ODE TO THE RIGHTEOUSLY ANNOYED, ETHICAL (ANONYMOUS) JOURNALIST

It's well known that former Congressman Charlie Wilson correctly warned of unconscionable, imminent danger, when TEENAGERS -- FULLY HALF THE POPULATION OF AFGHANISTAN -- returned from hiding posts to homes of death and devastation, result of a gruesome war provoked by neighboring Russia (clumsy, covert CIA rescue efforts notwithstanding). No friendly government explained the situation to these young people, or even bothered to reopen their schools. Teenaged conclusions were anyone’s guess. Of course, we now tip a hat to the obvious Wilsonian premonition. In our nation of plenty -- and guns, with which we merely shoot each other (no need for foreign influence, covert or overt) -- we've got at least half of our own young population trying to figure out if they're "crazy" or "addicts" or both, and why; the health system is now UNRESPONSIVE to what OUR YOUTH can expect in THEIR future (not forgetting the less intrusive problem of "hidden" wet brained seniors, otherwise would-be mentors). We have no shrinks accepting insurance; we have domestic violence beyond the pale; we’ve suffered years of greed-as-god; we have NO A-LIST (or B-LIST) PSYCHIATRIC WARDS within our A-LIST (or B-LIST) HOSPITALS. We even experience insidious corruption in what started as a helpful ADDICT TREATMENT group of facilities and homes. We've got prisons filled with drug-users. We see the death, (simply, conveniently, dramatic in this particular case of the Jackson tragedy); who can say we don't? And we see the pains of life filling far too many young lives who need (at this point) exceptionally empathetic mentors and re-vamped therapies. Among the lay, it is becoming our societal responsibility to present the myriad of life's exciting options, through example and that inconvenient attention to the kids we call "brats." Among the highly compensated authoritarians in the extreme, we need to hit the books again; consider our legal oaths at the least; and avoid, oh, how did Deepak put it (?) -- potentially ENABLING OUR VERY OWN ENORMOUS YOUTH POPULATION TO AN EVENTUAL DEMISE OF MISADVENTURE. There are visible, key exceptions to all of this. Sincere individuals are hard at work to avoid the calamity. But further working hours are required to write a follow-up article, important as these good works will become, for our review. One subject at a time. What we really learned this week is that we're running a bit short. Karen Colaianni Johnson © 27 Jun 2009 kjprar@aol.com

Karen and Jamie - Friends on a Working Adventure

Today, it's mid June 2009. Only recently did I learn that Jamie, who really did "give" me the title of my book, had gone to heaven, now cavorting with all those heavenly souls, last September. Coincidentally, most of the eight-year collection of photos of us working and eating and meeting and laughing and traveling, with our Private Music colleagues, had been "lost." How thrilled I was to receive an extraordinary ethereal gift today. (Turns out "Google Alerts" comes through now and then.) I have a photo now, one of my favorites, of Jamie et moi at a Taj Mahal recording session circa 1992. This very gloomy day has become satisfying.

By Karen Colaianni Johnson © 14 June 2009

(event occurs on the 40th birthday, plus one, of my son, Scott Adrian Johnson)

Review B O B N E U W I R T H "EYE ON THE ROAD'"

Record Review BOB NEUWIRTH EYE ON THE ROAD

Today at 7:05am |

(he’ll help the rest of us)

This song, "Eye on the Road" was written by an artist, a writer who can only view this world with honesty in his eyes... as a tapestry; an oil so fine; that scene that knocks you out in the middle of the play; or the joke so corny it splits your sides, so you don't dare say. This writer of "Eye on the Road" is an actual painter, well adored of medium renown – bicoastal if ya ever saw one. He's been around the track a few times. Isn't that what it's all about? It's just this writer's opinion, but I think Bob wrote about that path, worn ragged by our boot heels, as much for your sake, and mine… as his own. He takes to "warnings;" they show up in his speech and art. Bobby "lets it go" if that’s how it oughta be, but will never liberate self into the ditch.

Comes beauty like twilight, in what appears a beckoning darkness. In ways, the musician's style flows - less romantic to be sure - as sweetly as a certain poet laureate. Mr. Neuwirth reminds anyway, that on any day, we can pick up speed; we can go go the mojo if high heels fit. We can be beautiful just for one day. Is that what our sensitive Bowie would say? I think Bobby says, "Man, we ARE picking up speed. Go on and get 'er done." Then the zen reminder, baby - "hold on tight." For, though we swerve that corporeal curve - can't help losing the light.

It is the deceptively quiet and elegant (yeah, yeah, yeah) Bob Neuwirth I came to greet in one hopeless, then empathetic, moment - his light's gonna shine "a long, long time." Linda Ronstadt could finish that sweet lullaby.

Man, we got truckloads of paintings and a thousand galleries to prowl.

By Karen Colaianni Johnson © 2009

AS IF I WERE ONE OF THEM

standing in the hallway of the record company
as if i were one of them
brief case over a shoulder purse (over a shoulder)
bags hanging from each finger of the other hand
i looked up the wee staircase toward a desk
on the landing that used to be a theatre stage
where jamie answered a ringing telephone

jamie looked down at me nodded his head put a hand in the air
sign language said hold up gotta take this call
i dropped the stuff hanging heavy on my body just off the plane
then turned on the stereo at my cozy desk
contentedly because i chose the new music we were all working on
i LIKED this stuff with our new producer FINALLY
i waited for jamie though he was going out to a dinner meeting
and it wasn't yet my turn to be involved with the roundtable of musicians

i looked up when jamie snapped his fingers
with an expansive smile and a hand over the phone he whispered spryly
it’s my kids you’ll love this they’re trading places and voices
imitating me on the phone
they’re playing with me you know as if i were one of them

well i did know what he meant
he and the kids talked fast
skipped around acting as if they were one of the humans
jamie and kids were on the same page
for me and for him it was the height of praise when any of our magical young ones
acted as if we were one of them

the little record company caused such fun at dinners talking music
spaghetti in los angeles ginseng in the recording studio a beatle a taj mahal
consciously we set out to be one with the perks of our jobs and our kids
and so had we become perks for each other
it wasn't romantic it was idealistic the moment was cool
...
at first sight of my family's long-ago beach mansion
2 year old niece juliet squealed to my sister
“look mom we're a queen”
always we are one of them and likely share a perk

by karen colaianni johnson © 1992

(Jamie 1953-2007)

Lovingly Dedicated to JAMIE COHEN

God Bless You We Feel You Always

HEALTH REFORM BILL DEADLINE

Friends, I have been asked to host a June 10 informal event, and ALSO to collect as many letters I can about all of my friends’ and neighbors’ desires for the upcoming Health Care Reform Bill. I hope you will participate, either by asking me for details on the event or doing the following; but, please make the deadline June5 or 6 on the letters: You can put it on letterhead and attach to my email (se KJ info), or just type a note with as much personal info (or none) as you wish, addressed: Dear President Obama. Then just list 2 or 3 things you'd like to see in the Health Care Reform Bill. Many thanks! KJ xo

I MISS THE YELLOW ROSES

“Set You Free This Time”

“I have never been so far out in front
That I could ever ask for what I want
And have it, anytime
Knowing this, you found the thought for me
That told you just where I should be
And there I stood behind,
With all the ones that were before
And memories that always seem to tear me
From my mind
It isn’t how it was set up to be
But I’ll set you free this time”
(Gene Clark, used by permission)

I knew him for forty-six days exactly.
My life was pretty hectic in 1991. The record company was exploring new directions, and the workload -- including coast to coast travel -- doubled, then maybe tripled by the end of the year. Having served since late 1989 as National Director of Publicity & Artist Relations, I was promoted to Vice President, Publicity, Artist Relations and Corporate Communications at Private Music which was transitioning, thanks to boss Ronnie and my complicity from a schmaltzy instrumental home for some nice enough players to a bigger-than-boutique with the marketing muscle of a major. So there.
I was watching "Shadowlands" at the Marriott in Scottsdale when Gene called from L.A. to congratulate me on the promotion. Excited like a kid. Like my fan. I just loved that.

the fiftieth & fifty-first days
May 28 & 29, 1991
Dear Gene,
I'm at my desk at the record company this morning, kind of unbelievably, and feeling terribly bewildered. I may be stretching too much to be part of your life now; what I knew for sure about your life is no longer here on earth, you know? I wanted to visit you again today at the mortuary, and I boldly asked, but I must accept their answer which is that they need to get you ready today for the service which I think will be tomorrow. It's such an effort to accept every step of this, every action, every answer.
Now the day is over and it got no less bewildering. And I'm only comforted with the writing of these letters to you.
I've learned today that I don't want to discuss you (anonymously or not) with anyone new. I have several very good and close friends. Andrew, the sensitive, is the most important for talking, of course. Even casual friends (especially the sobers) have been there for me... listening to me, feeding me, making me sleep and work and go to meetings, and do all the right things... behind my relationship still with you. I was escorted into a nail place and didn't realize for hours I had color on my fingers.
And now it has become the next morning. I've missed you all night in my sleep. This morning my intestines are noisy, like they are beginning to work, not like the hungry noise. It's because late last night- - enough. (I can’t talk about food.)
I don't seem to want to give up the real crying part of the grieving for you. My priest gave me a telephone number for a “grief hotline” (smile). Actually, he was wonderful. assuring me that you are exactly where you need to be, at peace and love and light in the palm of the hand of your Higher Power. I, human, keep forgetting you have always had a Higher Power, and need to smile about the fact that it isn't me.
"I know something about love
You've got to want it bad
If that guy's got into your blood
Go out and get him"
(Remember that song, with its eerie, passion, by The Exciters?)
I love you my darling pal. I pray today that I may treat you, myself and all the human beings, with dignity.
Love always,
("We'll be pals forever", you said)

Karen xx oo

- Karen Colaianni Johnson ©1991