identification, no bank accounts, credit cards, and not even a sweater to throw over her shoulders.  The tears that fell on my hand as I reached through the bars to pat her arm were warm, and I can still remember how soft they felt.

She was brought into the courtroom before I was ready.  I had intended to get her covered up before she had to walk past the scrutiny of the judge, a prim woman whose contempt for those who sell their bodies was always evident.  Unfortunately, the court officers traipsed the girl in front of the counsel tables, the clerk and, of course, the judge while wearing only her silver ensemble and platforms.  The outfit even got the attention of a dozing septuagenarian lawyer because the girl’s demonstration of her wardrobe’s shortcomings – lifting up (the top) and pulling down (the skirt) – caused her handcuffs to jingle alarmingly.

The court’s business came to a halt and the regular thrum fell quiet. The jingling of handcuffs and leg shackles and her occasional wet sniffles were the only sounds.  The judge stared, her head slowly turning to follow the girl’s halting progress, her eyes strafing the girl’s body.  She looked like she had just swallowed a bad clam.  Mercifully, the girl was oblivious.

I hurried to meet her in the jury box.  She had goose bumps from the courtroom’s chill.  I removed my suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.  She thanked me, wiping snot from her nose with the back of her hand.

The judge did not want to release the girl.  She did not want the girl to be with Poppy.  She wanted me to schedule the case for one day, and then advance the case to get the girl in on a day when Poppy wouldn’t know she was there.  I argued for her release. Denied; previously posted bail now forfeited.  I got a short date, thinking that Poppy would likely learn of it by a collect phone call.  During the morning recess, the prosecutor asked me if I would be throwing that suit jacket away, or at least dry cleaning it.  Neither had occurred to me, and, while putting it back on, I saw his look of disgust.

Before her next court date, I made dozens of phone calls, looking for a place for the girl to go if released. She did not qualify for a battered woman’s shelter, she did not qualify for drug treatment, she was too young for some of the programs, and there were no beds in another.  I pleaded and a generous woman at a medical clinic in Somerville said she would deem my client in need of treatment and admit her, but it could only be for one night.  My client said she really just wanted to go back to Texas, so I started researching the cost of a bus ticket.

At the next court date, I argued for the release of the girl and the return of her bail money.  I pointed out that with the return of her bail, she would be able to buy a bus ticket and have enough left over for incidentals on the trip south.  The judge wanted to know if the girl had anything else to wear if she was released.  Why hadn’t I thought of that?  I requested a second call, asked my client her size, ran home and pulled out an old suit, a silk top and a pair of stretch pants.  I worried that my client wouldn’t accept what I selected, so I stopped at Marshall’s on the way back to court.  I bought her some underwear, another top, and a pair of flat heeled, soft Italian leather pink shoes. They were $8.00.  Back at the courthouse, I dressed my client in my pastel lemon-colored suit, white silk blouse and flats. As predicted, she decried the clothes as “not sexy enough.” But she was warm looking and presentable.

We resolved the girl’s case favorably with a return of her bail money, but the judge insisted I take her to the bus station.  She cautioned me to keep my eyes peeled for Poppy who might appear and do me “some harm.”

After cashing her bail check, we walked to the bus station together.  The girl kept insisting she was fine and I could leave her alone.  I told her I was following the judge’s orders. Then she insisted I return her clear platforms and silver ensemble.  I was disappointed – I was looking forward to trying on those shoes!  Outside the bus station, she merrily walked away from me in my old suit with a pocket full of cash and a plastic shopping bag of clothes.

I don’t know if I made a difference in her life.  I don’t even know if she got on a bus.  I remember hoping that someone else would do her a kindness and that she would be grateful for it.  What I do know is I really wanted those shoes.

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THE KINDNESS OF FRIENDS

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I’ve been living with my problem shoulder from last September when I tore one of my two remaining tendons in my rotator cuff.  It took me until March to get an unlikely operation—that is, my shoulder was so bad that only a handful of local surgeons would have operated.  Well, one of the really good ones did and, as my regular readers know, I’m in a 18-24 month recovery mode—with the clear information if I somehow screw this up, there’s no do-over.

So okay, I’m good about the exercises, PT, icing, and work hard not to get fucked up in order to be certain I won’t fall.  Protection, protection, protection.

I gotta say this has become a “teaching moment” for me.  I’m learning what I can and can’t do.  Some wasn’t all that bad.  Sleeping sitting up became tolerable, unable to drive was, at first, initially less of a hassle than I’d imagined.  But after a couple of months, both got really old.  Am happy to report that I now sleep in a bed and able to drive around the city.  And while the surgeon was extraordinary, my physical therapist was godsend.  I’d write an entire column about her but she’d be embarrassed so all I’ll say is that I owe my ongoing recovery to her.

But I’m not writing this to talk about what I can do but rather what I can’t.

I can’t play the sax.  I’m not speaking musically here but physically.  Although writing/editing/proofing has given me a sense of artistic pleasure, I miss the hell out of playing.  And while I take lessons in ear training (trying to learn to hear major or minor chords and notes) it just ain’t the same.

Although there are moments on my “music” night (Tuesday) that I find difficult when I listen to the ensemble in which I play, but I’d rather be there than home.  These are my friends.  My group.

Every year Music Maker Studios (http://www.musicmakerstudios.com/) has a recital.  I’m sure what jumps immediately to mind is individual kids struggling their way through their performance and, in truth, that is part of the concert.  But Bob, owner/teacher/friend is one of the few working musicians and teachers who welcomes adult and adult beginners.  Which means that different adult jazz groups are interspersed throughout the day, some of which play at local clubs in Boston.

I really didn’t think much about not being able to play with my ensemble and quintet other than some original relief about not spending the huge amount of time it takes for me to prepare.  And I do mean huge.  Plus, I was certain I wouldn’t miss the sweaty palms, frozen fingers, trembling hands stage fright that always happened before we’d begin our set.

The first inkling that my original relief might have been misplaced began when I watched the group rehearse.  Although the songs chosen weren’t particularly easy to play, I really wanted to try—especially since this year there were a couple of R & B tunes.  Plus, I have benefit of playing second tenor which means that if I miss a note (or notes) it’s always covered by Jim who, had he chosen to become a pro, would have succeeded.

But even during the rehearsals I really had no inkling about how I was going to feel at the recital.

Really no inkling.  I arrived for the morning session (despite that our group 8 Bars Chort was to lead off the afternoon) since I wanted to support all the students and Bob for all he’s done for me.

Well, by the time 8 Bars hit the stage I was totally funked out.  These were my friends, ensemble mates, and there I was sitting in the back row of the auditorium with no place to go and nothing to do.  At that moment I just wanted to disappear.

The group swung into the first song and it jumped.  Was great to hear but drove me lower and deeper into my seat.

Then it was shock time.  Our multi-instrument (soprano, alto, flute, tenor) player and singer Emily Karstetter grabbed the microphone, called me onto the stage, explained that although I was a group member why I hadn’t been up there, then sat me down next to her, and sang The Nearness of You.

Crazy how quickly a mood can change.  From completely bummed to tearish appreciation and, most importantly, the feeling of once again belonging.  Turned out that the group had been trying to figure out a way to get me onto the stage and Emily just grabbed the opportunity.  For which I will always be grateful.  Those sweet sort of things don’t happen often and I will always cherish that moment.

Love you Emmy.  And thank you 8 Bars.

I placed a video of the song on my Facebook author’s page if people are interested.  Also, if you happen to find the page worthwhile, by all means ‘like’ it.

https://www.facebook.com/ZacharyKleinAuthorPage

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. ~ Albert Camus

BACK ON THE STREET

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Before this past Thursday, I couldn’t have told you the last time I attended a demonstration.  Yeah, I can remember Jesse Jackson rallies, Obama telephone banks, getting out the vote phone calls.  But I don’t remember sticking my neck out at any significant political demonstration since dirt.

During the years I worked at Simon & Associates as a trial and jury consultant, the office devoted itself to clients wronged by the existing oligarchy, though it wasn’t the kind of work that brought in a ton of money.  Didn’t matter.  We believed we were wearing the white hats.

Our clients were always working or poor people who, in one way or another, had been masticated by major corporations.  An example:  We represented a number of plant workers’ families whose husband and/or fathers were killed by the vinyl chloride industry that, for over twenty years [1950-1974], knew the processes they used to create Polyvinyl chloride were life threatening for its workers, but didn’t bother to improve safety measures AND kept that information hidden.  The result of the cover up?  Many people died and the industry got a cause of death named after them, vinyl chloride disease, aka angiosarcoma of the liver.  And that’s just one example of the type work we did.

Since we were the ‘good guys’, when there was a demonstration about issues I believed in (opposing the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, Israeli apartheid etc), I told myself that my work was my politics so I didn’t need to attend.

By the time I left the law, the issue of attending demonstrations became stickier.  The 98%ers were beginning to gear up and, while I believe the issue of income disparity is one half of the two-headed monster under which we live (the other being racism), I still managed to avoid the streets.

Somehow I convinced myself that since I was now writing about “large” political issues from a progressive perspective, I was doing my share.  Hey, I intended to telephone bank for Elizabeth Warren so my bona fides were still intact.  At least according to me.

Wednesday night I received a call from my close friend, Bill.  Recently retired, he had become involved in an organization called City Life/Vida Urbana whose headquarters were located in my part of Boston.  He told me about a neighborhood family who, along with the community organization, had been fighting eviction since around 2008 when their house went underwater, i.e., the value dropped to the level where they were unable to make full payments due to the housing market crash over which they had no ability to control.  A building that, by the way, had been used as a crack house until this family moved in and fixed it up.

Fuck the good they had done for the neighborhood and larger community.  Rather than negotiate, the bank chose to evict and Thursday was going to be the day the rubber was gonna hit the road.

So Bill asked if I’d like to join him in protesting the eviction and I reluctantly agreed.  We met at the eviction house where I told him I could picket but couldn’t let myself get arrested for a variety of reasons including my shoulder rehab.  Well, it turns out that City Life/Vida Urbana won’t allow new members to do civil disobedience until after a training session, something Bill and I didn’t know at the time.

As I headed home and thought about my rationalizations for backing away from nonviolently resisting the eviction, I realized they were actually driven by fear.  Not only on this day, but in the past as well.  Decades since I’d been behind bars for political reasons, the thought of getting locked up at my age was a step I had been unwilling to take.  I also realized I felt really lousy about my attitude and decision.  This was a grossly unfair eviction by heartless, faceless banks with their lackey lawyers.  And I was just walking away.

I felt ashamed.  And that feeling has yet to dissipate.  I’d been too anxious about what might happen to me instead of the causes I believed in throughout all these years.  Frankly, it doesn’t feel too good to be a coward.

Sadly the family was evicted despite the demonstration and despite those who linked arms and were arrested–including our state representative Liz Malia.

This was a battle lost but the war continues and I plan to hit the streets again.  It’s time for this old Yippie to take up my metaphorical sword–fear, rehab, age, and all.

Make room City Life/Vida Urbana.  I’m signing up for your training session.  Even though I did cut my hair.

“Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

IDLE & NOT SO IDLE THOUGHTS

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Something I find disturbing in political discussions on the internet, TV, and in general, is the growing number of people who dislike (even hate) government per se.  This outlook isn’t limited to one or the other end of our political spectrum.  It’s a general attitude that has become an undercurrent in our present culture.

I have problems with this.  Not because I support the way our government functions, or even a ton of its policies.  But rather I believe government needs to be a pact among our citizens to provide as decent a life as possible for as many as possible.

Clearly this isn’t the present case; systemic reforms are desperately needed.  Just as clearly, the road to those reforms cannot be Hate Street.  The only way that we can reach the pact mentioned above is if people talk to each other with respect and try to understand the others’ needs.

I’ve been tough on progressives for their all too often dismissive attitudes toward people with whom they disagree.  But it’s not just them.  It takes two to talk.  And two to listen.  And two to try to understand.  And a whole lot more than two to change the way things are.

Unfortunately, media being what it is–the use of polarization as a ratings tool–as well as promoting party line bullshit, may very well make reasonable discourse impossible.  And that’s a highway “hardnosed” to hell.

More thoughts:  The economy and the incredible budget cuts in federal and municipal governments have had a terribly negative effect on women and people of color disproportionate to the rest of our population.

http://www.epi.org/publication/bp339-public-sector-jobs-crisis/

This reminds me of when Clinton “ended welfare as we knew it.”  Bang, a sudden huge spike in jailing women for non-violent crimes.  All the better to jumpstart ‘for profit’ prison systems.  Money for prison growth when sixteen million children go to sleep hungry every night in the United States.  Are these really our priorities?  I didn’t think so.

More thoughts:  I understand why people don’t like paying taxes and it’s clear the major bang for the buck are the wars our leaders place us in.  But does this tax hatred include a reluctance to pay for police and firefighters?  Trash collection?  It certainly includes a lack of desire to pay for first rate schools, teachers and other public sector employees.  Are we actually happy having a crumbling infrastructure?  Bridges we can’t cross, potholes that wreck our cars’ suspensions?  Blocked roads and highways?  To say nothing about our desperate need to update everything from education to transit systems to actually be a player in this century.  We know private industry won’t take us there unless it brings great profits, which, by their definition means cutting corners and leaving government to hold the bag. (See The Big Dig, Boston.)  Once again, this hurts the poor, working, and middle classes.  Not Bechtel Parsons.  Worse, the Supreme Court decided corporations were entitled to the same rights as humans.  Which, as the sign says, “I’ll believe that the minute they execute one in Texas.”

More thoughts:  Unions.  The Walker victory in Wisconsin (regardless of the money differential spent) says something about our culture’s perceptions and attitudes. I don’t know enough about seniority as an issue so won’t opine (surprise, surprise) but let’s have some perspective.  Seniority simply doesn’t stand alone.  Unions have also brought us Child Labor laws, forty-hour work week, benefits, the busting of sweatshops, the push for a minimum wage, and job protection.

Worse, our distaste toward unions is allowing basic rights like collective bargaining to be eliminated or neutered and pensions decimated.  Sure, unions have done stupid things and need some serious reform–but what institutions haven’t and don’t?  Hell, the financial sector came within an eyelash of completely destroying our economy, but the only people who curse them are the people who got fucked by ’em.  I never hear a general call for an election built around “bank busting,” a refrain often heard about unions.

More thoughts:  Of a much different nature.  Music.  Been listening to Sonny Stitt and Gene Ammon’s album We’ll Be Together Again.  One song in particular, My Foolish Heart, reflects how two different horn styles can come together and create beyond belief beauty.  Ammons’ soft, seductive minimalism partnered with Stitts’ hard attack and shower of notes merge with each other in an almost miraculous manner.  The entire album is extraordinary but that song is worth the price of admission.

Also been listening to a friend’s (Bruce Turkel)

http://turkeltalks.com/index.php/everyone-wants-to-be-a-rock-star/

new cd called The Southbound Suspects.  Really super for a first.

I can’t think of better piano playing than Thelonious Monk’s Solo Monk and Monk Alone: The Complete Solo Studio Recordings of Thelonious Monk.  If this is fodder for debate, please argue away.

More thoughts:  Watching the construction of my new website by people whose aesthetic taste and expert technological skills   (Paula & Tim John) has been an eye-opening wonder.  The world in which they work might be virtual, but there is nothing virtual about the skill it takes to create something that’s beautifully reflective of me and Matt Jacob.  I’ve been crazy privileged to know Michael Paul Smith who designed my book covers and Tim and Paula.  Sometimes I’m Just a Lucky So-and-So.

“Making predictions is a very hard thing to do, especially when it’s about the future.” ~ Yogi Berra