Category Archives: Guests

MOVING IN

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First post in my new place, my books are finally up for sale, and there are a few housekeeping issues I’d like to touch upon.

BOOK PRICING:
I’ve always been conflicted about what to charge for my work.  This was especially true when I worked as a counselor.  Then its roots came from the notion that social services ought to be free.  While I was at Project Place, we pulled this off with help from the Massachusetts Department of Mental Health, some federal funding, private donations and a pay scale collectively determined by need.

When I struck out on my own, no one offered to underpin my salary.  Still, I was incredibly uncomfortable with the fees clinical psychologists were charging their clients, even more so, psychiatrists.  I knew I wasn’t going to get involved with insurance for a myriad of reasons so I had to figure out what I considered fair.

I began checking with crafts people and artists about their “hourly” wage and tried to follow their lead.  Problem was, their lead led to financial disaster.  I was a single parent for half the week and had mouths to feed.  Ten to twelve bucks or barter for more than an hour of work just couldn’t cut it.

So I changed and began charging the hourly rate that each of my clients earned.  For those who earned nothing, I charged nothing.  For those who made a lot of money per hour, that was my fee.  This is how I got paid through most of my years as a counselor.

When I decided I to change careers and write, I knew the termination process with my clients was going to take a significant amount of time.  So I returned to my Project Place headset  and simply placed an open guitar case by my office door and told people to throw in what they thought the session had been worth.  (I probably made more money per session with the open case than I had previously.  Should have stuck with my roots from the get go.)

When I took the plunge at becoming an online novelist, I also decided to man up, not to shuck and jive about the price or worth of my books.  But of course I did so in my usual–not so logical–fashion.  I thought back to when I was young and the cost of a paperback was $4.95.  I liked the number, thought it fair given what it takes to write a novel (as long as there are enough $4.95s, of course) and decided to go with it.

Not so fast.  Apparently some places that distribute e-books demand a minimum of $4.99 per book.  I’d rather $4.95, but it is what it is and I hope my readers find it fair.

I also know that a great many e-book authors do 99 cent specials, free giveaways for certain periods of time, and move their book prices up and down.  I prefer not to get into that game.  And while I can easily imagine some contests like the Goodreads one I did where books are given as a prize, I do intend to keep my e-book prices at $4.99 unless I run into compelling reasons (like distributors) to change it.  Believe me, if that happens, I’ll post about it.

GLITCHES:
I’m sure there are or will be some with the new site.  Working the backend of this baby is more complicated than the original, so get ready for some operator errors.  Please let me hear about any problems you might encounter by writing me from the “Contact Zach” page.  I will jump right on it.  But don’t feel contacting me is just meant for website issues or feedback.  Feel free to get in touch with me about anything, especially writing.  One of the major reasons I decided to go net rather than traditional is the opportunity to actually converse with my readers. So, if you tell your friends about this site, my books and posts, (see WORD OF MOUTH, two posts below), tell them they can write me too.  As anyone who has seen my Facebook comments can attest, I enjoy communicating with people whether I agree with them or not.

And finally:

YOUR PREVIOUS COMMENTS:
Every Monday post from the old site had to be cut and pasted into the new one.  Had I done the same with each comment, this site would still be just a dream.  Although I have every comment ever written in a folder on my computer–as well as every reply–the comments cut and paste process begins from this past July.  I wish I could have moved them all since I know folks spent time and effort writing them.

So look over my new digs, find the problems and the stuff you like, buy a book if you’re so inclined, but most of all, please bring your friends to visit.  I like company.

Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told, “I’m with you kid.  Let’s go.” ~ Maya Angelou

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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Phantom Gourmet

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This past Thursday I had shoulder  surgery which knocks me out of the writing box for about 3 or 4 weeks.   Rather than close shop I’ve asked people to substitute for me.  First up is Sherri Mazzotta:

 

These days, food is big business.  There are “Food Phests” in every city.  The Food Network offers 24 hours of programs such as “Good Eats,” “Cupcake Wars,” and “Barefoot Contessa.” Book stores are filled with food magazines and food “memoirs.” Chefs are now celebrities recognized by first name alone:  Giada, Paula, Emeril, Nigella.  And it’s no longer just the Phantom Gourmet helping us find the best pancetta-stuffed pork chops in town.  We’ve got plenty of food bloggers and restaurant reviewers pointing us in the tastiest direction.

My husband and I like to think we know “good” food, though our definition sometimes stretches to include the pancakes at several north-Jersey diners. We have our own way of judging the quality of food, and it has nothing to do with Michelin stars.  For us, it comes down to a simple question:

If we were on death row, what would we choose as our last meal?

We often debate this over a weeknight dinner of spaghetti or cereal. I hope that doesn’t mean we’ve run out of conversation after eight years of marriage.   Never mind what we might have done to get on death row.  Never mind that we don’t live in a state that sanctions the death penalty.  And never mind the politics seething behind the issue of capital punishment.  The important part of the conversation is the food.  What foods are so deliciously stupendous that we’d choose them over all other foods as the last thing we’d want to eat before exiting this world?

Truly, isn’t that the highest praise we could give a meal?  Isn’t that worth far more than any Zagat’s rating?

Steve envisions a day’s worth of meals, though I told him that was cheating, since you’d only get one meal.  One choice.  For breakfast, his menu includes eggs benedict with steak.  For lunch, a pepperoni pizza.  And for dinner, the Capital Grille’s filet mignon, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and potatoes au gratin.

“I don’t think the Capital Grille does take out,” I tell him, because I’m a stickler for detail.

“Somebody from the prison could go pick it up.”

“Why would they do that for a convicted felon?”

“They’d have to.  It’s my last-meal request.”

I shake my head.  “You couldn’t eat all of that in single day.  You’d get sick.”

But really, does it matter how much indigestion your last meal causes if you’re going to be put out of your intestinal misery–and all of your misery–at the end of the day?

Since I first selected it, my last meal hasn’t wavered.  Despite all of the warm goat cheese salads, Kona-crusted sirloins, and chocolate lava cakes I’ve eaten over the years, when it comes right down to it, I’m a Jersey girl at heart and like the simple things in life.  My last meal would be a Bertucci’s pizza with roasted zucchini followed by a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.  And don’t forget the Rolling Rock.  If I’m going out, I’m not going out sober.  The only question is whether or not to add pepperoni on the pizza.

“Bertucci’s isn’t that good–not if it’s your last meal on earth,” Steve says.

As if there’s a right answer.  As if this isn’t all about opinion.

“Pizza and ice cream are the perfect combination,” I say.  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have.”

Of course, you’d have plenty of time to think about your last meal while on death row.  But I’m a planner, so I’d feel better knowing that I had this figured out before my cell door slammed.  One less thing to worry about, I suppose.  Troubleshooting, as a friend of mine always says.  But how hungry would you be if you knew you were about to die?  Pretty hungry, I think.  Especially if you’re a stress eater like me.

Steve and I use the last meal as a yardstick when we try out a new restaurant:

“These steak tips are great,” he says.  “Really tender and flavorful.”

“Yes, but would they make your last-meal request?” I ask.

He puts down his fork to give serious thought to this question.  Finally, he looks at me and says, “No. They wouldn’t.”

I smile:  There are good meals, there are great meals, and there are last meals.

Who needs restaurant critics?

There are web sites cataloguing the last meals of criminals who have been executed (http://www.famouslastmeals.com/ and http://www.icanhasinternets.com/2012/02/the-last-meals-of-the-infamously-condemned/). Here, for instance, you can learn that serial killer John Wayne Gacy’s last meal included a dozen deep-fried shrimp, a bucket of original recipe chicken from KFC, French fries, and a pound of strawberries.  The sites include photos of the criminals as well as their last meals–in case you have trouble picturing what that bucket of chicken looks like.

Not everyone chooses a complete meal.  Aileen Wuornos opted for a cup of black coffee. Timothy McVeigh selected two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream.  Velma Barfield, the first woman to be executed in the United States after the 1976 return of capital punishment, asked for a can of Coke and a bag of Cheez Doodles.  I hadn’t considered snack foods as part of my last meal, since I’d want to save room for the pizza.  But if calories don’t count, appetite is infinite, and we’re using my husband’s multi-meal approach, I’d tack on a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, perhaps as an afternoon snack.

One of the strangest last-meal requests came from James Edwards Smith in Texas. Instead of a meal, Smith requested a lump of dirt, apparently for a Voodoo ritual.  Because dirt wasn’t on the approved list of prison foods, his request was denied.  He settled for a cup of yogurt instead.  Maybe yogurt was on the approved list for the Voodoo ritual, because I can’t imagine choosing anything so nutritious.  I’m not going out sober, and I’m not going out skinny either.

And speaking of Texas, which has executed more people than any other state since 1976 (count:  478):  In September 2011, the state announced that it would no longer accommodate the last-meal requests of prisoners on death row (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/23/us/texas-death-row-kitchen-cooks-its-last-last-meal.html).  Those scheduled for execution now receive the same meal served to other inmates in the unit.  Talk about being robbed.  Talk about getting a bum rap.

Inmates can blame convicted killer Lawrence Russell Brewer, whose last-meal request included the following : Two chicken fried steaks with gravy and sliced onions; a triple meat bacon cheeseburger; a cheese omelet with ground beef, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and jalapenos; a pound of barbecued meat with half a loaf of white bread; a bowl of fried okra with ketchup; three fajitas;  a meat-lover’s pizza; a pint of Blue Bell ice cream; a slab of peanut-butter fudge with crushed peanuts; and three root beers.

Does anybody really eat okra?  Or know what it is?  Maybe if Brewer had left out the fried okra, nobody would have taken notice.   Or maybe if he’d actually eaten any of the food he’d ordered…

Perhaps the Food Network could do a show about last meals.  Apprentice chefs might cook their best beef wellington or chicken parmigiana for a panel of death-row inmates.  The inmates would choose which meal they’d want on their final day.  Again, is there any higher praise?  The show might be called, “Dead Man Cooking” or “Cooking with the Convicts.”  Hey, in a world with programs focused on the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” and “Dog The Bounty Hunter,” it’s not such a crazy idea.  It would definitely put a new spin on the concept of “Phantom Gourmet.”  The winning chef would get a spot on “Good Morning America” and his/her own show – this time, cooking for people who are likely to be alive to watch future episodes.

But don’t rely on “Bobby Flay’s Barbecue Addiction” or “Rachael Ray’s Tasty Travels,” to help you decide what’s best to eat.  Give it some thought.  Ask one simple question:  What would you choose as your last meal?

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” – Virginia Woolf 

LA RINGRAZIO PER UNA BELLA CENA (Thank you for a wonderful dinner.)

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It began as a dinner with new Italian friends and turned into a wormhole to my past coupled with a new way of saying hello to myself.

We had met only once before at a restaurant where a group had gathered to listen to a mutual friend’s band.  By chance, the four of us sat together and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.  We made noise about getting together in the future, but they were soon leaving for an extended trip to Sri Lanka and India so the future would be a long way off.

But they did call, invite, and we went.  The conversation over the delicious dinner was fast and furious.  At one point they lapsed into Italian–perhaps to make certain they both understood what was being said, or because they didn’t want us to understand.  Didn’t matter.  It was lovely to listen to the music of the language.

For some reason their lapse into lyrical Italian still danced in my head the next day.  The harder I tried to understand why, the fuzzier it became.  It was only that night, not really thinking about anything in particular, that a childhood memory flooded my mind.  Family scenes where parents or older relatives would, in a hairpin turn, speak Yiddish.  In those moments, there was no confusion.  They simply didn’t want me to know what they were saying.  But those hairpin turns, natural on their part, always drew a silent gut wrench without my ever knowing why.

I doubt I would have given those few short Italian sentences any thought at all without my hour a day, four days a week, eight year stint with Dr. J that began about twenty-five years ago.  A particular crisis drove me to the Boston Psychoanalytical Institute to become a test analysand, but the day to day work soon embraced multiple dimensions. Anyone who has done a psychoanalysis knows that once you jump down that rabbit hole….

Of course we spent a significant time on what had been an explosive childhood that had me living with other people.

Spent serious time on my first marriage, which had reduced itself to a protracted custody battle.

Spent time on being a single parent half the week for years.

Spent time working through issues that existed between me and my current domestic partner.

The list is legion.  I had more than enough issues, and that much time on your back makes it so.  But when the eight years were over, I had become significantly lighter emotionally through the discoveries gleaned by talking every day to someone who listened, supported, and was truly smart.

I also left believing the couch had cracked the door to my creative imagination.  Two fantasies I’d harbored since forever were writing and making music.  I walked out of Dr. J’s for the last time confident about constructing a brand new writing life.

Along with these accomplishments, I also left the couch hauling a suspicion that I’d never really learned an important lesson analysis was supposed to “teach.”  I simply hadn’t found a method of diving into my subconscious.  I did think about what I thought or felt, though it was through an active process, driven by overt consideration or focused reflection.  Similar to having someone confront or ask pointed questions.  However, this nag was left behind as I powered up my “creative imagination” to build my Matt Jacob writing career.  Still, I’ve always been jealous of people–Sasha Cohen, Jon Stewart and, of course, Robin Williams–who are seemingly able to dip into their down below at will.

But that night, lying in bed, relaxed and open to possibilities, age, experience, and a lack of defensiveness delivered the association between the Italian talk and Yiddish memories.  Long ago that gut wrench had been the only part of the iceberg that registered.  The difficulties of my childhood, the exclusion, the difference between myself and my family, the alienation within my own home, and the ugly bitter batterings finally rose from beneath the surface.  Half a century later I understand what that Yiddish represented.

Ahh, the subconscious.  I guess I get what it takes to let the game come to you.  Not active pursuit, but a headspace that’s vulnerable enough to let it happen.

So, thank you, Alesandro and Camilla, for a great dinner.  And a special thanks to Dr. J.  Sometimes it takes a really, really long time for understanding to sink into an old dog’s head.  Even when the information is already there.