Are there drugs in the car? (Dutch-German border, c. 1989)

My friend Greg and I went to Europe in 1989. Kind of a last hurrah after college graduation and before beginning our working lives.

There are many stories to tell about that trip, but the one that sticks in my mind at the moment is the day we were stopped at the Dutch border with Germany. The trip to Germany started out in Amsterdam, where we’d spent several days taking in the sights, often under the influence of a certain controlled substance still illegal in the U.S. Respectfully, we refrained from partaking the day we visited the Anne Frank house. At some point we decided to take a break, rent a car and see what else there was to offer for a couple of grungy young men in a foriegn land. We rented what was known in the States as a Renult LeCar. How continental.

At the border between Holland and what at the time was West Germany, we rolled up to the gate and stopped. Greg was driving and spoke with the border guard.

He was neatly attired in a crisp uniform. Since it was eye level to us, we  simultaneously focused on the 9mm Glock prominent in its holster at his right hip. He stooped down and looked through the open window, his eyes moving between Greg and me.

“Hallo. Amerikaner?” No fooling this guy. 

“Yes.”

“Passports please.” 

Immidiately he switched to English with a clipped German accent. I handed mine to Greg and he handed both to the guy. He seemed much older than us but thinking back it was probably the uniform and the air of authority about him. In reality he probably wasn’t much older than we were. He quickly flipped through each and then stepped back to put them on the counter in the little gatehouse behind him. He was all business.

Now keep this in mind:  Two American guys in their early twenties, long hair, unshaven with mustaches, somewhat shabbily dressed, duffle bags in the tiny back seat, crossing the border from the Netherlands. You do the math.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

“Uh, sight seeing. On vacation” Greg told him.

“How long have you been in der Nederlands?”

“About a week, 5 days.”

“Where in der Nederlands are you coming from?”

Greg and I looked at each other. ”Amsterdam.” Greg said.

“Do you have any drugs in the car?” Leave it to the Germans to get right to the point.

We were young but not stupid. No way had we considered crossing the border with anything that might get us thrown into a light-blue painted cell begging to call the U.S. Embassy. But even knowing we didn’t have anything on us that might get us into trouble, this was an intimidating question. Because mere hours before, you know, we might have. Unspoken from him were the words I know why you were in Amsterdam, Sie schmutzige hippies, and if I even find a seed you two are going to be on the wrong side of a heavy steel door in five seconds.

“No, sir.”

“Please pull your car over to the side,” he pointed. ”And shut off the motor.”

“Um, ok.”

Greg shifted into first, cut the wheel and we puttered over an expanse of asphalt and parked against the curb. We hadn’t expected this, but maybe we should have. We weren’t really worried since we knew we were cool. This was part of adventure. So even though it was a little rattling, to us it was also kind of funny. He walked over behind us, stepping off to the side of the car.

“Please get out of the car, leave the doors open.”

We complied, each of us walking around and meeting at the back of the car. The guard walked over to the driver’s side and stuck his head in. He ran his hand over the seat back and bottom then pulled open and inspected the ashtray. He pulled out the floor mat and knelt on the pavement and bent down, looking under the seat. Finding nothing to pique his interest, he stood and walked around between us and the car to the passenger side. We side stepped out of his way then out of curiosity crept up a bit so we were a few feet behind him as he bent down to repeat his routine on this side.

As he leaned over to peer into the car again, his holstered sidearm was right in front of us. Greg turned his head toward me and smiled. I knew what he was thinking. He’s a bit of gun nut, and at the time he had quite a collection at home. A whole Michael Bay scenario played out in my head in a few seconds. Unbeknownst to me, Greg actually has a huge stash in the back. Feeling cornered, he grabs the Glock and pulls the guard away from the car and sticks the barrel in his gut. “Get the fuck out, that’s it, nice and slow.” We get back in our car and, Starsky and Hutch style, blow out of there in a cloud of vaporized rubber with the engine roaring. As we peel out, for a distraction Greg fires a round at a conveniently located fuel truck which explodes into a huge ball of flame as we race off into the country side. Laughing, we high-five each other and set off quickly since we want to get to the Cologne Cathedral before dark. We’ve heard there’s some great stained glass to see. Cloud of vaporized rubber in a LeCar? Yeah, right.

Hand over the seat, looking in the glove compartment, out with the floor mat and a look under the seat. The guard stood, pushed the seat forward and reached into the back and pulled our duffle bags out and put them on the ground. He returned to the car and pulled the bottom portion of the back seat up, revealing the floor of the car beneath. Again coming up empty, he politely returned the seats to their original positions and turned his attention to our duffle bags. He unzipped each, took a cursery look in as he pushed our dirty socks and cassette tapes out of the way to make sure we were sufficiently drug free to visit his country.

He stood, apparently satisfied that we would not be undermining German mores that day, and produced our passports from somewhere on his person and held them out to me. I took them and handed Greg his.

“You may go. Thank you and enjoy your vacation. Please watch traffic as you pull back into the roadway.”

“Thanks” Greg and I each said at the same time.

It was my turn to drive so we climbed back into our little French conveyance and I got us back on the road to Cologne. Couldn’t wait to hit the Autobahn in this baby. And we really were on our way to see the stained glass.

We chuckled as we drove away from the border. As I said, it was part of the adventure and we were having a blast.

Although we were a bit miffed that our new German friend had neglected to stamp our passports.

What is with the wrath wrought by grapes?

 

I have the good fortune of being friendly with a couple of vintners who own a nearby winery. These men, their families and employees tend about 30 acres of vines and produce about 5,000 cases of wine a year. That may sound like a lot but compared with the big domestic wineries in California and New York,  it’s a small amount of wine. A boutique winery, if you will; as are most Pennsylvania wineries. The owners live in the vineyard, literally and figuratively. They have day jobs but ones that allow them to devote ample time to their passion. Of course they want their farm and winery to be financially sound (it’s not there yet) however they are in it not to become rich. These guys are in it because they love the land, they love growing grapes and they love making wine. They make about 10 different varieties depending on the season. I’ve tried them all; I have my favorites and some I’m not so crazy about. The ones I don’t care for say far more about my crude palate than the quality of the wine. I’m no connoisseur, I just know what I like and I tend to favor the reds. Yes, I will be drinking the fucking merlot (thank you, Paul Giamatti). Unfortunately my grape growing buddies are having a spot of trouble with the the local governing body responsible for regulating land use in their municipality. But first, a little background:

The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is home to over 100 wineries, most having their own vineyards (some wineries purchase their grapes from other vinyards). It’s a growing segment of the agricultural landscape of the state. Grapes are a cash crop like corn and soybeans and in 2007 were responsible for about $21,000,000 in receipts (this does not include wine sales), putting them 16th in the list of the state’s top 25 commoditites.*  Pennsylvania has a long history of vineyards and wine making. William Penn maintained a vineyard along the banks of the Schuylkill River in the 1600’s.

I can’t speak for the whole state but the nature of agricultural business in my neck of the woods is changing. Development pressure has eliminated many farms formerly located in areas that are fast becoming suburbs. Because of this expansion of suburban areas, farmland has become segmented and the business model of the small farm is changing so as to remain financially viable. Emphasis is being placed on “value-added products” sold at the source rather than through a distribution network. This enables the farmer to benefit more fully from the financial potential of his or her product by retailing it themselves rather than selling it at a slim profit margin to a distributor or some other retail outlet. Christmas trees, pumpkins and other vegetables and fruits are along the lines of what most people think of as products sold at the farm. Sometimes, the farmer might do more than just sell a commodity produced at the farm to increase the visibility of the value added product . Corn mazes, petting zoos, face painters, carny games and the like are all designed to bring attention to farm’s raison d’être, the sale of farm-produced items.

Wine is the value-added product of a grape farm, otherwise known as a vineyard. Just like the farmer who provides free hot chocolate and has hay rides through the field for the kids so he can sell their parents those $10 pumpkins, the vintner strives to promote his product with activities and events designed to bring a thirsty yet discerning public to his door. The powers that be in Harrisburg have thankfully seen fit to legislate that wine, even with it’s alcoholic content, is a an agricultural product and therefore permitted to be sold on the site where it’s constituent ingredients are grown. In the years since the legislation was passed, the small, family run vineyard has become increasingly popular in PA and their numbers have grown. But for this law it would be difficult if not impossible for the small winery to be profitable by only selling wine through distributors. As anyone who has been to a liquor store can attest the number of wineries represented is bewildering. Chances are you have a few favorites and when you do your booze shopping, you stick to the ones you know. But how different is the experience when you go to where the wine is made? Where for a small fee you get to taste the varieties that are produced right there. If you like what you taste, it enters your consciousness. You will remember it and chances are, you’ll go back or at least look for it at the store next time you have the need for a bottle of wine.

The small farmer, in this case the vintner, needs to promote his product. As we’ve established this is often done, as with other types of farms, through promotional events with the vineyard as the venue. While I’m not going to say that wineries cater to a more sophisticated crowd than, for example, a pumpkin patch might, the path taken in the name of promotion is a bit different. Wineries will have events where wine plays a central role. The most basic is of course wine tasting. Beyond that, there are themed musical events, food events that are catered by local restaurants, food pairing events where an expert will help the novice pair certain wines with certain foods. Then there are tours of the winery and grounds and lectures about wine making. There are also wine trail events where a number of different wineries that are within fairly close proximity to each other will band together for a group promotion over a series of weekends, encouraging patrons to try all that an area may have to offer in wine. I think of trail events as a kind of grown up bar crawl but with better smelling companions and very little vomitting.

In a nutshell, the problems some municipalities are having stem from not understanding what constitutes an accepted or accessory use on some farms and what has become a logical extension of the primary agricultural use, specifically with regard to the product. Not seeing the vineyard for the grapes, to mangle a well known idiom. Most vineyards and their associated wineries are typically located in agricultural or rural residential zoning districts. But sometimes it’s easy to forget that agriculture is a lot more than pretty scenery and open space. Agriculture is a business. Like any other business, it must make money to survive. Most rural zoning catagories permit most agricultural activities as a use by right. Short of hog farms and mushroom soil composting, agriculture is typically thought of as a fairly benign or non-intrusive use; not noisy and not something that generates a lot of traffic. For suburbanites often there is just a bucolic rememberance involving tractors towing hay wagons, red barns, cows lowing in the meadow and boys in overalls with stalks of wheat between their teeth. You know – salt of the earth stuff.

Fortunately from the research I’ve done, it appears many small wineries do not have or have overcome the problem my friends are having. It seems most municipalities view the wineries in their jurisdictions as assets and treat the promotional activities no differently than they might an apple orchard’s harvest festival. The events are, for the most part, accepted accessory uses to the vineyard, meaning they are complimentary and subordinate yet necessary to the primary agricultural use.

The decision makers of the municipality that my friends are in do like the vineyard, even the winery. Although through the grapevine I’ve heard there has been some grumbling over the fact that wine is even being sold there. Still, they love the fact that all that land, over 100 acres total, belong to the farm. They don’t want to see townhouses growing there instead of vines. But they have a problem with the promotional events. They’re calling it a commercial use. You’re not zoned for that, they say. Oh sure, sell your wine, but you’re not allowed to draw any attention to it. You can’t have wedding receptions,  barbeques or musical events that might, you know, have a lot of people coming over there. That’s crazy, just sell your wine.  There is a connection that’s not being made. The land and vines that everyone loves provide the grapes. The grapes produce the wine. The wine makes the money. The money pays the bills. If the wine doesn’t sell, the bills don’t get paid and the land’s not earning its keep. My friends are not rich. They don’t just want this venture to be financially viable, they need it to be. If it does not become so, as much as they love the land and the joy it’s brought them, they will have to recoup their investment. But things are not dire; the financials on the farm have been getting better every year. More people are becoming aware of their existence because they have been, to the chagrin of the municipality, promoting their product and quite honestly, the wine is good.

There is room in this argument to have understanding for the municipality too. They have valid concerns. Concerts? Will there be traffic? Won’t neighbors be impacted by the activities at the winery? How can we let a commercial use exist in a residential/agricultural zoning district? Education is needed. Education and progressive zoning. I say zoning because what is not wanted is what I’ll call use-creep. Let’s say things are going great for my friends. Lots of interest in their wine and well attended events give them the confidence to expand the business. Should they be allowed to open a restaurant on their property, or a banquet hall? An amphitheater? Maybe Bruce Springsteen should play at their next wine and barbeque event. Is that in keeping with their agricultural use?

There is a nexus of agriculture and commercialism that the land owners and the municipality must reconcile. Luckily, it seems that may happen.

Recently the municipality has indicated they want to discuss modifying their ordinances to definitively allow the winery and at least some of the types of promotional events needed to ensure the viability of this agricultural business. There will be discussion, hand wringing and arguing over the types and frequency of events, but I believe they will  find common ground. They must because if they don’t, everyone could lose. Key is the recognition of the vineyard and the value it holds for the community. Not only is it a farm in keeping with the agricultural roots of the area, in combination with the winery it is a taxable entity that does not significantly burden municipal services. My guess is they’ve also done their research and are coming to the realization that they could be on shaky legal ground; that the promotional events are accepted accessory uses in most of the state and there is a special bypass lane farmers can take, and some wineries have, to the state’s attorney general should the locals pound on them a little too hard with the zoning hammer.

The next time you go to a winery, if that’s something you, as I, like to do, think about the heritage that wine in your glass may have. Think about what goes into the wine, not just the soil and sunlight as mentioned in my last post, but about the issues involved in those deep red or golden hues you see. It is very likely there was a role played by politics in that glass. The winding path traveled by the winemaker to make and market his product is likely as complex as the flavors you taste.

 

*USDA Economic Research Service

Think you own that property? Think again.

I’m sure many people remember the infamous case of eminent domain in New London, Connecticut that made all the papers a few years ago. Briefly, the town of New London wanted to condemn property through the use of eminent domain in order to bolster what they believed would be economic development beneficial to the town and thus its citizenry. The owners of some of the properties the town wanted to buy would not sell and the case wound up going to the Supreme Court who voted 5-4 for New London. Typically, cases of eminent domain involve a governmental body taking private property for public use such as needed road improvements or other public infrastructure. The New London case was different in that the town was going to allow a private developer to build shopping centers, housing and the like claiming this “redevelopment” would benefit the public by increasing the town’s tax base, lure tourist dollars, etc. For the record I’ve been to New London and can say it does need all the help it can get, although I’m not sure a new Pottery Barn and luxury condos are the way to go. But that’s an argument for another time. Still, the case shed some light on the rights of government to use eminent domain to acquire property in cases of public need. The owner of the property is entitled to just compensation (usually market value) for the taking. Not necessarily as draconian as it was made out to be in the press, most instances of eminent domain are dramaless exchanges of relatively small amounts of property for tax payer cash and rarely receive the kind of media coverage the New London example did.

But this post is not about eminent domain.

Let me introduce you to Eminent Domain’s ugly cousin, Adverse Possession.

Adverse possession, in a nutshell, is a process by which your neighbor or other party have taken possession of your property without your permission, or adversely, and they have done so without having to pay for it. Sound ridiculous? It’s not. This is a subject near and dear to me because I have some personal experience with it, and not in a good way. I bought my first house in 1992 at the tender age of 25. Not a great house, but not bad; a small ranch on 2 acres in the rural suburbs. It was located at the end of a cul-de-sac in a subdivision where most of the houses, mine included, were built in the late ’60s. The first owner of my house purchased it in 1970. I was the third owner so as you can tell, not a lot of turnover in this neighborhood. The neighbor on the east side of me was the original owner of his house also since 1970 and for the purposes of this discussion, we’ll call him Addy Posse. Addy was a nice enough guy, about 50 and lived there with his wife and two children who were about my age but had yet to leave the nest. My only real problem with Addy was the habit of one of his baby birds to come home drunk on Saturday night at which time he and Addy would proceed to involve themselves in screaming matches that I could hear inside my house. But hey, it was Saturday night. And if occasionally Addy’s wife made a phone call and the state cops showed up, well, the more the merrier.

So time passes and I’m on a friendly-aquaintance type basis with Addy, his wife and the baby birds. In 1997 I build a garage on the east side of my house (the side facing Addy’s place). I need this garage because my rancher didn’t have one when I bought it and I had been parking my half-restored 1969 Camaro in the driveway for 5 years. Any car guys reading this know this is sacrilege and I was determined to have a house for the car. So, because of the neglect suffered by the Camaro since buying the house, I had saved enough money to build the garage. And the construction was well within my lot’s building setbacks. I know this because prior to the planning of said garage I had a boundary survey done. But that’s when I realized things may not be as they seem when it comes to my property.  The survey showed, interestingly, that a row of evergreen trees starting at a point in front of and to the side of the new garage and running down to the street that I had previously thought were on the boundary line separating Addy’s lot and mine were, in fact, well into my property to the tune of about 20 feet (did I dangle a participle? Sorry, the trees I mean). So big deal, right? I actually owned and paid taxes on a triangle of land on the other side of the trees. Addy’s side. The side the baby birds often parked cars on for their raucous parties. I didn’t really care though; Addy was out there once a week on the ol’ Snapper mowing my grass on the other side of those trees, but I wasn’t using it and if it made him happy, fine. I built the garage and Addy even complimented me one day as I was up on the roof hammering shingles in. “Nice garage” he said. “Thanks!” said I. And that was that. Or so I thought.

Fast forward to the spring of 2002. The housing bubble’s burst is still 5 years away and I have an opportunity to buy an empty lot in a very nice neighborhood and build a new house. With 10 years of appreciating value and the improvements I’ve made to the rancher I’ll do much better than what I bought it for. Money-wise the larger, new house and it’s requisite larger, new mortgage (30 year fixed baby!) is still a stretch but I figure my old neighborhood isn’t getting any better, business is recovering with 9/11’s economic impact beginning to fade and mortgage interest rates are low so like the Jeffersons I decide to move on up. A “For Sale” sign gets pounded into the front yard of the little ranch I’ve owned for a decade. After a few weeks of allowing strangers into my house to judge my decorating savvy an offer comes in. We go back and forth using our respective agents for the dirty work until a mutually agreeable number is reached. We sign an agreement of sale; settlement in two months. A couple days after the “Sold!” sign goes up I come home from work to find a note folded up in my mailbox. It’s from Addy’s wife. “Smithery”, the note begins (just kidding), “You’ve been a good neighbor and we had not wanted to say anything before now. But since you are moving we have to tell you that your garage is too close to our property line. This is a concern for us since whoever moves into your house may not be a good neighbor and this could lead to problems. We thought you should know because we are going to tell the Township [our local governing body] that your garage is in violation of the building setback.” Drag man. I was supposed to go to settlement soon! If they had some kind of problem, how could they wait this long to tell me?? FIVE YEARS!! For five f ‘ing years they did not say a thing about having an issue with my garage. And now they decide to clue me in to the perceived injustice. But not after the For Sale sign went up. No. They had to wait until I had a fish on the hook and a drop dead date to get the hell out of Dodge. I have no words to express how pissed off I was. I had a goddamn survey PROVING my garage was well within the Township required setback and…… um… yeah. Wait, that’s right; I had a survey! All I had to do was go have a conversation with Addy and like the two gentlemen we were we would calmly discuss the issue and he’d see there was no problem, no setback violation and no reason to fuck up my settlement.

Addy didn’t  believe my survey at first. I went over to show him the plan and pointed out that the trees he thought were on the line were actually on my property. See? there’s the pin, out there at the edge of the street and the line goes from there all the way to the back corner of our lots. The line is more than 30 feet from my garage, 5 feet more than the minimum setback. He wasn’t sure, he said. He’s been cutting that grass and parking his cars there for over 30 years. I said I’m sorry, but be that as it may, my garage is not in violation. Well, ok, he grudgingly acknowledges that with the survey I had done and a copy of the original 1968 subdivision plan my surveyor had dug up someplace, he agreed the line was where the line was. He said he may want to have his own surveyor verify it. I said that was fine; I was confident my guy was right. After that I didn’t hear from Addy again. As settlement drew near I packed up my stuff, moved it into storage (the new house wasn’t done yet) and in September, 2002 said goodbye to the little rancher. Shortly after I go to settlement. The buyer was a gangly, sickly looking hayseed with a plump wife and a couple of grown baby birds of his own. Think Tim Kazurinsky as Pa Greavy in, coincidentally enough, Neighbors. I figured he and his brood would fit in just fine with Addy and his clan. I ran, not walked, to the bank with that big-ass check. And that was that. Or so I thought.

Fast forward again to 2005. I’m in the new house, hating the mortgage and tax payments but otherwise really enjoying the new digs. So I’m at home one day just lovin’ life and I get a phone call out of the blue from Pa Greavy. I hadn’t moved that far away and my number is in the book so it’s not like you had to be Jim Rockford to track me down. Pa said he’d been having some trouble with the neighbor fella, one Addy Posse. It seems Addy had been complaining to the Township about Pa’s unregistered vehicles and excavating equipment (backhoes, a dump truck, etc) he keeps in the back yard. I’m not wholly unfamiliar with this information. I’ve got friends at the Township as well as others in the know so I’d heard there had been some squabbling. I had even heard the term ‘meth lab’ but it was only a rumor. “It’s my business” Pa says, “why can’t I keep my own equipment in my own back yard?” Sounds reasonable to me. “Well,” Pa says, “I wanted to put up a fence, a big one. Eight feet tall. I got it all the way from the back down to the front of the garage and this Posse asshole’s telling me that’s not my property.” Uh oh. Pa continued: “I hired a surveyor [not mine] and so did he [also not mine] and they both say the line’s where I think it is [where mine said it was years ago], but Posse’s sayin’ that since he’s been maintaining that ground, it’s his. He said he’s got rights to it called adverse possession.” The words hung there, caught, bridging the gap between the phone’s speaker and my ear. Adverse possession. I’d heard of it, but I’d also heard there was a lot you had to prove before you could take title to ground that wasn’t yours. My first thought was the garage. If Addy was claiming he owned that land, then my garage surely claimed it back for me since to say otherwise would put the garage in violation of the Township’s code. I asserted my ownership of that property by building the garage. Back to Pa. He said he’d hired an attorney since Addy was taking him to court to claim as his own that small triangle of land on the other side of the evergreen trees. Would I mind speaking to Pa’s lawyer about my history with the property? Sure Pa, I said. I’d be glad to.

Pa’s lawyer calls my office a few weeks later and I lay it out for him. The mowing, the garage, the survey, the note, my conversation with Addy. The lawyer asked me some questions to clarify his understanding of these facts. I deal with a lot of attorneys in my line of work and this guy seemed a little out of his element, like he was a tax attorney trying his hand at real estate law. I asked him how things were looking for Pa Greavy. “I’m a little worried” he confided. The crux of the issue was that in order for Addy to take possession of the land, his claim had to pass five tests. Did he use the land? Yep, witness the lawn mowing and car parking. Was his claim obvious? To me it was. I watched his fat ass jiggle on that lawn mower as he mowed the triangle of grass as I’m sure the previous owners of the property had. Did I ever use the land myself? No, except for the garage which in my mind, but apparently not as interpreted by statute, was a claim of ownership by virtue of the boundary setbacks. Did anyone, other than him or me, ever regularly use the property which would have diluted his claim of exclusivity? Nope, it was his party and no one else was invited. And the biggy: Was the use continuous? In my state, the use must be continuous for at least 21 years. It was the fatal shot. Addy had been mowing that grass and parking his cars on that property for 21 years before I even bought the little rancher. Unsurprisingly Pa Greavy’s attorney had been unable to track down the two owners previous to me. But even if he had it’s unlikely their stories would be different from my own. The case did go to court, I made myself available as a witness for Pa but I wouldn’t perjure myself for him. I sat on the witness stand and answered the questions of Pa’s attorney, Addy’s attorney and the judge. It was clear Addy had it in the bag. There was some pretty funny testimony from one of Pa’s baby birds, who apparently had no qualms about violating the state’s perjury laws. The judge wasn’t buying his claim that he’d seen Addy, Addy’s wife and their attorney out in the yard putting in fake property marker stakes. It didn’t matter anyway, by that time the writing was on the wall.

In the end the judge ruled in favor of Addy Posse. Pa Greavy had to swallow his pride and move his fence. Fortunately, as pissed off as Pa was at Addy, he didn’t feel inclined to take it out on me in the form of a lawsuit. He could have tried I suppose, but he fell victum to the same issue I did, he just had more of a problem with it and rather than try to reach an amicable agreement with Addy, had be hard-nosed about it. Not that Addy helped the situation from his end; he could be kind of a dick, too.

I haven’t heard from Pa or Addy in the years since the day in court. Pa’s still there; I drove by the little rancher about a year ago. The eight foot high fence looms over the side yard and Pa’s vehicles and those of his flock are strewn about the front yard. So let that be a lesson to you: If you own property, make sure you 1) know your boundaries, 2) assert your rights of ownership and 3) don’t let anyone usurp your rights of ownership. And that is that. Or so I think.

Billy Joel: Worst songwriter ever? No.

 

 Hack?

Dude, chill. I just read a critique of Billy Joel’s music on Slate. Read it here if you’re interested: http://www.slate.com/id/2209526/

So you don’t like Billy Joel. His music is an assault on your aural passages. He oozes self pity and has, in your view, a misogynist’s view of women. You and your buds sat around one night talking about things you hate over glasses of Romanée Conti and the subject of Billy Joel’s awful lyrics came up.

Ok, we get it. But I’ll admit to grooving to some of Mr. Joel’s music from time to time. My aunt bought me The Stranger for Christmas in 1977. I was 10 for Christ’s sake. When you listen to stuff at an early age, it has a tendency to stick with you. What can I say? Sorry if I’m not from New York like you so I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the Long Island vibe in his music or lack thereof that so disturbs your otherwise peaceful existence. This guy, Ron Rosenbaum whose byline reads Scrutinizing Culture, manages to get his digs in for an unrelated artist in this same article, saying that it was, in fact, the death of Andrew Wyeth that got him to thinking about that other hack, Billy Joel.

Alright, so the Billster’s lyrics can be a little hacky. I’m not going to sit here and say they’re not. But that doesn’t make him a bad person. The tunes are catchy and there should be some credit given for that, shouldn’t there? Miami 2017 is a really cool song, especially if you listen to the live version. And I’m not talking about the lyrics, which aren’t bad, but it’s the piano and keyboards in that song that are great. Not for their complexity, but their simplicity. Anthony’s Song, for all the agita it seems to create for Rosenbaum, is a real toe-tapper. And let’s face it, Billy Joel has a huge following. He’s sold A LOT of albums. Does that make him a critical success? No, not necessarily, but it does mean many people, myself included, hear something in the music. Of course a lot of people buy Britney Spears’ albums too, she being another artist accused of shallow schlocki-ness. I’m not a Britney fan, but I’m also not on here bashing her because her music sensibilities or those of her many fans don’t mesh up with my own.

The subject of bad song lyrics got me thinking too, although not of Andy Wyeth. I wondered what real rock guys, people who critique music for a living, think. So I checked out Blender’s “The 40 Worst Lyricists In Rock” (seen here: www.blender.com/guide/articles.aspx?ID=2882 ). Guess who’s not on the list. Since I’ve bothered to bring it up I think you’ll get it on the first try. That’s right:  Mr. Joel. Billy did not make it into the top 40 list of bad songwriters. Maybe he would have been #41, who knows? But the good folks at Blender stopped worrying about it at 40. Notably, a few that did make the list: Jim Morrison, Paul McCartney and Sting. Mr. Rosenbaum fawns over Bob Dylan but Bob, along with Britney, is not in my iPod. He’s ok, got some good songs but I find him a little nasally. But note that I’ve written no posts with the title BOB DYLAN SUCKS: ARBITER OF MUSIC TASTE SAYS “NASALLY”.

It’s not like Joel just came out with a new album and this was a critique of the new material. This guy just blasted his whole career. I guess my point is that, while it’s fine to give your opinion as to why you don’t like an artist or why others shouldn’t either if that’s your gig, I just don’t think you’ll be changing anyone’s mind about an established artist no matter how many examples of his suckiness you can point to. What I prefer and truly enjoy reading much more is when someone writes with enthusiasm or passion about an artist they like. Art is subjective and there just isn’t any getting around that. You either like it or you don’t. Especially if its an artist who has been around awhile. Who, among the population of Slate readers and to the extent they even care, is going to change their mind about someone who’s been a commercial success in music for almost 40 years? If you, like me, have been listening and you kind of dig it, Mr. Rosenbaum isn’t going to influence you into throwing out all those old lps and cds and deleting Joel off your playlist. So if that’s the case, I posit that the article was really just about Mr. Rosenbaum letting us all know how gifted a music critic he thinks he is.

Screw that, man. Rock on Billy.

Andy Wyeth was my neighbor

Benny’s Scarecrow

My family moved to Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania in 1976 when I was a kid and I lived there until I went to college in 1985. There during the summers to hang with friends and get into trouble and back again after graduation, I’ve lived in and around that place for most of my life. I still have ties to the area and now live in beautiful Chester County, PA not too far from where I grew up. The title of this post says I was a neighbor of the Wyeths, but that is admittedly a stretch. Their compound, nestled along the banks of the Brandywine River, was a few miles from my quite modest family home. I did not know the Wyeths personally, but did meet both Andrew and his son Jamie on a few occasions in the early ’80s while working as a busboy at a local inn. However, you did not have to know Andrew Wyeth to feel a personal attachment to his work.  Everyone who lived in the area loved the fact Andy was a local, although somewhat reclusive, character and we were proud to know that we had a genuine legend in our midst. A busy, fairly large area calls itself Chadds Ford now, but back then it wasn’t much more than a sleepy intersection along the old road between Philadelphia and Baltimore with some gorgeous scenery and plenty of Revolutionary War history. Then you would have been hard-pressed to find a home in Chadds Ford that did not have at least one print of his work hanging someplace. His paintings, often with the Chester County landscape as their backdrop or subject, were instantly recognizable to those who lived and worked there. I remember many times as a child and teenager and more recently as an adult walking the halls and rooms of the Brandywine River Museum where many of his works, as well as those of Jamie and his father N.C. are displayed. I’m no art critic, but I love the composition and the feel of his paintings. I’ve read reviews of his work that criticize the technical realism of his paintings, often stating they lack emotion or some variation of that critique. I disagree; I believe much of the work conveys a loneliness that reaches you on several levels. An empty skiff beached on the shore or a farmhouse and barn against a gray sky and snowy field at midafternoon. A sense of the macabre too, just check out “Dr. Syn”. Even in those paintings with human subjects, many times there is only a lone figure against a starkly painted background. My humble and inadequate descriptions do not come close to conveying the impact these paintings have when you stare at the original canvesses.

I was sitting at the computer last Friday [1/16/09] when I read he had passed away in his sleep that morning right there in our shared hometown.  I emailed a friend; a fellow former Chadds Fordian whose father spent time with the Wyeths during his youth. “I know” she wrote back, “Dad’s pretty upset about it.”  Melancholy is how I would describe my own feelings. I hadn’t thought about Wyeth, his paintings or the Chadds Ford of my childhood for a long while. Perhaps I’ll have a bit more of an appreciation of his work and our own rather tenuous connection at that special place. I went home that day and took a good, long look at my Wyeth print hanging in the hallway. Thanks Andy.

Dick Cheney channelling Dr. Strangelove……

               

…or Why I No Longer Fear the Bush Administration

Either Brian Williams or Tom Brokaw, I can’t remember which, made an uncharacteristically brilliant observation yesterday [1/20/09]. During the inauguration ceremonies, one of them said that Dick Cheney was looking a little like Dr. Strangelove. Wow, now that’s some reporting. I think the unspoken comparison is more one of ideology than physical appearance.

First post….be kind

This is my first post…I just put together my heading and here I am.

What could I possibly have on my mind that might be interesting to someone else? Maybe nothing, but I’ll give it a shot. Oh sure, anyone can hold a conversation with a friend or coworker, but writing like this is a akin to a one sided conversation. An old Bob Newhart bit where Bob makes with the funny while the imaginary straight man is invisible and unheard on the other end of the line.

You should have read the fantastic essay I did on Trudeau’s Doonesbury comic strip back in freshman English Comp. Got an A, my prof loved it. Of course Reagan was still in office when that gem was penned but since then I’ve often thought, like millions of others, that I could write.  Not books necessarily, but perhaps to relay an interesting anecdote. A short plum of a story that could entertain someone other than the ego voicing my inner monologue. Stuff that comes to mind late at night after you turn off the TV or put down the book. But you never write it down then, do you? When you’re thinking of it? The morning comes and you try to remember. I was thinking about something, some insightful take on that gaffe Bush made, what was it? I don’t typically keep a pen and paper next to my bed but maybe I should. If I did, it would probably wind up making as much sense as the note Jerry Seinfeld scribbled for himself. “Flaming Globes of Sigmund.” Is that funny? It was in the context of the show but unfortunately reality is a harsher critic. “Write about your own experiences” we’ve heard a hundred times or more. “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Stranger maybe, but does that make it worth writing down, let alone reading? In the end I suppose it doesn’t matter. If the writer gets something out of purging on a forum like this, who cares if no one else gets it. It’s just a few kilobytes on some huge server anyway.

For those few of you who may have read this and made it to here, thank you.