Life Behind the Velvet Rope: Featuring Maxwell

November 29, 2012

Dear Maxwell,

I don't think I've written a real fan letter since John Schneider starred in the Dukes of Hazard, so you're in fine company.

Or something like that.

Last weekend, I had the good fortune of attending your Winter Warm-Up Concert at the Foxwoods/MGM Grand Theatre. It was a make-up for me too. Last summer, I scored, (sniff) fifth row (sniff, sniff) tickets to your cancelled shows in New Jersey. Man, was I ready to rock my jumpsuit. An epic weekend for sure.

But then there was that throat surgery.

And my jumpsuit stayed in the closet.

Fast forward to Saturday night. And excuse me if I get a little pissy. My irritation isn't directed towards you. Nope. I'm angry for you. And I guess it's been brewing for a while.

Truth is, I've been a fan since the very beginning. And outside of 'For Lovers Only' (I'm sorry. Any touch of country twang gives me instant hives), you can do no wrong. I am still amazed how every single one of your albums, from start to finish, are going strong in my personal rotation. That's a testament, not only to your perfectionism, but your refusal to cave to outside pressure to release a project until you deem it finished. Even as the world loses patience with your timeline.

With a whole bunch of live shows under my belt, nine and counting, I've also been privy to not only your consummate professionalism, but your extreme humility. I had the privilege of hanging out at the Times Square meet and greet after your last show in June, 2010. And that's where it all started to click for me. The metaphor of life behind the velvet rope that must ring a bit too true.

Straight up: Folks forget there's an actual person powering that voice. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Here's the thing, after a free cosmo, or three, and the urging of my angel husband, I worked my way over to say hello. I couldn't get this close and pass up this opportunity--or worse, take on the negative vibe of the sour ladies a table away, who were incredulous that you weren't working the room.

I got my reward alright. Two unsolicited hugs. That's right. Read it and weep. What's my secret? It wasn't a low cut blouse, red lips or heavy fawning. I think we connected because, newsflash, I treated you like a real person. Listen, that's just what I do, but it became clear to me, through your sweet shyness, this human to human vibe is far from the norm. Especially in this hyped up celebrity hungry world of: "What Have You Done For Me Lately?"

So listen man, because you've proven to me over and over that you are a genuine solid dude, I've got your back with this whole Winter Warm-Up mess. Go ahead and cover your ears because it's going to get ugly; I know you're a lover, not a fighter. But some of this East Coast Maxwell Nation has got it a bit twisted and they need to stand corrected.

Listen, NJ and CT. I so get it. I'm a Northeast girl. You know, AKA the center of the universe. But these two shows that came our way didn't come courtesy of hitting the Maxwell lottery. The low-down: Brooklyn brother, just came off throat surgery. He can rehab all he wants in the privacy of his own Manhattan digs. But eventually, if he wants to keep on performing live, he's going to have to bring those pipes out into the public.

For a test.

Yup. Sorry. You can go on believing that Maxwell really loves us best. (You do, don't you, Max?) But the truth is those two Warm-Up shows could have easily been called: Let's Take To The Stage and See What We've Got. Now would not be the time to tell me you were expecting some sort of full-fledged stadium production. I repeat. Two. Dates.

And, could we just pause for a second and consider the balls it took to come out on stage in the first place? Maxwell doesn't know how his voice is going to hold up over two hours, nevermind two days. And with a cold on top of everything, I'd say all things considered, he worked it out better than fine. He's a man, not a machine.

Yeah, I would have been cool with an more accurate start time, and spending more time in my room, enjoying another bottle of two buck chuck, instead of rushing to try to get to church on time. But how much of that is in Maxwell's personal control and how much lies with the venue and/or promoters? Someone hook me up with a drink next time and we're straight.

Maxwell, you've still got my admiration and respect. And that rendition of 'Symptom Unknown'? Off the chart. I only wish my husband had the sense to illegally video it.

So what the hell is up with the rest of you? Where's the love? The appreciation? Does anyone remember that EIGHT YEAR vacation a certain someone took not too long ago. And wasn't this Thanksgiving weekend after all. Can't we just be grateful the surgery seems to have corrected the problem and no one's dealing with a career ending injury? Stand up in our damn seats and dance in the aisles?

Maxwell, you're still here right? I so get it now. So go on. Poof. Disappear if you must. Book some sort of Caribbean cruise and hide behind your straw fedora and Ray Bans. Apparently absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. Oh, and if you make it to Puerto Rico, can you bring me back some rum?

Until next time, with much respect and appreciation,

Dawn from Providence

Journalism's Dirty Little Secret: Who's Paying for the Content?

Bravo Pete Wells and the New York Times for the outstandingly poor review of Guy Fieri's Times Square restaurant.

Seriously.

You can read the whole thing here. 

Or just opt for some highlights, um, lowlights that start like this:  "GUY FIERI, have you eaten at your new restaurant in Times Square?"

Followed by:  "Were you struck by how very far from awesome the Awesome Pretzel Chicken Tenders are? If you hadn’t come up with the recipe yourself, would you ever guess that the shiny tissue of breading that exudes grease onto the plate contains either pretzels or smoked almonds? Did you discern any buttermilk or brine in the white meat, or did you think it tasted like chewy air?"

And:  "How, for example, did Rhode Island’s supremely unhealthy and awesomely good fried calamari — dressed with garlic butter and pickled hot peppers — end up in your restaurant as a plate of pale, unsalted squid rings next to a dish of sweet mayonnaise with a distant rumor of spice?"

Nope. I don't have anything out for Guy, who actually married a Rhode Islander, and I highly doubt Mr. Wells does either. The reason I love this piece is not only for its brutal honesty, but the simple fact that it got printed. Period.

Seeing this in black and white means the newspaper found the message more important than potentially offending an advertiser, like say the entire Food Network. And that's a beautiful thing. Standard practice, right? Not so much. The nasty little secret within too much of the journalism world is: Cash trumps truth.

Those impartial reviews? Depending on the publication, not always impartial at all. Back in the day, I gave a poor review to a Providence restaurant for some things that a responsible owner should have had tabs on: a dusty interior and a freezer burnt dessert. Yum. I thought, and continue to think, that my job as a writer is to provide an objective view, including the good and the bad.

Not so much.

That was the beginning of the end of my review career at that publication. Why? Because there, as in too many establishments, it's not the editorial department that's in charge of content. It's the advertisers. And if they don't like what you've written about them, they'll retaliate by pulling their ad dollars, causing the publisher to take a walk into the newsroom and have a little chat with the editor about getting their writers in check.

And trust, this is something that I didn't learn about in journalism classes.

The truth is Guy Fieri and his New York restaurant will continue to do just fine, bad review or not. I've made the mistake of eating in the heart of Times Square, where success seems to be marked by churning out a high volume of non-offensive food as quickly as possible so the tourists can get back to their day. Seems like Guy's not only got that covered, but I'd hazard a guess he's known exactly what he's doing all along.

It's just that someone, who clearly appreciates the art of food, decided to call him on it. And for that Pete Wells and The New York Times, I give you a standing O.

Poverty? Your Problem.

Blame the Rhode Island Affordable Housing Bond for sending me officially over the edge. The referendum called for $25 million to fund the construction or renovation of about 600 affordable housing units statewide. It got approved alright. By the smallest margin of all the referendums. Why? Because no one gives a shit about poor people.

Barrington, Foster, North Smithfield and West Greenwich, thank you for proving my point. For those of you who don't call the Ocean State home, what these communities share is the luxury to be removed from the situation. In other words: Not my problem.

The percentage of people voting to reject the affordable housing bond in these communities was, respectively: 54.2%, 51.2%, 54% and 50.6%. (November 7, Providence Journal).  How does this compare with the child poverty rate? Pretty darn directly. According Kids Count, the 2006-2010 stats, per respective community, are: 2.4%, 3.1%, 5.6% and 9.3%. But in Providence? My  'hood? The child poverty rate clocks in at 35.6%. Let that marinate for a second. Over one third of the kids living in the capital city live under the poverty line. Here, the bond got approved by 80.5%.

Go figure.

Newsflash: This IS your problem. This is my problem. This is everyone's problem.

The mindset we've created in this state, where fake casinos have become the third largest source of tax revenue--your problem. (Trust. No one's going to confuse Twin River with Foxwoods. Ever.) The culture created where big money goes to a washed-up major league pitcher to create fantasy jobs--your problem. That the 'affordable' in-state university now costs $10K + for tuition alone--your problem. The fact that I've recently counseled four young people in my community about getting a GED--all your problem.

And what do these 'poor people' have in common with you? Humanity for sure. A desire to do better. And yes, economics. I was recently floored by a point made by Race 2012 on PBS that presented a concept that should change the tide of opinion, and needs to be re-broadcast. Loudly, even though it's strictly financially based and a sad commentary that money always commands attention, especially over social reform.

So, hear this:  Those uneducated young people that have no place in your world? Those 'poor, poor people' that you manage to avoid on the daily, so you won't catch something from them? Someday in the not so distant future, you're going to need them. That's right. This young generation, currently deemed as disposable, are someday going to be the ones to finance YOUR social security.

I repeat. Your problem.

The amazing thing about poverty is that it's just a symptom. It's not a lifestyle choice. It's not a grand aspiration. It's not a death sentence. And the solution? Shockingly easy. Education. For all. So can we just commit to doing our part to help?

As I was feverishly typing this, my husband recruited me for a mentoring opportunity at Rhode Island College, called Learning for Life. Its mission? To provide support to help first generation college students stay in school and obtain their degrees.

No accidents. I'm in.

And you?

The Politics of Presents

Welcome to November 1st--otherwise known as only 54 shopping days until Christmas.

When did this become our starting point? Or more importantly, how do we make it end?

For me, the gig is finally up. Yup. 2012 marks the official start of our no presents policy. No holiday gifts. No birthday gifts. BAM! There are a few exceptions to the rule. Little ones. Secret Santa, but that's about it. I know you're secretly jealous.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to address the issue a few years back. But I wasn't as strong in my convictions. It took a bit more soul searching--and needling from my husband who prodded with, "Well, you could just keep being a follower..." to put me in a brave(r) place. (Attacks on my personal character, even tongue-in-cheek, never fail to motivate.)

The problem for me? The complicated politicizing of presents, that goes way beyond massive consumerism. I'm a communicator. And a relationships girl. I like the connections fostered with others. I enjoy learning about people. Their passions, dreams. What makes them tick. Really listening to what they're saying. And I value the experiences shared with the folks in my life, way over stuff.

To me, gift giving is extension of that day-to-day connection, not some sort of obligation or, worse, a replacement for it.  In its purest form, A present should say:  This made me think of you. Or:  I thought you would enjoy this. Period. End of story. There's no ill will behind true gift giving. No one-upmanship. No competition. It should be a simple, joyful act, to give and receive.

But when presents go rote obligation, as dictated by our society and the National Retail Federation, the communications behind them get a whole lot more complicated. Instead of buying something because you want to, you do it because you have to, cursing those hard-to-buy-for peeps on your list. But the greater truth, here, is completely ignored. The real reason they're hard to buy for is because you don't know them.

At all.

And granted, it's easy to just continue the cycle. Same as it ever was. You could follow the template, placating yourself with the tired mantra:  It's the thought that counts. And maybe it is, as long as you're counting the real thought:  I grabbed this right before I got to the check-out, so I could check you off the list.

And really, how is this good for anyone?

When Andre started a new job just weeks before last Christmas, and small gifts began appearing on his desk, he was faced with the dilemma of what to get his co-workers. I made the really bold suggestion that maybe it should be nothing. Maybe he could opt out of the stuff, with a personalized card, telling each co-worker how they helped him transition into his new position. It was a hit.

None of this should be revolutionary stuff.

But unfortunately it all is.

What ARE you, RICH?

For some bizarro reason, people often times think I'm rolling in the dough.

(I'm not. See last week's post.)

I suppose I should take it as a compliment. Because truthfully, it just really annoys me on too many levels to count. The short answer is what I lack in cash, I make up with my outstanding bargain hunting abilities, also known as the exact same research skills I've honed as a writer. I use them to buy quality things that, apparently, are making me appear rich.

Case in point: This lambskin leather travel bag. Classic black. I will have it forever. If you see me at the airport in another thirty years, I will literally be carrying this baby-- provided, of course, I can still sling twenty pounds over my shoulder.

How much would you pay for it? Hint: It retailed originally at Land's End for $299.

The bag started off on their mark-down site at $179. I snatched it up once it got slashed an additional 50 percent to $89. The day that I purchased it, there was a 30 percent off coupon, which also included free shipping. So my $299 bag went into my shopping cart at $60.

Impressive. I guess. But I wasn't quite done.

We charge just about everything, paying the bills in full every month, in order to rack up those retail points, without paying any interest. As a result, I had a $50 Land's End gift certificate free and clear. And once I applied that sucker, my $299 bag cost me a whopping, drum roll please, $10.

So no, I'm not rich.

Just smart.