The Artist’s Lament

The Dreamers are the saviors of the world.

The Dreamers are the saviors of the world.

I believe the early part of the 21st Century will be known for its shift to the arts and the imagination that seems to flow through artistic people. I wrote about a “Right Brain Renaissance” in 2006, and this is a continuation of that. Basically, the left brain people have “managed” us into quite a pickle, and they don’t have a clue on what to do. The West suffers from a failure of imagination like no other time in history, and, as James Allen wrote 100 years ago, “The dreamers are the saviors of the world.”

There’s an artist in everyone, but only some are artists, or Allen’s “dreamers.” These are people who touch Richard Adams’ Unbroken Web of creativity that is available — for free — to anyone and everyone. Consequently, creativity belongs to no one, which means that ideas belong to no one. There is no such thing as “intellectual property” for one who touches the realm of the creatives. The price for the ability to bask within the Unbroken Web is that you’ll probably never be rich, although there are plenty of those who try, based on what some gifted people bring back with them. Artists often suffer in their own lifetime only to have their work reach extraordinary value after their gone. It may seem a steep price to pay, but most of those who touch this realm would give anything to touch it once again.

In today’s explosion of creative thought, however, the undeniable loss for individual dreamers is acknowledgement of what they find in the realm of creativity. Provenance often goes to the one who speaks loudest, is best connected, or already has a significant following, and this is a shame, because those people are rarely in the “starving artist” category. Perhaps this is just another part of the price one pays for living with one’s head in the clouds.

But it doesn’t make it right. Sigh.

A bluegrass miracle to start the new year

The Heaton Brothers in Neal Lynch's basementA few days ago, something remarkable happened that I thought I’d share. It’s a testament to the wonder of hyperconnectivity for my generation. I think this kind of thing will only be experienced by those who’ve not grown up with the Web, so these kinds of stories will gradually disappear, but that’s just a guess. Here’s what happened.

Neal Lynch, the brother of a high school girlfriend contacted me via Facebook inquiring if I had been a member of the River City Singers from Grand Rapids, Michigan during the 1960s. Facebook is the source of reconnections so plenty these days that this one would simply blend in with the others were it not for the fact that I’m able to pass it along to you. Neal lives in California, and the circumstances under which he contacted me are remarkable all by themselves, but The Great Horizontal — the connected culture we’re just beginning to know — is what made this possible.

I wrote back that I was indeed a member of that band, whereupon he sent me two photographs of myself and my two brothers playing our music in his basement. He was 12-years old at the time and shortly thereafter picked up guitar and has been playing ever since. The photos were made from old Kodak slides and are the only high-resolution, digital color pictures of the three of us playing together. The ONLY ones, and I’d never seen them before. These pictures blew my mind, because I was able to zoom in and closely examine facial expressions. The experience really took me back to when I was 18-years old. All that I am, I was back then. The experiences I’ve had in the last 47 years have shaped only what I do, but all that is really me — the gifts, the spirit, the emotions, the soul — can be seen in these pictures.

I sent copies to my two brothers and heard back from older brother Jim (the guitar picker). He told me that he was so blown away that all he could do was go sit in his back yard alone and think about our lives as a bluegrass band. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

The Heaton Brothers in Neal Lynch's basementWords cannot express my appreciation for the way Life has engineered this and especially to Neal for contacting me. In the picture to the left, you can see me, as my daughter told me via Facebook, “lost in the music.” This is true, but “lost in the music” can also be a form of “hiding from everybody,” which took a big emotional toll on me over the decades that followed.

My two brothers and I are not close. The Vietnam War broke up our band, and we all went our separate ways. It has been one of the biggest regrets of my life, because I really did and do love my brothers. That fact is inescapable when examining these pictures. We were really good, and to quote Marlon Brando, “I coulda been a contender.” Bluegrass is a music meant to be played, not just listened to. I haven’t had a banjo in many years, but this may inspire me to find something at a pawn shop. I’m playing an old Gibson Mastertone in the pictures. That instrument is worth a lot of money today.

This event in my life has reinforced everything I believe deeply about the enormity of this “second Gutenberg moment” in the history of Western Civilization. We may spit and snarl and fight it all the way, but this “Great Horizontal” is transforming everything about our culture. The more open we become, the harder it is for anybody to live a double life and to present bullshit as a cover story for one’s life. We have to rethink everything, and I envy those who are just entering adulthood, for life will be very different for them when they reach my age. The naysayers shout down change, usually because they have something to lose in terms of their position vis-a-vis everybody else.

I’m incredibly hopeful for tomorrow, because truth weighs far less than falsehood, and we’re all ridiculously overweight. That’s what my view of postmodernism is all about. These pictures have helped me in the ongoing journey to find my truth, and I am forever grateful.

Adventures in health insurance

injecting a vialIs it ever better to NOT to use your health insurance? You betcha.

Readers who’ve been with me for awhile are aware of my past with health insurance. There was a 4‑year period a few years ago when I went without health insurance, so I’m acutely familiar with its blessings and curses.

I learned, for example, that every single entity involved in the industry of healthcare will offer you a 30% discount if you pay cash. Why? Because it’s cheaper than dealing with health insurance companies. You want to know why healthcare costs are so high? Health insurance.

I had a new experience yesterday that I want to share, because I’m sure it will one day benefit somebody else.

I have an extremely low testosterone level (68) and have been working with my urologist to find a suitable treatment. It’s one of those tricky areas with a lot of options, nothing of which has really helped raise my level sufficiently to get my energy level up. Low T is a joke until you have it, and mine goes beyond what’s typically known as “male menopause.” I’m 64, for crying out loud; not dead.

So I take regular testosterone shots. My insurance provider covers the medication somewhat, but the “program” has restrictions on how much I can get at one time, so let me explain the dilemma and the solution I discovered with my pharmacy.

My doctor’s prescription is for a 10 ml vial of the medicine. I’m supposed to take 1 ml injections every other week. The policy, however, will not permit me to obtain more than a 30-day supply of any prescription, so the pharmacy has to give me two 1 ml vials, and those can be hard to come by. Generic versions often are not available, so I have to buy brand name, and I have to order it ahead-of-time. With insurance, the brand name vials cost me $50 out-of-pocket, or $25 per injection. Steep.

My doctor says this is nuts and that I’m the only patient he has with this problem, but there’s nothing he can do. I went round and round with the insurance company, but then my pharmacist, Joel, said, “Why don’t you just buy the generic 10 ml vial without insurance?”

“What? Without insurance? Are you kidding me?”

Turns out he wasn’t. The generic version in 10 ml is $95 without insurance, so I saved $155 out-of-pocket by NOT using my health insurance.

This business of not being able to obtain more than a month’s supply of drugs through insurance really needs investigation. Doctors trying to save people money by letting them buy a 3‑month supply are cut off at the knees, and when this kind of nonsense happens in our culture, there’s usually somebody benefiting financially. Who would that be in this case?

The doctor? No. The pharmacy? Not likely. The insurance provider? Perhaps. The drug manufacturers? Hmm.

I know I bitch a lot about arbitrary rules in our culture, but this is one of those times when I think it’s justified. When industries that deal with consumers create rules with no wiggle room or exceptions, humanity itself suffers, and we fall deeper into the cold abyss of black and white, win or lose, all or nothing, and so forth.

Enjoy your fresh air, Ellen Goodman!

So columnist Ellen Goodman has retired. Many years ago, she said something in an interview that has been on my bulletin board ever since:

“Writing a column is like being married to a nymphomaniac: Every time you think you’re through, you have to start all over again.”

I guess she finally got her divorce.

Can a Tiger shed its spots stripes?

As a man who’s had his own issues with “transgressions,” it would be hypocritical of me to judge Tiger Woods. Like me in the past, he’s been an asshole, and one hopes that he’s finally figured that out. I think that such a discovery is a part of the human experience. Hell, we’re all assholes in one form or the other. We try to overcome it, but sometimes, it just drags us down.

“O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from this body of death?”

I have three thoughts this Friday evening. One, I thought it was a little odd for Tiger to lecture culture about the morality of his loss of privacy. I mean, didn’t he just give up the right to have anyone care about what he thinks, golf or otherwise?

Two, his father often said that Tiger’s ultimate contribution to society would be off the golf course. I don’t think this is what he meant (and I’m quite sure he’s not happy with his son), but who knows if this won’t lead to something enduring?

Three, this line from Jesper Parnevik, the man who introduced Tiger to his wife (and now regrets it), speaks volumes beyond Parnevik’s own emotions:

We thought better of him, but he is not the one we thought he was.

I think the public that Tiger Woods has worked so hard over the years to impress now generally feels the same way about the guy. Will we forgive him? I think that’s inevitable. Will he ever be “the one we thought he was?” Not a chance.

Behavior has consequences, and while Tiger may have been judging himself based on his intentions, the world sees it for what it really is — being an asshole.

LifeSlices: Weighing in on Miley

Miley Cyrus backlessI’ve been seeing this picture all over the Web today, and if you haven’t, you probably need to have somebody call an ambulance, because you’re likely not breathing. The picture is the hook for hundreds of scandalous stories of Miley posing topless, apologies (another), accusations, blame and the like. Miley is, of course, only 15-years old and a rising (hell, she’s already “risen”) star of the family-friendly Disney company. The photo comes from the latest issue of Vanity Fair, and I’ll spare you the other details.

I just have one question. How is this picture — in any way — considered “topless?”


There is just no way you can stretch the language enough for this to be topless, for the word MEANS to expose one’s breasts. No breasts that I can see here. Move along.

This manufacturing of conflict is the American way of life for celebrities, and it’s a sad commentary on all of us. We’ve all seen as much from a 15-year old heading to the prom, so please, people, get over it.