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REFLECTIONS ON 9/11 

“War, what is it good for? 
Absolutely nothing.” 

—Barrett Strong
 


On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was at home in Berkeley, drinking my first cup of coffee and viewing the Today show when the news broke. I watched in horror and disbelief as the second plane hit the World Trade Center, in real time, on national television. 

It took awhile to get over the initial shock and accept the reality of what was happening, but the awful footage continued to be broadcast on every channel throughout the afternoon and evening. This was not fake. It was no movie. No superhero was coming to save the day. The tragedy of 9/11 and its painful consequences were very real indeed. 

 


One by one we heard from New York friends who survived the senseless attacks. None were injured, thank goodness, but all were traumatized. As we learned the names of those who died, however, our shock and sadness turned to anger.

I’m no conspiracy nut, but I must confess to harboring some rational skepticism about what really happened that day. The official 9/11 Commission report was neither comprehensive nor persuasive. Too many questions remain. 

Why was Al-Qaeda able to outwit the worldwide intelligence community? Doesn’t the USA have the most expensive and sophisticated military in the world? Is it really so easy for a plane to fly into the Pentagon, without alerting the Pentagon? And what about the laws of physics? Is the impact from two civilian airplanes truly all it takes to cause the total collapse of three New York City skyscrapers, directly into their own footprint, as if by controlled demolition? And if these atrocities were not perpetrated by a foreign government, but by an unsanctioned group of religious zealots from Saudi, UAE, Lebanon and Egypt, how exactly did these crimes justify prolonged American wars in Afghanistan and Iraq? 

I raise these questions not to suggest the possibility of a false flag operation, but to highlight the cognitive dissonance of the day’s events. We may never know whether our government was complicit, or merely asleep at the wheel, but neither is excusable. When something so unthinkable occurs, and none of the official explanations make sense, you begin to doubt everything. 

Like many Americans, I experienced lingering feelings of vulnerability and disillusionment after 9/11. It was no longer possible to believe the fairytale that “it can’t happen here.” Even on the west coast, the attacks felt personal, regardless of whether you knew any of the victims personally. 

I remember sitting in my driveway the following spring, still mourning, listening to Norah Jones’ Come Away With Me, and wondering if our collective national sadness might be partly responsible for her album’s runaway success. We were wounded, and Norah’s soulful, melancholy music was just the medicine we needed. Grief brought us together. 

 


Unlike many, however, I did not feel patriotic after 9/11. Jingoism struck me as an entirely inappropriate reaction to such a catastrophic national blunder. I felt let down by our leaders, outraged that they had let this happen, and troubled by their simplistic, sloganistic responses. Instead of providing the answers and accountability we deserved, they gave us only facile exhortations to “go shopping” and “support the troops.” They curtailed our civil liberties and declared war on terror, an objective that is absurd on its face, not to mention unwinnable. 

I was also deeply disappointed by friends and neighbors. I’ve never heard so much anti-foreigner and anti-immigrant hate speech. It was heartbreaking. The concurrent sudden appearance of our flag everywhere, on front porches, car antennas and lapel pins, only underscored my sense of disconnection.
 


Can a liberal pacifist xenophile be a proud American? It's complicated. As an avowed Citizen of the World, I respect our institutions, but patriotism doesn’t come naturally. Like religious piety, bigotry, and football mania, patriotic pride is something that I’ve never really understood even though it has surrounded me all my life. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware of my good fortune at having been born white, male and North American in the 20th century, and am grateful for the rights and privileges that I enjoy in this country. I love that I can own property and speak my mind. But I’m also cognizant of the fact that I didn’t earn these blessings. They were stolen by my ancestors and built on the backs of subjugated people. And I know that even today, not all Americans are able to enjoy the same rights and privileges equally. 

I would have to say that I like the idea of America more than the reality. I’ve never bought into the myth of American Exceptionalism. I’ve done enough traveling to learn that the USA is not “the envy of the world,” as I was taught to believe in school, but is actually inferior to many other industrialized nations in education, infrastructure, health care and support for the arts. 

I also emphatically reject the notion that our democratic freedom is predicated on maintaining American hegemony and global military dominance. Freedom may not be free, but most wars are unnecessary. Sorry, Colonel Jessup, but we can handle the truth. We don’t all want you on that wall. Some of us don’t want walls at all.

20 years after the events of 9/11, the United States Armed Forces are finally withdrawing from Afghanistan. This has been the longest military action in our nation's history. 978 billion dollars were spent. Over 241,000 people were killed, including 71,000 civilians. 

Was it worth it?

UP IN THE AIR | PART 2 — SEASONED TRAVELER 

“You've taken your first step into a larger world.” 
—Obi-Wan Kenobi 

 

When I was first starting out, my mentor Art Farmer told me what it really takes to persevere in this business. “Do you like to travel?” he asked. “Well, get used to it, because that’s the life of a musician.” 

I was reminded of his words a few years later when I asked record producer Cookie Marenco how to get the word out about my first CD. “You just need to go on tour,” she replied matter of factly. “It’s all about the tour. Your tour schedule determines everything: which stations play your music, what stores will carry it, when publications will review it, how people hear about it, and most importantly, whether anyone buys it.” 

Such advice may seem silly in this digital age of streaming music and social media. Today, virtually anyone with the right look or gimmick has the potential to “go viral” without ever leaving home. But back in the 20th century we had no choice but to hit the road and participate in the obligatory rain dance of (jargon alert!) flacks, hacks, trades, jocks, promos, co-ops, end caps, take ones, tip sheets, and street teams. The music business was an expensive and time-consuming hustle, and the whole megillah hinged on one’s willingness to travel. 

No problem here. Daddy Bill conscripted me into the vagabond lifestyle when I was still a toddler. I pretty much grew up in the backseat of his VW Fastback. By the time I left home at age 17, we had already moved nine times and taken dozens of road trips together. 

I pretty much grew up in the backseat of Daddy Bill’s VW Fastback 

By high school and college I’d begun to hit my wayfaring stride. I saved my pennies to fly from my father’s house in the Sonoran Desert to the snowy pines of Interlochen and the slushy streets of Boston. I rambled through New England for pick-up dates in the horn sections of touring Motown and pop acts, met up with Art for flugelhorn lessons on both coasts, and journeyed to Florida and California for gigs with Berklee friends. I even maxed out my first couple of credit cards chasing a particularly enthralling girl from New York City to London, Ontario, and back again. I was a novice nomad, but was already on a first name basis with half a dozen skycaps and flight attendants. 

So by 1995, when I began touring as a bandleader in support of my debut album Red Reflections, I was already a seasoned traveler. I well acquainted with the rules of the road: pack light, arrive early, sit tight, be cool, expect delays. 

I tried to find out everything I could about how to make the most of life on the road. Hal Galper had not yet published The Touring Musician, the resource that would ultimately become my bible, so I collected travel hacks wherever I could find them. I worked with agents to find the best deals, consulted a nutritionist for health and wellness ideas, and read magazines to collect business travel tips and tricks. I even asked experienced flyers to share their secrets for gaming the system, such as how to qualify for early boarding and how to gain admission to exclusive airport lounges with fireplaces, daybeds and private showers. 

But my number one travel guru, the person from whom I learned the most, was my friend and fellow road warrior, bassist Ruth Davies. We called Ruth “Felix The Cat” because her tiny magical travel bag always seemed to hold whatever anyone needed, be it an allen wrench, gaffer’s tape, a sewing kit or cold medicine. After years of touring with blues legend Charles Brown, Ruth knew everything there was to know about life on the road. She taught me how to “advance” each stop along the tour, insuring that all our backline tech and ground transportation needs were covered, as well as how to anticipate problems and prepare for every contingency.

The person from whom I learned the most was my friend and fellow road warrior, bassist Ruth Davies

Our first tours beyond the Bay Area were to other cultural hubs out west: Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Phoenix. Eventually our circuit expanded to include a few midwest and east coast dates as well. We were still only traveling domestically, but since concert promoters rarely covered our travel costs, we learned to leverage frequent flyer miles and points-based affinity programs to receive discounted flights and hotel stays. 

Then in the late 1990s I lucked into a quasi-sponsorship arrangement with American Airlines which enabled me to fly at no cost whatsoever. Amazing! I would volunteer a few hours each week to assist my friend Bobbi, an event promotions manager for the carrier. In exchange she gave me vouchers for free air travel throughout the United States. 

In the late 1990s I flew free-of-charge on American Airlines throughout the United States

Since these were the same certificates used by official airline personnel, gate agents would often quietly upgrade me to first class, no questions asked. Unfortunately, however, I was required to fly “stand by” and was occasionally asked to give up my seat in order to accommodate a paying customer. Plus, no matter where my final destination was, American always seemed to route me through DFW. On more than one occasion, what should've been a two-hour hop from SF to Portland turned into an all day odyssey with a long layover in Dallas.  

Crazy, right? I didn’t mind. A free flight is a free flight. Plus, by that point I had trained myself to work at the gate and sleep on the plane. I took the earliest possible flight the day before a show so that any delays would only be a minor inconvenience. And I always brought my practice mute so that even long layovers would be time well-spent. 

Whenever possible, I chose to fly out of Oakland, my home airport. OAK was a dream back then, much smaller and way hipper than SFO. They let you park right in front of the terminal, check-in was a breeze, and they even played classic jazz over the public address system. Within a few minutes of handing off your bags curbside, you could be relaxing at your gate, listening to Cannonball Adderley, and enjoying a nice hot cup of Peet’s coffee and a delicious veggie burger from Your Black Muslim Bakery. 

Oakland Airport was a dream back then, much smaller and way hipper than SFO

Those were the halcyon days, before the current era of shrinking seats, lost legroom and silly TSA “security theater.” After 9/11 lots of folks gave up on air travel entirely ... but not me.

I was about to take my first step into a larger world. 

Next: 
UP IN THE AIR
PART 3 — CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

STAND BESIDE HER (AND GUIDE HER) 


"Man is the only Patriot. He sets himself apart in his own country, under his own flag, and sneers at the other nations, and keeps multitudinous uniformed assassins on hand at heavy expense to grab slices of other people's countries, and keep them from grabbing slices of his. And in the intervals between campaigns he washes the blood of his hands and works for 'the universal brotherhood of man' with his mouth."
—Mark Twain

"Patriotism is the conviction that your country is superior
to all others because you were born in it."
—George Bernard Shaw

“Patriotism doesn’t automatically equal conservatism.”
—Tony Stark

PARTY GAMES 



When desert temperatures climb well into the triple digits, Dr. D recommends staying indoors, cranking up the air conditioner, and inventing your own party games for both people and pets.

Following are the names of some of the summertime activities we enjoy here at the Maricopa Cabana:

Boo Ball
Feline Conga Line
Chandler's Got Talent
Scooby Snack Stash House (aka Omar's Coming)
Controlled Demolition
Gilbert Girls Gone Wild
Sparkle Motion
Somnial Pursuit (aka Sassy Tag)
Bobbing for Validation
Carpe DM
False Flag Football
What-What?
Manifest Destiny's Child
Kitty Cat Casting Couch
Rock' Em Sock 'Em Lolcats
Fox in the Hen House
Absinthe Pong
Hide & Critique
Circus Cats
Tent City Tryouts
Mister Plow
Twenty Accusations
Rationalization Roulette
Shadow Assimilation Showdown
Cyberotica Charades
Scrabulous Glossolalia
Sad Libs
Six Degrees of Kenny Dorham
Bi-Polar Express (aka Charlie Sheen Trampoline)
Big Game Hunter
Sagebrush Rebellion (aka Razing Arizona)
Bebop Mall Cops (aka Jazz Judge & Jury)
Redneck Rehab (aka Hillbilly Homeschool)
Selective Abstraction
Confirmation Bias Bingo
Antisocial Media Mogul
Medicine Cabinet Scavenger Hunt
Pin the Blame on the Wealthy

E.B. WHITE ON NEW YORK CITY IN 1949 



"The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumple the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition."
~Here is New York, E.B. White (1949)