Today is Valentine”s Day.  We’re surrounded by love songs, conversation hearts and privy to mobile uploads of romantic dinners and sappy words of love on Facebook and Twitter.

But let’s be honest. Before you found the love of your life, you had to endure a lot of frogs. Although a day doesn’t go by where my husband and I don’t say the words “I love you’ to each other, it’s always good to put things in perspective.

Back in my single days I met a self-professed matchmaker. She was the neighbor of a friend and, after repeated offers of introducing me to my perfect match, I gave in. She did not charge for her services. The only requirement was that she would be invited to the wedding.

The man she extolled sounded promising. He was a lawyer who frequently appeared on talk shows like Phil Donahue (The “Oprah” of his day)  to share his expert opinion on the trial du jour.

Ms. Matchmaker described him as tall, good-looking, fit, funny, successful, charismatic and owner of his apartment in Manhattan.

When Ted called we had that lightly disguised blind date pre-interview to determine if we would detest each other. Since the conversation went well we made plans for dinner. Much to my delight, he suggested one of my favorite restaurants in New York – a little New Orleans-style cafe in Chelsea.

Ted asked if I would mind meeting him at the restaurant since it was in his neighborhood. I did mind, because I believed that a mensch looking for a shidduch  should call for a woman at her door for the first date.  However, this was New York in the ’80′s so I said, “Of course I don’t mind. ”

The night of The Date, he called again to ask if I would meet him at his apartment instead. I bristled at that idea. I didn’t know him or Ms. Matchmaker who vouched for his upstanding reputation. These were the days before the Internet and “googling” him was not an option. Reluctantly, I agreed. I would meet him at his apartment, but I would not go inside. For all I knew, he was a crazed murderer / serial rapist. I was feeling less and less optimistic about The Date.

When I arrived at his door, he asked me to step inside while he got his coat. I did so, with my back against the open door so I could run into the corridor when he pulled out the huge butcher knife that he, no doubt, had hidden in his hall closet.

What came out was not a knife, but about 100 empty soda bottles, tumbling in every direction. He kicked a few out of the way and, as we walked the 20 blocks to the restaurant (not what I would call in his “neighborhood”)  he explained that each bottle was worth a nickle. It wasn’t as if he was concerned about recycling or the environment, he just wanted his nickle back. “It’s not their nickle, “ he said defensively, “It was a deposit. It’s my money. They owe it to me. It’s mine.” Uh oh.

I had dressed to impress, not for comfort, so by the time we walked into the restaurant I was freezing and my high-heeled encased feet were throbbing but I had worked up an appetite on the walk. I knew from experience that the food was good and, on weekends, the restaurant had a jazz quartet.  If nothing else, I’d enjoy my shrimp etouffee and a little music.

As we checked our coats, Ted said that he ate at the restaurant often since the owner was a client of his. I thought it odd that he didn’t receive a warm welcome as the restaurant’s counsel or as a frequent customer. We were seated abruptly and menus were unceremoniously shoved into our hands. Although I would have enjoyed a glass of wine, Ted discouraged me. He explained that the owner owed him money for his legal services, so he ate there for free but alcoholic beverages were not part of the “deal.”

I was ready to bail but after the cab fare, a Doctor Zhivago-esque walk and sacrificing an evening with friends (who were accustomed to paying for their meals) I hung in there. Maybe the evening would turn around.

What might surprise you, Gentle Reader, is that Ted was attempting to impress me.  Apparently, he was having a great date. Settled in with our entrees (appetizers were also discouraged ) Ted felt comfortable enough to show me the humor and charisma that had so charmed Ms. Matchmaker.  He told me that he was an amateur comic and did impressions. Since I felt like crying at this point, I encouraged him to share some with me.

His first impression was of Herbert Hoover. The second was of J.D. Salinger. Gentle Reader, you know that nothing will impress a lady more than impressions of pre-television era dead presidents and known recluses.

Dinner finally ended. If it was possible to stun me further, he did so. He signed for the meal and loudly announced (to the chagrin of neighboring diners) that the amount would be deducted from the past due bill for his legal services. Apparently our server must have owed him money too, because he didn’t leave a tip. And the coat check girl must have been a client who defaulted on her legal fees as well.

I slunk out of the restaurant, knowing I would no longer dare to show my face there again. Once outside, I raised my arm and, in a rare stroke of luck, a cab pulled over immediately. Despite  the etiquette my parents had instilled in me, I was completely unable to utter the words “Thank you” to my date.  I could only shake my head in horror as Ted stood smiling on the sidewalk shouting after my retreating cab, “This was fun. Let’s do it again.”

On the ride uptown, I sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. “Happy that’s over?” he asked. For the next 15 minutes, I regaled him with the story of The Worst Blind Date Ever. I told him I should have left at the first sign. The cabbie explained that he had quit his Wall Street job because he hated each and every day. Yes, he made significantly less money now but, at least for the present, he was happy, driving around and talking with people. “Sometimes, “ he said, “You just have to listen to what your heart is telling you to do.”

As bad as my Blind Date was, my evening ended on a spectacular note.

Long before I discovered where I was politically, I needed to find where I fit in spiritually.  I was born into Judaism, but religion was not part of our every day lives.

We were “holiday Jews, “attending shul only during the High Holy Days.  I understood the liberation of “my” people, through the Haggadah, read each spring at Passover.  I understood Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, having lost my Grandfather when I was very young. My comprehension of Judaism ended there.

Jeannie Werther, my best friend in elementary school, attended classes in Judaism as part of her long road to Bat Mitzvah.  One day, we had a play date scheduled after school and I went to class with her.  My eyes were opened to an undiscovered part of who I was.  I asked my parents if I could also attend the classes, which they dismissed as a passing phase.  So, regardless of their decision and without their knowledge, the following  week I left school with Jeannie once again.  While my parents were frantic, thinking I had been abducted by a child molester or kidnapped for ransom, I was happily sitting in a classroom, learning how to be a Jew.

In Junior High, brought on by a fascination with Godspell and the story of Jesus, I befriended Mary Conklin as my new BFF / Catholic tutor.  She loved her religion, and would positively glow when she returned from retreats.  She presented me with my own rosary, which I concealed from my parents.  After all, if they would not support my interest in being a better Jew, they certainly would not be thrilled by my interest in converting to Catholicism.

By high school, I was searching for unorthodox options.  I read a few books on witchcraft, but quickly dismissed that option.  At the time, Wicca was either non-existent or unknown.

In my early 20’s, a friend of mine brought me to a meeting, where she practiced Nichiren Shoshu Buddhism.  People sat cross-legged in front of an alter adorned with fresh fruit, flowers, water and a scroll and chanted, “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.” Following the ritual chanting of the full Lotus Sutra, participants would stand and give testimonials. They would exclaim how they chanted for true love, and found it, a new job, and found it, a new refrigerator, and found it.  After a month of meetings, I decided that I, too, needed stuff. With my friend and a senior member of the group, I traveled to Brooklyn, where I underwent my conversion to Buddhism.  It was only then that I learned that the true goal of Nichiren Buddhism was world peace.

I received my very own scroll, and I set up an alter in my bedroom.  Twice a day, I would chant, wishing for true love, a better job (and, also, world peace.)

But my inquisitiveness, as always, was my downfall.  I began to question what I was actually chanting.  I asked for an English translation and, after a few months of not receiving the answer (no matter how diligently I chanted,) I rolled up my scroll, dismantled my alter and ate the apples in the bowl.

I left the concept of religion alone for a while.  Then, while undergoing radiation therapy for Hodgkin’s disease, I met many people who were finding great comfort in their faith and my search began anew.

Shortly after, while living in California, I learned that a co-worker also taught Hebrew and Jewish Studies to elementary schoolchildren.  I had every intention of joining her class, with absolutely no qualms about being the only adult, but the 4 PM mid-week time conflicted with work, so my goal of becoming a Bat Mitzvah was dashed.

After I returned to New York I learned that a new friend, who was Thai, was Buddhist. (Real Buddhism, not the pop culture version that I had practiced.) I pressed him endlessly about his religion.  I realized that I was far too Western in my ideals to fully embrace Buddhism, although the Noble Eightfold Path has become my touching stone for times of stress in my life.

I concluded that I would take the best of what I had learned from Jeannie, Mary, Tali and Tawee and live as a spiritual person without feeling obligated to an organized religion.

My religion is the beauty of a sunset, the first firefly of the season; it is in the rabbit that stops so close to me that I can see it’s nose twitching.

This week, while taking in a few moments of sun outside my restaurant, I noticed a strange flat squiggle in the parking lot.  On further inspection, I discovered that it was perfectly identifiable as a snake, which apparently was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  For some reason, I was drawn to it, and was fascinated that, even after heavy rains and hail, nothing could wash it away.

The following day, I took a stroll during a break and found myself looking, once again, at the snake.  Perhaps, I thought, this is my spiritual guide.  Given a choice, I would have liked it to be a snow goose or a leopard, but spiritual guides are not ours to choose.  I was dismayed, thinking of all the negative connotations of snakes, until I realized that snakes are only evil within organized religion, which I don’t participate in.  I found myself liking idea of the snake as my spiritual guide.  It is the symbol of the Gadsden flag, and it was the snake that, figuratively speaking,  first said,   “Take the red pill.”

Fulfilled at last, I looked around to admire the beauty that surrounded me.  I watched as a finch hopped from the grass and across the parking lot, repeatedly returning to a storm drain.  It alternated between chirping and trilling.  When I returned a few hours later, the finch was still repeating its agitated actions.  I walked over and peered through the heavy iron grate that covered the drain.  Inside, were two baby birds standing in a few inches of stagnant water.

Perhaps it was fate that our afternoon crowd had thinned out, and only our friends remained after a leisurely lunch, enjoying a visit.  I announced a rescue mission, and Rich and Robert found a crowbar and somehow managed to remove the heavy iron grate.  Robert and I were able to guide the baby birds into a long-handled dustpan with a broom.  We gently placed them on the grass and stepped away.  Stunned and wet, but no worse for the wear, they were soon joined by the two adult finches that stood protectively by, as their babies’ feathers dried in the warm afternoon sun.  Shortly after, they took flight and disappeared into the summer sky.

Hello, Nature.  It’s me – Ellen.

Rise up this mornin,
Smiled with the risin sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin, this is my message to you:

Singin: dont worry about a thing,
Every little thing gonna be all right.

A few days ago, during the fifth day of torrential downpours in the Northeast, more than one female friend complained of a”bad hair day” in their Facebook status updates.  No wonder that hair care is a multi-billion dollar a year industry!

My hair and I have a long history.  I was born with a tumble of thick waves.  For the first ten years of my life, it was my mother’s battle to tame my hair.

For most of my childhood, her solution was to pull my hair into bunches that were like two swatting horsetails on either side of my head.  It was pure relief to release my hair from its torturous manacles before bedtime.  However, by morning it would, once again, be an unruly, tangled mass.  I would sit, calmly eating my Cocoa Puffs as my mother would wring her hands in despair.  She wondered how she could have spawned such a wild-haired little ragamuffin, so in contrast to her perfectly sleek hair and my sister’s straight and even locks.  She often compared me to the neighbor’s sheepdog, Tidy, who was anything but.

When we went to visit my grandparents, my mother would spend extra time doing battle with my hair to achieve the “Rich Girl” style.  She would pull the front locks tightly back over my crown and fasten them securely with a jumbo barrette, while the rest of my hair was left to spiral and swirl into natural waves.  I would complain bitterly after an hour.  My head literally throbbed and often moved me to tears.

In a last ditch effort to control my hair and save me from repeated anguish, my mother took me to have my hair straightened at a place recommended by my father’s cousin.  (My cursed hair came from his side of the family.) All of the operators and clientele in the dingy walk-up in the heart of Times Square were either Latina or Black.  I was delighted.  Finally, people who could relate to my hair issues!

Hours later, as we headed home, my mother cooed that I looked just like a little ballerina.  (Have you ever seen a ballerina with frizzy, wavy hair?  Her point exactly.)  Unfortunately, two months later my curls fought their way out again.  I begged my mother to bring me back to Joffrey’s, but the experience was too much.  She threw her hands up in the air, and left me to my own devices.

The ’70′s, a decade without any fashion sense, was my era of hair bliss.  I parted it in the middle and let it do its own thing. The only issue I had was when I was in a play set in the Smoky Mountains.  Being a “Method” actress, I cajoled my hair into two braids and pinned them on top of my head.  After the dress rehearsal, during the director’s notes, I took out the pins.  Much to the amusement of other cast members, my braids stuck out horizontally.  A fellow actress asked if I had wires in my hair, exclaiming that I looked just like Pippi Longstocking.  Her remark was neither a compliment nor an insult.  It was a statement of wonder and awe that my hair could simply defy gravity.

After college and living on my own, I finally had the freedom and money to experiment with hair color.  I called my friend whose father was an executive with Clairol, and was fast-tracked into their “test model” pool.  I thought I would look fetching with auburn hair, and was put into the “red room.”  On a cold snowy winter day, I let the scientists at Clairol have their way with me.  The color was not quite what I expected, but it was close.  The timing was perfect – my family was gathering in Manhattan to celebrate an occasion.  Tonight would be my relaunch.

I stepped off the crosstown bus outside my apartment feeling rejuvenated.  As I stopped to admire myself in the side mirror of a parked van,  my smug smile turned into an expression of horror.  In the direct sunlight, my hair was a bold shade of purple that only the most die-hard punk rockers sported in Picadilly Circus.

I raced upstairs and frantically called Clairol.  The perky receptionist thanked me for reporting the color change.  “You don’t understand, ” I wailed,  “I can’t go to dinner like this!”

The colorist explained that, because my hair was so thick, there wouldn’t be enough time to fix the problem immediately.  He told me of a product I could buy that would remove “most” of the color.

A half hour later I poured the precious contents of Metallix over my purple tresses and waited impatiently for the slick, slimy concoction to work its magic.  After a seemingly endless twenty minutes, I turned on the shower.  A sputtering of cold water dribbled feebly from the faucet.  I realized that, once again, I would not be gifted with hot water in my quaint turn of the century apartment.  Gritting my teeth, I turned the handle to the “tub” mode, and stuck my head under the freezing water, sudsing and scrubbing at the oily purple mass that was my hair.

Less than an hour later, dressed appropriately with my freshly-washed hair cascading down my shoulders, I greeted my family at Le Cirque.  “Your hair is pink!” my sister hissed at me.  I nodded benevolently, happy for the vast improvement.

You would think, gentle readers, that I would have learned by now to let nature have its way.  But I was determined to reinvent my mousy brown hair into something spectacular.  After my “single process” experience, I decided to try highlighting.

I booked my appointment at a local salon.  A tight rubber  perforated cap was placed over my head.  With a crochet hook, the stylist proceeded to pull out a dozen hairs at a time.  When I looked like Pinhead from “Hellraiser,” the exposed hairs were smothered in thick bleach.  The experience was far more painful (and malodorous) than the “Rich Girl” style of my youth.

Next I tried the “foils” method of highlighting.  I had no idea that the process would take hours.  When my boyfriend showed up at the salon to meet me, he was faced with a bewildered girlfriend with fifty foil packets sticking haphazardly from her head.  I believed that this would be the moment the relationship ended.  But he simply said, “Cool.  Can you wear your hair like that tonight for ‘The Dead Kennedys’ concert?”

The highlights worked for me.  I mastered the art of blow-drying and my smooth hair shimmered with sun-kissed strands.  Then, I went to California.  I was staying with an actress friend, a Hungarian-born natural blond.  She convinced me to join her for a “touch-up.”  Her hairdresser, a part time colorist / part time call girl, worked out of her home.  As Lizbet and I waited for our locks to transform, we chatted and sipped wine.  After the rinse-out, I seated myself in the chair in front of the mirror.   The reflection was not a golden-haired surfer girl but a New Yorker with albino-white locks.

No one in California noticed anything odd about my appearance.  However, when I returned to Manhattan, I felt very conspicuous, especially when an inch of dark roots gave me a zebra-like appearance.

I found the nearest salon that had a window sign proclaiming “All color services – walk-ins welcome.”  I asked to speak with the colorist.  A tall graceful black man with green eyes and sporting a tiny silver hoop in his ear looked at me compassionately.  He took both my hands in his, and led me to a seat.  “Darling,” he said, “We need to clear an entire day for you!”

Stephen worked wonders and I followed him from salon to salon for years.  Eventually, as I moved to various states, my quest would begin anew for that “someone special.”  Every time I visit a  stylist for the first time, I tell her not to try and tame my hair.  “No matter what you do, ” I explain, “it has a mind of its own and will ultimately do what it wants.” The smart ones follow the curl and the ones who don’t never see me again.  I’ve had my share of bad haircuts (like the one that made me look like a show poodle – I didn’t go out for four months) and bad color (but nothing quite as bad as my flirtation with punk rock.)

Eventually though, armed with an arsenal of products and a professional hairdryer, I have come to terms with my hair.   I acknowledge that there’s a little beast in all of us.  Mine just happens to be my hair.  Fortunately, we have learned to co-exist peacefully.

A decade later Googleplex and Landlubber went the way of Huckapoo and Wayne Rogers shirts.  Designer jeans were in style: Sasson, Gloria Vanderbuilt and, of course, the jeans that made Brooke Shields famous for claiming that “nothing” came between her and her Calvins.

The next step in jean evolution was the emergence of jeans that were so tight they literally left no room for anything between you and your Georges Marciano’s, not even imagination.

When trying them on, it was standard practice to lie on the floor of the dressing room in order to zip up.  We took to shopping with our girlfriends, so they could maneuver our immobile bodies to a standing position, close the ankle zippers and slip on our stiletto shoes, to allow us to admire ourselves in the dressing room mirror.  The question then was never, “Do they fit?” but rather, “Can you breathe?”

It is unfathomable, looking back, how we managed to get ourselves into these jeans by ourselves once we bought them, or how we allowed fashion to dictate that this was the outfit of choice to go disco dancing.  We grinded, we hustled, we bumped, while silently singing, “I will survive!” which had nothing at all to do with the Gloria Gaynor song.

Twenty-five years later, I can dress myself, breathe and, yes, even dance, thanks to the miracle of cotton spandex.

But I started out to write about good genes, not good jeans.

I celebrated a birthday this week.  I don’t feel any older but, after the year I’ve had, I definitely do feel wiser.

The weird thing about getting older is, well, getting older.  Age may be a state of mind but nobody tells your body this little secret.

I am sure that my contemporaries who have children have mentally adjusted to their  age.  They witness their children’s milestones: graduating from high school, graduating from college, getting married, having children of their own.  Without children, however,  life becomes a straight road without these mile-markers. One day you look back in amazement at how far you’ve actually travelled.

Most days I feel the same as I did twenty-plus years ago but then I notice a couple of new gray hairs (I won’t say where) or that my dimples have somehow become elongated,  Each sign of physical age is a startling surprise.  No one takes me for my age and I thank good genes for that blessing.  I am in the best shape in my life, a result of the physical aspect of owning and running a restaurant.  But, at the end of the day, my right hip aches and if something falls on the floor, my husband and I look at each other, hoping the other one will bend down to pick it up.

All in all, I’d like to think that I am growing older graciously.  Our nieces and nephews see my husband and myself as hip (unless, of course, we actually use the word “hip.”)  I still revel in the fact that we get to sit at the “adult” table at holiday dinners, although I’m usually sitting at the annexed bridge table by dessert.

I still believe that you’re only as old as you feel and, most days, I feel pretty damn good.  It’s rewarding to know that I can still fit into those jeans from long ago, but it is even better to possess the common sense that comes with age that tells me not to even try.

Like many other writers, I thought it would be appropriate to focus this week’s blog on motherhood.  After a couple of false starts, I abandoned the idea.  I am not a mother, so all of my thoughts were sentimental tributes to my mother.  Being my biggest fan, she certainly would have enjoyed them, but the nostalgic recollections might leave even my gentle readers a little bored.

However, after the Hallmark Holiday (which is what I call any occasion that involves card-giving, gift-giving, flowers & dinners in a restaurant, all from which I am excluded,) I had an epiphany.  Why not have a “Non-Mother’s Day?”  Many members of our society also  share responsibilities similar to a mother.  Why can’t we have a day to elevate what we do to a Hallmark Holiday, too?  I will let you, gentle reader, be the judge.

Although my husband has never uttered the phrase, “You’re not my mother!” I am sure that many of you have heard this.  That’s my point:  we’re not your mothers, but, at times, it may be difficult to differentiate between life partner and Mom.  What do you think?

We shop for food
We decide on recipes and lovingly prepare meals that you’ll enjoy
We make sure all of the food groups are represented
We discourage you from living on hamburgers, pizza and chicken nuggets

We clean up after cooking.
We pre-rinse the dirty dishes before loading the dishwasher
We search the house for the dirty glasses and plates mysteriously hiding in the most obscure places
We empty the dishwasher and know where everything goes

We pick up the dirty laundry from wherever it’s been peeled off (the living room, the bathroom, the garage???)
We do the laundry
We know which cycles to use for the best results
We understand the use of bleach
We add fabric softener so your clothes are soft and smell nice
We surreptitiously throw out shirts with stains or the socks with holes
We fold the laundry and put it away

We clean hairbrushes and combs
We clean the bathroom mirrors of toothpaste foam
We make sure there is shampoo and soap in the shower
We are the only ones who know how to re-load a roll of toilet paper

We feed the dog
We clean out the litter box
We make the vet appointments

We schedule play-dates with others
We remember the dates of specials occasions and shop for the gifts
We make sure that there are snacks & drinks for when your friends come over to play

We listen to your excitement or your disappointment when you tell us about your day

We encourage you to keep your own space neat & tidy
We remind you to do your chores

We know when to walk away from a silly tantrum

We tuck you into bed when you’re not feeling well,  hold you close,and kiss your forehead
We know where the thermometer, band-aids and aspirin are kept
We’ll stay up all night while you sleep, just in case you need us

We love you unconditionally.

There was a time when there was little I enjoyed more than a brand new book, the audible snap as as the spine bent for the first time, the crisp smells of bleached paper and ink rising from the pages.

As hardcover books became priced beyond my allowance, I then had to wait impatiently for the paperback version to be released.  As paperbacks ultimately reached the price of those long ago hard covers, I became more and more reluctant to purchase a book by an unknown author, no matter how enticing the back cover blurb or how intriguing the first page.

Between the high production cost and the decline in buyers, the publishing industry is dying.  The age of technology has put the printed word into cyberspace, available for instant gratification with a finger tap.  I don’t know of anyone who subscribes to a printed newspaper anymore.  Most of us sit down at our computers and pull up the headlines news, whether it is local, national or international, with a click of a button.  All of the essential facts are summarized – we don’t even have to skim a story to find out the basic information.   No wonder The Rocky Mountain Times has ceased to exist and The Seattle Post Intelligencer is now only available on-line. The Tribune Company, which owns the Chicago Tribune, The Los Angeles Times and my local paper, The Morning Call, filed for bankruptcy protection in December.   Even “The Gray Lady” is in trouble. The New York Times advertising revenue has dropped by over 16% and they have a debt that comes due this year. Additionally, the next generation of Sulzberger’s have no interest in running the paper and have only stayed involved thus far for the big payouts. However, since those have dropped 74%, why would they stick around?  It’s not a business for their generation.  Actually, at this point, it’s not a business for any generation.

Computers have taken diminished our two essential skills for reading enjoyment:  focus and imagination. Because of our newfound abilities to surf the net for information on just about any subject instantly, our ability to read and stay focused for an extended period has deteriorated.  The idea of reading a novel that is over 400 pages long is paralyzing to some.  Are we reverting to our childhood needs where a book wasn’t interesting unless it had pictures?  Now, even addresses aren’t enough:  we need satellite views and street views.  Even music can no longer stand alone without visual aids.  Back in the early 80’s when only dance clubs had music videos, they consisted of the band performing their songs.  Now, music videos have to show the story, complete with the musicians in full costume on a set.  Does music really have to be a mini-movie?  And, speaking of movies, when was the last time you heard someone say that the book was better than the film?  Most of the “new” releases are just remakes of old TV shows and movies and (gasp!) comic books.  How many people even know that the movie “ The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button” was based on a short story of the same name by F. Scott Fitzgerald?

Those of us who still have our imaginations don’t seem to have the time, or the desire, to physically walk into a bookstore.  We download right to our personal electronic devices.  The publishing industry has declined steadily over the last few years, but advancements in technology, such as Kindle and the i-Phone, have driven a stake through its heart. Unfortunately, no one has told Random House.  During a 6-month delay in publishing Dan Brown’s third installment in the Robert Langdon franchise (The DaVinci Code, Angels & Demons,) Doubleday was forced to lay off 10% of their staff.  Can one novelist save one publisher and prove that the printed word still has merit? Random House is banking on it and has ordered a first printing of 5 million copies of Brown’s “The Lost Symbol,” one of the highest in their history.  I suspect, however, that a few months after its September 15th release, you will be able to pick up a copy of  it on the remainder table, along with other treasures from the Random House vault.

My plans are to go on line to my local library’s website to reserve a copy of “The Lost Symbol.” If I am lucky, I will be the first to snap its spine and run my hands over it’s unblemished pages, although the hard cellophane will definitely take away from that experience.  But, who knows?  I have a birthday between now and then, so maybe I’ll be reading it on my Kindle.

With temperatures hitting the 90’s, it feels like the dog days of summer, even though it’s only April. What perfect timing, however, for ArtsQuest to announce their featured bands for Musikfest 2009. Hallelujah!

For those of us here in the Lehigh Valley, the world outside Musikfest ceases to exist during the first 10 days of August. It is where everyone goes; it’s what everyone is talking about.

For the uninitiated, Muskiest is one of the nation’s premier music festivals with over 300 performances on 14 stages (11 of which are free.)  The 10 day festival takes place in historic Bethlehem PA and features all types and styles of music from local, national and international performers through-out the day and into the night. This year the festival celebrates it’s 25th anniversary and if you’ve never been, it is worth the trip. It’s only 1-½ hours from Manhattan or Philadelphia so you can make this a one-day outing but I would recommend spending at least two days because you won’t want to leave. If you want to be in the heart of the action, book your stay (immediately!) at The Bethlehem Hotel or the Sayre Mansion Inn, a B&B close to the Lehigh University campus.

If the sound of bells ringing is music to your ears, take a break from the festival and try your luck at the brand new Sands Casino. If you’re bringing the kids, plan some time at nearby Dorney Park & Wild Water Kingdom. If lazy days by a lake is more your style, the Lehigh Valley is only about an hour from The Poconos.

Wondering how I will make it through the next three months, I have put together a list of my favorite music bio-pics. Many of these movies are available on Hulu, Joost, Surf The Channel, or Public Domain Torrents.

The Glenn Miller Story (1955) James Stewart in the lead role. Need I say more?
A Hard Day’s Night (1964) The Beatle’s first film which, surprisingly, won 2 Oscars.
Woodstock (1970) This documentary chronicles the legendary 1969 music festival.
Lady Sings The Blues (1972) Diana Ross won an Oscar for her amazing portrayal of Billie Holiday.
The Buddy Holly Story (1978) One of my favorites.   Yes, Gary Busey can act & deserved his Oscar.
The Jazz Singer (fictional) (1980) (remake) With Barbra Steisand and Neil Diamond, who won a Golden Globe for his performance.
Coal Miner’s Daughter (1980) Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn. Another Oscar-winning performance.
This Is Spinal Tap (1984) Rob Reiner’s classic mock rockumentary of the fictional heavy metal band, Spinal Tap.
Amadeus (1984) 11 Oscar nominations and 8 wins. Tom Hulce is endearing as Mozart in Peter Shaffer’s screen adaptation of his hit Broadway play.
La Bamba (1988) The story of Ritchie Valens’ rise from poverty to fame won the Golden Globe for Best Drama.
The Doors (1991) The perfect storm of director Oliver Stone and actor Val Kilmer, as Jim Morrison.
What’s Love Got To Do With It (1993) Angela Bassett and Laurence Fishburne both took home Oscars for their performances as Ike & Tina Turner.
Selena (1997) Before Jennifer Lopez was J. Lo, she was wonderful as Texas -born tejano singer Selena Quintanilla-Perez. She was nominated for a Golden Globe and both she and co-star Edward James Olmos won ALMA awards for their performances.
The Pianist (2002) Oscar-winning performances by Adrien Brody and director Roman Polanski.
Ray (2004) Before “Dreamgirls” and “The Soloist,” Jamie Foxx proved his dramatic actor chops as Ray Charles and has the Oscar to prove it.
Dreamgirls (fictional) (2006) The star-turning role for Oscar recipient Jennifer Hudson and a great come-back for comedian Eddie Murphy, playing it straight.

There are countless other music bio-pics out there. If you don’t see your favorites, please feel free to post your top picks under  “comments.”

The most rewarding aspect of the 500 + TEA (Taxed Enough Already) rallies that took place across the country on April 15 is that people finally said, “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it any more!”

Finally, finally, people have started to take ownership of their anger.  Change isn’t possible without action, whether it is a dictatorship, a government no longer working in the best interests of its people or an unscrupulous corporation or franchisor.  These entities will keep going, keep growing, until enough voices shout, “NO MORE!”

Rich and I have been fighting our own battle against a corporation, which has done everything it can to ruin our lives.

Following the events of 9/11, Rich & I reassessed our values.  We gave up our corporate lifestyles and moved to the bucolic Lehigh Valley.  We wanted a peaceful, if not wealthy, life.

We bought a Quiznos franchise.  Less than 8 months into ownership, Quiznos wrongfully terminated our agreement and then sued us.  It took us almost 3 years to get to court but, after a 5-day bench trial, the judge ruled overwhelmingly in our favor.  (See sidebar.)  Following the verdict, we were interviewed extensively due to the “David v. Goliath” elements of our case.  The one question that every reporter asked was, “Why did Quiznos single you out?”

When we bought a franchise, we bought into a system.  By signing the franchise agreement, we agreed to abide by the franchisor’s requirements, which included selling only Quiznos approved products and maintaining a high standard of excellence in our restaurant.

Shortly after we became “proud” owners, we started noticing a number of disturbing discrepancies.  While the Quiznos franchise agreement stated that Quiznos would sell food at competitive prices why, then, could we walk into a Restaurant Depot (a wholesaler to the restaurant industry) and find the same exact item for significantly less than what Quiznos was charging?  How did the buying power of one surpass the buying power of 4,000?
Also included in the agreement with Quiznos, is that they would take 11% off each store’s gross: 7% royalty payments, 3 % regional advertising fund and 1 % marketing and promotion fee.  After months without seeing any regional advertising, I asked for an accounting of how this money was being spent.  I was told that since Quiznos is a private company, they were not required to give me an accounting or were required to submit to an audit.  So where was that 3% being spent? Quiznos franchisees were barely breaking even and would benefit from the revenue that advertising would generate through an increase in traffic.   Was it possible that the money was being misused to pay the CEO’s $70,000 property taxes on his Denver estate?  Or to staff or fuel his private planes or boats?  I also discovered that the food distributorship was owned by Quiznos and that the profits from the sales of food to Quiznos franchisees made up about 72% of Quiznos corporate profit.  Additionally, I learned that Quiznos owned the company that sold the small wares to the stores (at a profit) and Quiznos owned the payroll service franchisees were required to use, at a higher fee than national competitors. How could I simply accept this without question?  Why would I?

“Be your own boss” is a catch phrase many franchisors use to entice new buyers.  Nothing could be farther from the truth in the Quiznos system.  Once we (meaning the majority of Quiznos owners) bought into the system, we learned that we had paid approximately a quarter of a million dollars for the privilege of being an indentured servant.

So, why did Quiznos single us out?  We did the unthinkable.  We dared to question authority!

And, yes, we paid a high price.  Fighting the lawsuit took everything we had.  We won, at great cost, but we had the victory of knowing that we defended ourselves against a company that was unscrupulous.  We fought the monster, and we won. (Technically, of course. Quiznos has appealed so we are still embroiled in this quagmire.) We accomplished what many others could not. Early on in our battle, the attorney for Quiznos told our attorney that if we continued to fight, he would “bury” us in paperwork.  And, he made good on his promise.  While we survived (barely), many others found their tactics emotionally and financially overwhelming.  At least 4 Quiznos franchise owners have died by their own hand.  The most vocal was Bob Babar, a California Quiznos owner, who left a suicide note specifically outlining what Quiznos did to him and holding Quiznos responsible for his death.

Others gave up the fight in a different way.  They signed a nondisclosure.  They could put the nightmare of Quiznos behind them, but they could never, ever speak about their experiences.  In their silence, they became enablers, allowing Quiznos to continue to farm unsuspecting people, who have no idea of what they are buying into. They are the ones who will suffer because of the deafening silence from the people who have been there.  I can’t fault those people for doing what was right for them.  Unlike them, I wasn’t given a choice other than to fight back with everything I had.

Because of our win, Quiznos owners realized that you could fight Goliath.  Our victory has empowered others to fight back.

If you read our story with objective compassion and think that it cannot happen to you, think again.  Quiznos is a private company and is not required to provide any accounting. However, are you aware that The Federal Reserve is also a private company? Quiznos came in and yanked our franchise agreement without reason.  Are you familiar with Eminent Domain? I can continue to list similarities, but I am not a conspiracy theorist and trust that you can draw your own analogies. I will ask you this, gentle readers.  As an American citizen, are you your own boss?   Are the ever-changing requirements of your citizenship, like those of a franchisee, to best serve you, or your “franchisor?”  Are you free or is that an illusion?

Our attorney, Jeff Cohen, used the same quote in his opening and closing arguments:

“The strong do what they will, and the weak suffer what they must.”

This quote seems apropos in light of what our elected officials are currently doing to us.

There is strength in numbers and a million weak voices can drown out a handful of strong ones in Washington.  So, I ask you:  Are you mad as hell?  Are you going to take this any more?  Are you a fighter or an enabler?

Please check your local meet up sites for more information on groups working together to stop the further deterioration of our economy,

SIDEBAR:
Judge Hoffman’s ruling includes the full story of Quiznos despicable actions against us.  Read his full decision.
On February 12, 2009, Quiznos appealed the ruling.  The appeal hearing has not yet been scheduled  and, to date, Quiznos has not paid the award

I have a love/hate relationship with FOX TV.  I hate them for their neo-con politics, but I love them for shows like 24 and Prison Break.

Today, I hate them.  My secret pleasure (not a secret anymore!) is watching American Idol. I try to justify my fondness for the show because, at one time, I produced an amateur cabaret show and suffered through endless auditions reminiscent of William Hung’s “She Bangs.”

This is my 4th season as a viewer and only because I have TiVo.  In addition to skipping commercials, it enables me to race through the contestant back-stories.  I don’t want my judgment clouded by emotion.  I don’t want to pick my favorite contestant because someone’s father is in jail (Kelly Pickler) or because of a disability (Scott MacIntyre.)  The truth is that MacIntrye should have never made it beyond the first cut.  He may have great talent as a composer but as a singer he is, at best, average.

This season, however, I am especially grateful for TiVo’s fast-forwarding abilities because of Kara DioGuardi.  Her pedantic and condescending ‘tude doesn’t jive with the distinct personalities of Randy, Paula & Simon.  Most importantly, her rambling opinions have forced the show to run over its allotted time on frequent occasions.

There is some real talent this season.  The breakouts, IMHO, are Adam Lambert, Allison Iraheta and Danny Gokey.   In a Broadway audition, Lambert would be struggling against equal talent, but in the world of AI, he’s a standout.  Just award him the title now.

This week I, along with thousands of other TiVo owners and AI fans, missed the 8th performance of the night: Adam Lambert’s rendition of “Mad World” which, apparently, brought Simon Cowell to his feet. The show ran 5 minutes over and TiVO is not AI (in this reference – Artificial Intelligence) and couldn’t reprogram itself. I cursed FOX, and cursed Kara DioGuardi (just because I had an excuse to do so.)

But there was no reason to over-react.  I have the World Wide Web at my fingertips and access to YouTube, where everything ever recorded can live on in perpetuity. Unless, as I discovered, a video is pulled due to copyright infringement.

To alleviate my hostilities towards FOX and Co, I gave the network a chance for redemption.  After all, they did bring us a few decent shows. Perhaps they had something great planned for next season.

No such luck.

Someone’s Gotta Go is a new reality show that will feature struggling small businesses with the employees deciding whom to fire. Unlike The Apprentice, which has no “real world” consequences, Someone’s Gotta Go will cause real harm to the “contestants.”  The current national jobless rate reached 15.6 percent in March (including part-time and discouraged workers) and is the highest unemployment rate since 1994, according to Labor Department data released Friday. So, whoever gets terminated will have a hell of a time finding a new job.

I suspect that these terminations will have nothing to do with job performance and everything to do with popularity This takes cruelty to a new level.

In my last “traditional” workplace, the nature of my position created an unusually heavy personal workload.  It prevented me from spending the first 45 minutes of every day participating in the coffee klatch ritual in the company’s break room.  I also had no time to end my workday an hour early (on the average of once a week) to gather with my colleagues to celebrate office baby showers, bridal showers, engagements, pre-vacation bon voyage or post-vacation welcome back events. I preferred to spend my time working rather than playing because, in “the real world” slacking off could get you fired. Let’s see… being a valuable employee or being a gossip-sharing “friend?”  No contest.

In the real world, we know what matters.  I would rather be called on the carpet for passing on a piece of cake than for low sales and unhappy clients.  Good for the company but bad for office popularity.  So, if I was on FOX’s new reality show, I have no doubt that I would be the first to go, regardless if I was one of the company’s most valuable employees.

What business would be so stupid to allow employees to make this decision?  Perhaps, as I learned through my experience, the companies chosen to participate in this “entertainment” venue are in trouble for precisely this reason.  And, these days, I think we know who’s making the decisions at FOX.

“May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten”

Time and memory are masters of illusion. They consort to soften the edges of the past and, often, change it completely.

I think back to the high school reunion I attended around 10 years ago. We were a small class of less than 100, so we knew one another, even if we were not friends. However, something odd happened at that event. People who did not like each other in high school were embracing like long lost friends and happily chatting about what they had been doing for the last decade. Reunions are happy times to reconnect with the past. The beauty of a significant reunion date (10 years, 25 years) is that, by then, all of the angst we felt in high school has been relegated to some distant and foggy corner of our minds. We embrace the nostalgia of the good old days as reverently as we embrace the people we never talked to back then.

At my aforementioned reunion, a woman showed up with her husband and 2 small children in tow. She was more excited than anyone to be back. Apparently, she had no recollection that no one really liked her in high school. She didn’t fit in to any group – not the jocks or drama-ramas, the freaks or the geeks. There wasn’t anything mean or malicious about her. Like a ray of sunshine in Alaska in February, she was just…there.

However, she became a one-woman welcoming committee, rushing over to greet each new arrival, bubbling with excitement, anxious to introduce her family to all of “my old friends.”

Looking into her eyes, then looking at her beaming husband, I didn’t have the heart to brush her off. Neither did anyone else. Did “Sunshine” really believe that we were her friends in high school, or was she just trying to show her husband that she was beloved by others before he became part of her life? I don’t know, but collectively we all agreed to play along with the charade. It made her happy, it made her husband proud and, in the scheme of things, it really didn’t matter (at least until the end of the evening when she tried to, unsuccessfully, collect everyone’s email address.)

Like many people who daydream about spending lottery winnings after purchasing a ticket, after watching a time-travel movie I indulge in the fantasy of what year I would choose to return to. “Life On Mars’ induced nostalgia for 1973. I remembered it as a good year. However, when I allowed myself the time and concentration to give it serious consideration (feasibility aside) I started remembering details long forgotten. I back-pedaled away from 1973 very quickly and made sure the door was closed tightly.

I decided that I do not want to travel back in time. Just like “Sunshine,” I prefer selective memory, where everyone is my friend and good times rule. (However, gentle reader, I assure you that I am not shelving my fantasy of age reversal just yet.)

If you are one of the 20% of graduates who are celebrating a reunion this year, congratulations and have fun! Remember only what you choose to remember, and don’t let anyone remind you otherwise!

Here’s hoping that the only “school-days” angst you remember are from these DVD’s:

High school…
The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie (1969)
American Graffiti (1973)
Carrie (1976)
Grease (1978)
Fast Times At Ridgemont High (1982)
Sixteen Candles (1984)
Back to the Future (1985)
The Breakfast Club (1985)
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
Dead Poet’s Society (1989)
Clueless (1995)
Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion (1997)
Freaks and Geeks (The Complete Series) (1999)
Mean Girls (2004)

…and beyond:
The Graduate (1967)
Love Story (1970)
The Paper Chase (1973)
The Big Chill (1976)
Animal House (1978)