The 10th anniversary of this here blog

If someone were to ask me what advice I’d give a prospective blogger, it would to write two, maybe three posts before launching the first.

10th AnniversaryToday being the tenth anniversary of the start of the Ramblin’ with Roger blog, with content every single day, I thought I would describe how I started blogging in the first place. I’m sure I’ve told bits and pieces of it before, but like some oft-told tales, the details either become clearer in focus or muddier over time.

I had heard about this thing called the weblog – it was in all the standard press – in the early part of this century. However, I had not actually READ any blogs. Therefore, I concluded, without a single strain of evidence, the same thing that most “everyone” else was saying, that blogs were self-indulgent bits of drivel designed for people far more self-absorbed than I.

Then, in October 2004, I see my friend Rocco, who I knew from my FantaCo days. He says to me, “Have you been reading Fred’s blog?” Of course, I had not been reading what our mutual friend Fred Hembeck had been writing, and in fact, I had fallen out of touch with him over the previous decade.

So I checked out Fred’s blog and liked it so much that I read his entire backlog of articles, EVERY DAY, going back to January 2003. Since Fred could be, um, wordy, this probably took about three months.

Once I got the feel for the blog, and what one could write in the venue, he quoted FantaCo stories about which I wrote to him (see February 18 and 23, 2005 e.g.) and I even suggested content (March 31 and April 2, 2005). I figure that if I could come up with material for Fred, I ought to be writing for myself.

Now that I was caught up reading Fred’s blog, I started reading some of the many blogs Fred was linked to. One of the professionals was the late Steve Gerber, scribe of Howard the Duck, the Defenders, Man-Thing, and other Marvel fare. He wrote in his inaugural blog post on April 4, 2005, less than a month before I started mine:

I make my living as a writer. There is only one characteristic that distinguishes writers from non-writers: writers write. (That’s why there’s no such thing as an “aspiring writer.” A writer can aspire to sell or publish, but only non-writers aspire to write.) Anyway, writing for a living requires writing every day. Writing every day requires discipline. Discipline requires enforcement.

I’ve lost the habit of writing every day. I need discipline. I need enforcement. You’re looking at it.

I intend to post something on this blog every day. If I fail to do so, that failure will be very public, and I’ll be embarrassed by it. I don’t enjoy being embarrassed. So maybe, just maybe, making this obligation will help transform me into a habitual writer again.

Not that I viewed myself as a “Writer” at the time, or even now. For one thing, I didn’t, and don’t, own any tweed jackets. But I did have a couple of things I wanted to write down. One was about my appearances on the TV show JEOPARDY!, which was taped in September 1998 and aired two months later.
10thAnniversary_(4)
More importantly, though, was a narrative that involved the Daughter, who was born in March of 2004. I had promised myself that I would write something in my print journal regularly; I penned three entries in nine months; clearly, this was not viable. Thus, the promise, to myself, to write about the Daughter in this blog at least once a month, on the 26th, and I have kept to that.

When I actually started blogging on my own, friend Fred plugged my humble efforts, the first time on May 5, 2005. Still, it was tough in the beginning. If someone were to ask me what advice I’d give a prospective blogger, it would write two, maybe three posts before launching the first. Blog post #1 is EASY. Writing the next one is harder. This was made more difficult by the fact that Blogger, my platform at the time, didn’t allow me to schedule ahead, which it does now, thank goodness.

Writing for myself (and Fred and his wife Lynn Moss) was fine, but I started looking at other people Fred was linked to. I’d read their blogs, comment, and eventually built up this coterie of Internet acquaintances such as Lefty Brown, Greg Burgas, Eddie Mitchell, Thom Wade, and Gordon Dymowski, who I actually met in person in 2008 in Chicago. We created a mixed CD exchange for a few years, and through this, developed relationships.

People, some I didn’t even know, such as Scott of the Scooter Chronicles, kept commenting on my blog. Looking back, I have no specific recollection of how Arthur@AmeriNZ or Jaquandor, or SamuraiFrog found me, or maybe I found them. Nor do I recall how I tripped over ABC Wednesday, the meme I now manage.

I DO know how I found Dustbury, though. I was writing about the Warner Brothers Loss Leaders albums that the label put out from about 1969 to 1980, two LPs for two dollars (later three dollars), and he had written the authoritative list. Even better, I got to add an item to the list, an ECM jazz collection, Music with 58 Musicians. From there, I found his blog.

That experience fits into a very comfortable narrative for a librarian of expanding the knowledge base. This blogging thing could be informative, useful.

People who don’t read my blog ask me what my blog is about. I’ve stopped answering, “Why don’t you just read my blog?” Basically, it’s whatever I see on my Bloglovin feed every morning. I look at links from Daily Kos and BoingBoing, but then I tend to read some blogs alphabetically
A for Arthur@AmeriNZ
B for Byzantium Shores (Jaquandor)
C for Chuck Miller
D for Dustbury (Chaz Hill)
E is for Evanier, Mark (News from Me)
F is for Frog, SamuraiFrog
G is for Geek, Eddie Mitchell, the Renaissance Geek

Then I go to my old blog I abandoned in 2010 in favor of this one, and see who else might have updated recently, such as my CD exchange buddies, plus Dan Van Riper’s albanyweblog, Tosy and Cosh, Nippertown, Pantheon Songs, Lisa’s Peripheral Perceptions, Anthony Velez, and Melanie Boudwin. I skim all of that, and if they’ve not written what’s on my heart that day, I write it. If they have, I link to theirs.

That’s how I blog every day. EASY!

Les & Trudy

I am fascinated by the long-ago recollections by others of my parents.

les and trudyA few months ago, on a Binghamton listserv I follow, I was a tad startled to read, seemingly out of the blue, in response to someone else’s comment:

Q: Do you know who Leslie Greene is/was? he was born in 1927 became very close friends with my parents, he was black, his wife was white…I believe he was elected commissioner in the 70’s.

John (who’s about a decade older than I, and went to my church): Sadly the LESLIE GREEN that I knew passed away some years ago. His son Roger Green is a member of the I AM FROM BINGHAMTON NY site. Knew LES & his Wife as the GREEN Family was a major part of our TRINITY AME ZION CHURCH and active in the general African American Community and the General Binghamton NY area… Continue reading “Les & Trudy”

John Lennon: #9 Dream

JohnLennon_tapeThis is the anniversary of John Lennon’s death, which I always remember. Obviously, he was taken by the number nine. He was born on the 9th of October (1940), as was his son Sean (1975).

Reportedly, The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein first saw them perform on the 9th of December, 1961. “Beatles experts might dispute the actual date, but John Lennon recalled November 9, 1966 as the date when he first met Yoko Ono.”

He even died on the 9th, in British time. The owner of FantaCo, Tom Skulan, reminded me that, after I got the word – on Monday Night Football, no less – I called him, and others, with the sad news.

He included the number 9 in many of his songs, such as Revolution #9. LISTEN to #9 Dream from his 1974 album Walls and Bridges. The single coincidentally peaked at number 9 on the Billboard Hot 100 US charts.
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Who Was the Walrus? Analyzing the Strangest Beatles Song, which you can LISTEN to.

The writing exercise, in which Dad’s paintings appear

Those particular creations represent a certain impermanence, not unlike life itself in general, and my father’s life, which ended August 10, 2000, in particular.

painting
Back in May, I participated in this ninety-minute writing class from a woman named Diane Cameron. Among many other things, she’s a freelance writer who appears in the local newspaper regularly.

The directive was to think of three doors that were important in your life. Then you write about one of them for four minutes. And by “writing,” this means not taking the pen off the paper, not editing, just letting the words take us where they would.

The first door was the outside door at 5 Gaines Street, Binghamton, NY, the house in which I lived for the first 18 years of my life. We lived in a two-family dwelling, so this was the door to the hallway. It was very thick, as I recall, painted white, with green trim.

Inside the first-floor dwelling was the living room, very tiny by today’s standards. The remarkable thing, though, was the fact that my father painted on the walls. I don’t mean he hung his paintings on the wall, but that he painted art directly ONTO the walls.

The picture above was located between two of the windows in the front of the house. I think it was a re-creation of some painting he had admired, though I couldn’t tell you what. It seems that the colors were muted oranges, and tans, and maybe greens.

On the opposite wall was a sharp contrast: a mountain scene, all blue and black and gray and white. Very forceful and bright, where other painting was subtle and subdued. (The woman was dad’s mother, Agatha, who lived upstairs with her husband, and would die less than two years after this photo was taken.)

The feeling I got from the writing exercise was of some significant sadness. Those pictures are long gone, like the solar system he painted on my ceiling, or the Felix the Cat he created for my sisters’ bedroom. Other paintings and drawings and writings he created live on. So those particular creations represent a certain impermanence, not unlike life itself in general, and his life, which ended August 10, 2000, in particular.

I had thought of those paintings many times before. But only after this writing exercise did they resonate so greatly. Thanks, Diane, I think.
grandma green_Mt pic

D-Day; Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou was just this FORCE, her speaking voice like music, her wisdom and compassion evident in every sentence.

dday.kn17825As D-Day approaches, all I can think about are 90-year-old men who saw awful things but sucked it up to get through the events, and then stoically never talked about them. That is until 50 or 60 or 70 years later – goaded by family members or in recognition of their own mortality, as at least 600 WWII vets die EVERY DAY in the US – they start telling their stories. And while unique, they are the same story, of friends, of an officer who died that day, of bodies they tripped over while trying to maintain their position.

And, almost inevitably, they cry. They weep for those comrades they still know by name 70 years after they perished, tears that they weren’t allowed to shed at the time because it wouldn’t have been “manly.”

In some ways, it reminds me of the Holocaust survivors who blocked out the horror they saw until much later. They say “war is hell” for a reason. And that was a conflict generally supported by the American public, something I must say I’ve never really experienced in my lifetime; either initially or subsequently, Americans have grown weary of the wars we fought.

So World War II becomes “the good war.” As though there is any such thing.


maya_angelouAll these people have written these great Maya Angelou stories and cited her quotes. And while I’ve read a lot of great tributes to her, I don’t have one and haven’t seen one, that exactly captures my feelings, though “Scandal” and “Grey’s Anatomy” showrunner Shonda Rhimes tweeting simply, “Maya” is pretty close.

I mean, I remember seeing the 1979 TV adaptation of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and only reading the book later. Or I could note seeing her in everything from Roots to Sesame Street to Touched by an Angel. Sometime recently, I even linked to her calypso singing. Unfortunately, I never met her, though I’m likely to have been as tongue-tied as Keef was.

But for me, she was just this FORCE, her speaking voice like music, her wisdom and compassion evident in every sentence. For decades she was like a grandmother talking, trying to relay important knowledge.

I bought for The Wife, probably for some occasion in early 2002 – Valentine’s Day or our anniversary – Hallmark tan/green pottery bowl with these Maya Angelou words inside: “Life is a glorious banquet, a limitless and delicious buffet.”

The morning Maya died, I was reading someone’s Facebook post, someone who was hoping that she would get better after she’d declined to attend some event in her honor. Then the Albany NBC-TV affiliate, WNYT, citing a station in Winston-Salem, NC reported her death. But still, I waited until other sources confirmed it – and her Wikipedia post quickly noted her in the past tense – before I could really believe it.

Ramblin' with Roger
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