Thursday, November 28, 2013

Dream of the Blue Turkey


This little clip has become something of a yearly tradition around these parts and it will remain one even in my sort-of absence.

On this, the day that we celebrate the beginning of the first -- but certainly not last -- great American land swindle, I ask you to remember the plight of flightless birds everywhere. Sure, that farm-raised turkey is now on your plate, but at one time it had dreams of majestically taking to the skies, just like so many of its feathered brethren.

Just like the poor Kiwi.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Empty Nest


It's an amazing thing really. I can't for the life of me figure out why, but despite my not having posted a damn thing in weeks there are still people visiting this site. As somebody who's blogged or written for seven-and-a-half years now it shouldn't surprise me that various Google searches and so on continue to bring people here, but I guess it kind of does -- and maybe that's because I'm so angry with myself because I feel as if I've had no choice but to abandon my internet home in favor of every other fucking thing I have to do these days.

I can't do much in the way of making promises anymore. The best I can do at this point is to say that I'll write here when I can, meaning that the lights will always be on so that I can come back when I need to -- when I truly have to say something I can't say anywhere else. That time really will come, that much I actually can say for sure. I'm even inclined to say that it'll happen soon, but again, no assurances.

For what it's worth I truly do hope that those of you who've been kind enough to read this site over the years have already made the jump over to the Daily Banter. I'm there several times a day, hopefully still doing good work. Sometimes it feels just like being here, but admittedly most of the time it doesn't. Gotta make a living somehow, though, and I'm finally getting paid to do what I always wanted to so I know that I'm very lucky.

I realize that I'm repeating myself from a few weeks ago. Sorry.

All I can say is, I'll be back here in time. It's always in my heart. I mean that in ways I could never full explain.

Monday, November 04, 2013

Quote of the Day


The Daily Banter: The Benghazi “Eyewitness” Is the Victim of a Liberal Witch Hunt (or Something)/11.4.13

Back Issues


Considering the amount of writing I now do each day and week, I won't lie and say that I'm going to be cranking out material around here the way I used to anytime soon. I just can't; there aren't enough hours in the day. That said, no, I'm not going to let this site die a "dignified" death simply because it's still my home even if it's been vacant recently. When the mood strikes me and I feel like I have to write something personal, this is where it's going to go -- and I promise you that will absolutely happen at some point.

While I can't guarantee that I'll have the space in my incredibly tight schedule to do it each and every time, I do plan to at least try from here on out to link anything I write at Banter over here in the name of A) keeping DXM on at least some kind of life-support, and B) taking readers who still visit this site, and shockingly there are still quite a few of you, directly to my nonsensical ramblings.

Over the past couple of weeks I've written several columns at Banter that may as well have been DXM material, particularly some of the longer-form pieces, and this makes me pretty happy.

Here are the links:

Is It Islamophobia or Just Islam?/11.1.13

Quote of the Day: Fuck You, Salon/10.30.13

The Trayvon-Zimmerman Costume Controversy: Is the Reaction Fair?/10.30.13

Glenn Greenwald and the New York Times Have at Each Other (and the Result Is Pretty Interesting)/10.29.13

None of Us Will Ever Be as Cool As Lou Reed/10.28.13

Salon Slams Russell Brand and Proves Why the Far-Left Is a Joke/10.25.13

The Mother of All Anti-NSA Ads Is Watching You/10.23.13

The Onion Draws Outrage Again, Makes Its Point Flawlessly/10.23.13

Kanye West's Big "Fuck You" To Redneck America/10.22.13

It's Just Another School Shooting/10.21.13

Is It Wrong To Tell Women To Drink Responsibly To Protect Themselves?/10.21.13

I'll try to stay on top of it, kids. It ain't easy these days.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Picture of the Day



Lena Dunham in New York City.

Also, some hipster.

(h/t WWTDD)

Tuesday, October 08, 2013

I Am Serious, and Don't Call Me Surly


I can't say that I've ever been the subject of an open letter, but a reader was kind enough to not only school me on history in the hope of making the point that maybe all is not lost for America, but to then send me a link to his work.

I'm the first to admit that it's really unfortunate that I've been feeling this way lately about our politics and our culture, but maybe it's true that I'm only able to see it all through the prism of my own experience or through the events of my lifetime.

Either way, the lesson is appreciated.

The Gloomy Historian: An Open Letter To Mr. Pazienza/10.8.13

By the way, am I really finally at that place where I need to be referred to as "Mr. Pazienza?"

Jesus.

Listening Post



The Daily Banter: Now Hear This: Amanda Palmer Is NSFW

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Bring the Noise


If I sneeze twice in the same day, I assume I'm getting sick and should probably stay in bed with the covers pulled up over me and a fresh-squeezed orange juice IV drip. Because I'm a wuss.

While Michael Chobot was battling acute myeloid leukemia last year, a disease which essentially kept him at death's door most of the time, he accepted a gig editing and mixing the sound for a PBS documentary, worked day in and day out on it, and eventually not only completed the thing but wound up being nominated for an Emmy for his work.

Tonight in New York City, PBS's An Original DUCKumentary will go up against four other news-documentary projects in the category of Outstanding Music and Sound and Michael Chobot's name will be announced alongside some of the best sound technicians in the business. I guarantee that it would've been the first of many awards to come for Mike throughout what was sure to be a long and distinguished career in television and film.

Mike was brilliant at what he did. Flat-out brilliant. He brought a kind of wide-eyed excitement, contagious passion, and twisted sense-of-humor to being a producer and engineer that I have to imagine made him a joy to work with, and of course he had talent to burn. He wasn't just going to be successful, he was going to be a star -- and he was going to have an absolute blast doing it.

If it hadn't been for the fact that he came up against one challenge that was simply too unyielding, one competitor that was too ferocious for him to overcome, he would've been up on a stage collecting Emmys and very likely Oscars for the rest of his life. I've never been more convinced of anything.

Michael's family will be there tonight in New York City to hear his name called among the nominees and potentially even as a winner. They'll be there to personally witness his professional legacy and to revel in the honor and, yes, glory bestowed upon him by his peers. While I'm sure it'll hurt like hell to know that he's gone and can't be there himself to enjoy the recognition for his immense talents, I have no doubt that they'll do what I'm doing 3,000 miles away: celebrating. Celebrating Mike's moment. What was sure to be the first of many.

Good luck tonight, Mikey. I love you and miss you.


Sound Hunter: The Extended Interview from Greg Harriott on Vimeo.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Listening Post


Yeah, it's a link. But again, I'm working on making things better. Bear with me.

This morning, an emotionally devastating new song and truly striking video from Goldfrapp.

The Daily Banter: Listening Post/9.10.13

Monday, September 09, 2013

Listening Post


For the time being, that is until I figure out how to balance everything, I refuse to leave this little corner of the internet completely barren. So, as promised, I'll at least begin linking over to the stuff I'm posting at Banter.

That includes the regular Listening Posts you've found here for the past seven years, which have now moved on what may end up being a trial basis.

This morning, it's new Coldplay.

The Daily Banter: Listening Post: Coldplay/9.9.13

Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Write On


August was a really slow month around here -- no doubt about it. I can blame being overworked and spending the rest of my time with my daughter, who's now back in Dallas, but it's just as easy to go ahead and blame what's traditionally a slow news month. So, what's September going to look like? Well, I'm not sure how much better it's going to get.

Here's the thing: My schedule is changing in a way I haven't experienced since beginning this little experiment of mine more than seven years ago. When I first started, all I wanted to do was write for a living; that's actually one of the main reasons why I started DXM. As it turns out, that dream has now come true to some extent: I'm getting paid to write for the Daily Banter. It's a tough gig because, as I've related here a couple of times, I crank out so much copy so quickly during the week that it often leaves me wondering whether I believe half of what I write anymore and stressing over the quality of the milk this cow is constantly giving. But I'm still being paid to write and I still, I hope, write stuff that people think is worth reading.

The impact it's had on this site can't really be overstated, but now that impact is going to get even more pronounced because big changes are coming to Banter in the form of a more powerful and interactive Gawker-like site, so says Banter overlord Ben Cohen. And he's drafted me to contribute more material for it, which means that I'll be writing for the Daily Banter in just about a full-time capacity. This doesn't mean that I'm shuttering DXM because this is still my internet home and you know how seriously I take it and how protective I am of it. I'll need this place to air the thoughts that just won't fly over at Banter or anywhere else, the personal things that I can only say in my own house. But yes, content around here may suffer until I figure out how to balance everything I'm doing. I'll probably set up links to my Banter nonsense here as well as cranking out a piece here and there that's exclusive to DXM, but right now I just don't know how it's all going to play out.

What I'm not going to do is hand the site over the someone else. God bless Cesca for having Ashby to basically run his own site for him but that's just not my thing. If I'm not here, nobody's gonna be here in my place.

Anyway, just a tiny update from the management. I'm not disappearing or anything, just making yet another transition. A good one this time.

Listening Post



Blue October's Justin Furstenfeld is a melodramatic, self-loathing lunatic whose emotional diarrhea can be as exhilarating and revelatory as it is obnoxious and indulgent. When we last heard from him and his band, he'd written an entire album about his break-up with his wife and the ensuing custody battle over his daughter. In the hands of someone not quite so meticulous and determined when it comes to relating his pain, this could've been really powerful subject matter to mine, but Furstenfeld of course just had to tell the story in such detail that almost no one other than himself could ever relate to it. He's not about universal themes; he's about cutting his own wrists and bleeding all over the audience simply for the sake of the release.

That said, when he's good -- and when he does write as much for the listener as for himself -- he's very good.

Yeah, this is an amateur recording but it's an impressive one, done at a live show in Vegas. The song is from the new Blue October record, Sway, which is surprisingly good.

Here's Not Broken Anymore.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Listening Post



Zero 7's Simple Things is one of my favorite albums of all time. Not only does its almost indescribably lovely chill seem to transport the listener to someplace very far away, it always transports me back to one very specific and brief era of my life: New York City, in the comedown after months of psychic tumult covering 9/11. This kind of listening-for-nostalgia generally violates a credo I have about music, but in this case I'll let it slide. Zero 7's stuff is sonically atmospheric, so it makes sense that it evokes such very clear imagery in my mind. It's almost sense memory.

While 2003's When It Falls came very close to matching Simple Things's wondrous soundscapes, nothing released since by the band has done that much for me. It's not bad -- it's just not, with the exception of one or two songs with José González on vocals, what I fell in love with.

After a long wait, Zero 7 now has a new single they've just released and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. It's a good song -- I mean that. I still wonder, though, whether it's a good Zero 7 song, at least when compared to their songs of ten years ago.

Here's Don't Call It Love.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Listening Post



With production by Rick Rubin and an opening that pays direct homage to Paul Revere, the first single from Eminem's follow-up to the landmark Marshall Mathers LP comes out of the gate like a smack across the face.

This is the definition of Beastie Boys-style old school -- and it's one of the balls-out best songs of the year.

Here's Berzerk.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Listening Post



Robert Glasper's Black Radio was one of the best albums of last year if not consistently the best album, period.

Now comes Black Radio 2 and this is the first single from it.

Lush, gorgeous, and featuring the always awesome Jill Scott on vocals, here's Calls.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Into the Maelstrom: 21 Years Later


21 years ago today, a good portion of South Florida was in ruins. That's because overnight 21 years ago, on this day, Hurricane Andrew cut an almost incomprehensible path of destruction across the suburbs of my hometown of Miami. It killed 65 people and became the costliest natural disaster in U.S. history (a title it held until Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast in 2005). It remains one of only a handful of Category 5 storms to make landfall in the Atlantic Basin. At the time, I was an associate producer at WSVN in Miami. I was 22 years old and had only been in television news for six months. Andrew was my first big story. What follows is a lengthy piece, but it's one that generates an overwhelming amount of positive reaction from readers each time I republish it on this, the anniversary of Andrew.


"There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm."

-- Willa Cather


"The clouds will part and the sky cracks open and God himself will reach his fucking arm through."

-- Nine Inch Nails



Part 1: The Gathering Storm


The first order of business was to find some appropriate music.

This sort of task is harder than you might think. I mean, really, what qualifies as a fitting soundtrack to impending catastrophe? It has to be menacing and ominous, yet atmospheric -- creating an almost nouvelle vague-ish feeling of resigned serenity. It has to say, "In less than 24 hours, your entire hometown will be wiped off the face of the Earth by the wrath of God, and there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop it."

I settled on Ministry's So What and Scarecrow -- on repeat.

It was actually a rather fitting choice, given that I was still nursing a brutal hangover from the previous day's Lollapalooza festival -- the one which featured the spectacular lineup of Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers and, yes, Ministry. A full day's worth of drinking compounded by the sweltering and oppressive August heat should've been enough to lay me out flat for the next day or so, but what I'd found waiting for me on my answering machine when I got home at around midnight let me know in short order that I'd be afforded no such luxury.

My assistant news director had left seven messages -- all slight variations on the where-the-hell-are-you theme.

When I picked up the phone and called him back, sitting down in an effort to steady the room, it sounded as if I had just been connected to the information kiosk in the center of Grand Central Station.

"What the fuck is going on there, Mike?"

"Jesus, Chez, haven't you turned on the TV lately?"

"No, I've been at Lollapalooza all day. I told you that's where I'd be when I left work on Friday." I pried myself up from the couch and shuffled across the hardwood floor of my living room, careful not to fall over face-first. "See, this is why I need a pager."

"You have to get in here now. Everybody has to come in," he said over the confusing din in the background. I could practically hear his face turning purple.

I hit the button on the TV and the picture coalesced into sharp focus just as the word "why?" came out of my mouth.

Before Mike could even answer -- "Forget it. I see why," I said, stunned into a near whisper.

I took a step back in an effort to truly grasp the magnitude of the image before me, the one which seemed as if it had the potential to burst free of the two-dimensional confines of my television screen and begin drawing all fragile reality into its vortex.

It was a storm -- an infrared image, all furious reds and oranges, of a massive hurricane sitting directly off our coast. It looked like a buzzsaw, threatening to cut Florida in half. This was Andrew.

"I thought it was supposed to miss us," I said.

"It was," Mike said. "Not anymore."

"What happened?" When I left work on Friday evening, the storm had barely reached hurricane strength again after being sheared into pieces by a blast of vertical winds.

"It turned earlier today, and gained strength. It's now a Cat-5," he said, then -- "It'll be directly on top of us in less than 36 hours."

There wasn't a force in the universe steady enough to keep my reality from shifting on its axis. Still, I instinctively started pacing the floor, trying to knead the remaining fog out of the front of my head with my free hand.

"Alright, listen -- I need at least a few hours of sleep, Mike. I've been out drinking all day, for God's sake. I'll be in as soon as I can."

"Okay, just make it ASAP, please -- and whatever you need to pack up or secure at home, do it before you leave. Once you're here, you're not going back out to the beach until this thing's done with us."

Mike Dreaden was aware that I had moved into my own place on South Beach within the past month; it was my first time living alone.

Great fucking timing.

"Yeah, right, if there's a beach left," I said, then dropped the phone into the cradle and my weight back onto the couch with a dull thump, letting everything swirl into its own pinpoint vortex until all that was left was comforting black.



By the next morning, I had moved the few valuables I owned into a tight space at the top of the closet, packed an overnight bag, then took one last, sad look around the new apartment that I fully expected to never see again and headed off to work. I had little doubt that by the time I emerged from the nearly windowless, concrete enclosure of the WSVN studios the following day, South Florida -- whatever was left of it -- would be a very different place.

As I put the car in drive, the Ministry, for all of its portentous rage, was actually somewhat reassuring.

It was just a little after sunrise when I threw the 1988 Porsche 944 Turbo I had recently bought to reward myself for no longer working at Taco Bell into high gear, only to come around a corner and suddenly face a column of cars at a dead stop, resting bumper to bumper along what seemed to be the entire length of the MacArthur Causeway leading off the beach to the mainland. I had already done my best to avoid allowing myself to be distracted by the unnerving sight of people running from their apartments along the surface streets of South Beach -- their arms loaded with belongings -- ready to jump into waiting cars that would take them somewhere. Anywhere but here. This sight, however -- the sight of so many people desperate to get out of the path of the oncoming storm, opened a painful pit in the bottom of my stomach.

I took a deep breath and whipped the car around, downshifting and slamming the gas pedal to the floor, deciding not to actually leave the beach but instead to travel north along the ocean until I reached the bridge that would take me to North Bay Village, a quiet little island right across the bay from Miami proper and the home of WSVN. I sped along Collins Avenue, weaving through traffic and silently thanking Al Jourgensen for being born.

One of the most surreal and ironically foreboding features of an oncoming hurricane is the near-perfect weather that it creates before it strikes. The pressure of the storm's powerful revolution seems to pull all surrounding clouds in toward its center, making for crystal blue skies in the hours leading up to its arrival -- the literal calm before the storm. With the exception of a very light breeze, you'd never suspect that a monster storm, packing 160 mile-an-hour winds, was about to descend on you.

This is what it was like on the morning of August 23rd, 1992. It appeared to be the beginning of a hot, but otherwise gorgeous day.

It was only the palpable unease in the air and the oddly silent march to higher ground that betrayed the fact that something terrible was about to happen.

When I got to the station, I pulled my car into the most protected area of the parking lot I could find, in the crux of the large, L-shaped two-story concrete building.

Once inside, I was quickly put to work pulling booth duty, backing-up a rotating roster of producers, each of whom did a four-hour control room shift directing our non-stop coverage. We had every crew possible in the field and the chopper in the air over the parking lot that the causeways and I-95 had turned into. I've come to believe that if you're not out doing live shots, the control room is the only place for a producer to be during rolling coverage. Anything else is a waste of his or her talents. I learned this that day at WSVN and would eventually put it into practice in every other shop at which I wound up working. My record is 14 straight hours in the control room and during breaking news I wouldn't want it any other way.

On the day before Andrew came ashore, I willingly spent seven hours in the control room alongside the producers and directors, and in doing so earned the respect of my co-workers and managers. I had only been moved to the dayside shift -- the land of the living, as opposed to graveyard duty -- two months previously, and in a matter of a half-day, I was positioning myself to vault quickly up the ranks.

I had run to the bathroom and was on my way back to the booth when I heard someone call my name; I turned to see the familiar face of Chris Crane, the station's in-house music composer.

"I need a ride to my apartment," he said. "I gotta get my cat. Can you give me a lift?"

"I'm pulling booth duty, man."

"Yeah, I know. I talked to Dreaden, he'll take over for a few minutes."

I'd been to Chris's apartment before; he lived on one of the upper-floors of a gorgeous high-rise building right on the island -- not far from the station. I checked my watch; it was just after five. I hadn't been outside since my arrival early this morning and was curious to see for myself if conditions had noticeably deteriorated, plus I didn't want to be in any way responsible for the death of a cat, so I nodded and we headed for the door.

"Ministry -- fucking perfect," he said as I cranked the engine and the Porsche's speakers came to life.



It was there, in Chris's apartment high above the bay, that the true gravity of what was about to happen -- what was about to hit us -- became overwhelmingly clear.

As Chris called out for his cat, I walked slowly across the living room to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony outside. Without thinking, seemingly hypnotized, I slid the door open and stepped out onto the balcony; I needed not only to see but to feel the ominous scene that was presented to us from this high up. The edge of the Earth was dark. It looked as if God himself had reached down and pummeled it with his fist -- making the horizon bruised and swollen. The wind had picked up, and as I closed my eyes and felt it wash over me, I realized that the only sound I could hear was the breeze itself.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the streets below.

There wasn't a car in sight.

The island was a ghost town.

And there, at the vanishing point, on a collision course with us, was a storm the likes of which almost no one in South Florida had ever seen.

I walked quickly back inside and slid the door closed. There in the darkened living room was Chris.

"You find your cat?"

"Yup."

"Good, grab her and let's go. We need to get out of here -- now."



When I was nine-years-old, Hurricane David dealt a glancing blow to Miami. I remember my parents boarded up the entire house so that it was pitch black inside except for the few battery-powered lights we chose to keep running. I listened to the storm batter and beat the outside of our home for hours and hours; heard the boards nailed across the windows creak; listened to the storm try to get inside wherever it could. At the time, I drew comparisons in my child's mind to the scene in Close Encounters where the aliens surround Gillian Guiler's house in rural Indiana, submerging it in light and sound in an effort to get to little Barry. I imagined that Hurricane David was trying to do the same thing -- testing every possible entrance in an effort to take me and my family away.

This was at the forefront of my mind as Chris and I slammed the car doors shut and ran back inside the safety of the station just as the first of the heavy, low clouds began to pass over our heads.

As the glass doors of the lobby closed behind us, a steel shutter fell down behind it, locking into place.

Now, just like during David, I was inside a building which had ostensibly been sealed shut.



I got back into the newsroom just in time to overhear Mike Dreaden and the executive producers quietly lamenting over a recent and unfortunate turn of events. WSVN had within the last couple of months fired its long-time meteorologist Bob Soper and had yet to find a replacement of his caliber. It basically meant that for the biggest storm in anyone's memory, our weather department was being manned by a bunch of relative novices -- pretty faces who were at the very least untested in the South Florida market, and therefore would probably be deemed untrustworthy by audiences when it really counted, like, oh say, now.

We needed meteorologists; we had Jillian Warry, who would eventually go on to become Jillian Barberie, FOX's full-time, half-naked, mildly irritating but overall very nice weather vixen.

This was my first experience attempting to work my way around a truly stupid and short-sighted management decision.

It damn sure wouldn't be the last.

After getting a slice of pizza -- because the one thing that can always be said about a newsroom during a crisis is that at least there's free food -- I dodged the chaotic foot traffic in the newsroom and made my way over to the incoming feed area where Abby was sitting down, watching video come in from the trucks in the field. She was wearing her usual ensemble -- a t-shirt and a pair of jeans -- and her auburn hair was tied up in a pony-tail that bounced every time she barked orders through the microphone to our crews. She was as adorable at that moment as she had been a couple of weeks previously, when a few too many drinks at the bar across the street had led to a dangerous level of flirting and teasing between the two of us.

I liked Abby and as far as I was concerned I could stand a friendly face.

"Don't you dare get near me unless you have an extra slice of pizza," she said without taking her focus away from the monitors in front of her.

"You want one? I can get you one."

"Fuck it." She turned to face me, seemingly annoyed at the distraction -- or maybe that she didn't have time to be distracted. "Just give me a bite of yours."

"Always." I smiled, holding the slice to her mouth.

"Don't start with me right now. In case you can't tell, some of us actually work around here as opposed to just kissing ass."

"I'm hoping to sleep my way to the middle. Busy later?"

She took a bite, dripping cheese on her chin which she quickly grabbed with her fingers and shoveled into her mouth.

"My God I love you," I deadpanned.

"Go away."



As the sun went down, the wind picked up and the approaching storm intensified, the pressure dropping considerably. Andrew had become so tightly packed that it now resembled a giant tornado more than a hurricane. This was not going to be pretty, and deep down we were all scared beyond words. All day and afternoon, members of our staff had been running to and from their homes, trying desperately to secure what they could -- trying to get their families to safety. Many brought their husbands and wives -- their sons and daughters -- back to the station, as it seemed like the safest place possible given the circumstances.

In truth, this would have been the case were it not for one obvious consideration -- the one that was about to plunge what had already been a hectic and scary night into utterly terrifying confusion.

We were keeping one door open and that was the back door that led from the newsroom out onto the helipad, and beyond that, the bay. After another hour or so in the control room, I once again felt like I needed to see what was happening for myself. Our crews were reporting intermittent bands of strong winds and light rain -- the outer rings of the storm -- so I ran downstairs from the booth and pushed open the unlocked back door. Outside I found some of our ENG guys gathering sandbags which they were preparing to put in place around what was obviously a weak spot in our defenses, namely the door I'd just come through. The wind was howling now, pushing a mist of salty bay water up over the seawall some fifty yards or so away from us.

Without taking my eyes away from the sight of the now black and roiling bay, I asked the obvious.

"Guys, what's the storm surge supposed to be with this thing?"

"12 to 18 feet," one of them answered.

I remember closing my eyes as I asked the even more obvious follow-up.

"And how high off the bay are we?"

"Not high enough."

As if timed for maximum dramatic effect, it was then that I noticed the red and blue lights casting long, deep shadows from the side of the building and heard the shouts from inside the newsroom.

The police had arrived.

They were forcing everyone out.



"This is a mandatory evacuation!" I heard, from a voice I didn't recognize.

The entire newsroom was in a state of pandemonium. Mike Dreaden and the other managers were trying to explain to the police that we had to continue broadcasting; the police weren't impressed, concerning themselves instead with only one unassailable truth: We were sitting on an island that was likely going to be completely underwater in a few hours. The dilemma for those of us who were currently holding the fort however was equally alarming: Andrew was now right offshore and we were being told to take to the streets and forage for sufficient shelter.

"Mike, what the hell are we doing?" I shouted over the insanity.

He looked around, as if willing himself to come up with a solution that didn't involve everyone being killed. "I have no idea," he huffed, then -- "We'll pack up the remaining trucks and go north to the transmitter. It's in Broward, we can broadcast from there. You can go with us -- or you can go inland and look for a safe place to spend the night."

Neither option was particularly appealing.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Abby. As I might've expected, she looked like she was about to try punching one of the cops in the face, which admittedly would've at least landed her in a nice, safe jail cell on the mainland. I ran over to break up what was already turning into what the hippies used to call a "very bad scene."

"Abby, Abby -- knock it off." I put my hand on her shoulder and spun her toward me.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Up close, I realized that she looked less angry than she did genuinely in shock, like a frightened child.

"I don't know. Where do you live?"

"With my mother." I almost forgot that Abby had only turned 21 a few weeks ago. "Up on North Beach."

"Alright, that's not gonna work. We have to go inland. Come on."

And with that, I did something ridiculously impetuous -- or wonderfully noble -- or maybe I was just improvising. I grabbed Abby's purse, latched onto her hand, and we pushed our way through the crush of people moving toward the door and the police who were edging them out. When we got outside into light rain which was now being whipped along by heavy winds, we ran for the car.

I was fishtailing out onto the empty causeway in a matter of seconds, heading as far away from the water as I could get.



Aside from a police cruiser here and there, there wasn't a soul to be found anywhere on the roads. There were only the bands of wind and rain -- followed by the eerie lulls in between, when it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the atmosphere and replaced by the oppressive silence of absolute absence. The effect was simply chilling.

The Porsche screamed along US-1, the needle pushing 85.

I had no idea what our destination was, but I knew that I obviously had to stop at some point; the worst thing imaginable would be getting caught in the full brunt of the storm while sitting in a car. At one point, we passed the National Hurricane Center and I gave serious consideration to just pulling into the parking lot and banging on their door.

Hey guys, wanna REALLY help some folks out tonight?

But it wasn't long after we'd passed the NHC building that we came upon a small hotel, the lights of which were still inexplicably on. It was a two-story job with outdoor entrances to the rooms; not exactly the underground bunker I'd hoped for, but it would have to do. I pulled the emergency brake and swung the car around, then threw it into first and headed back toward what was at the very least a concrete structure.

I've been thankful for many things in my lifetime: My family's seemingly bottomless reservoir of good will and humor, the ability to survive a brain tumor, the fact that sharks can't breathe air -- but never have I been more thankful than when I realized that not only was the little guy at the Gables Inn sitting behind his desk and willing to open the door for us, but that at a few minutes past midnight on August 24th, 1992 -- the day Hurricane Andrew hit South Florida -- he had one room available.



There was chaos, absolute and infinite -- the terrifying sound of the world being torn apart. It was undeniably beautiful. Intensely sensuous. Abby and I listened to the fury of the wind and the scream of the roof being stripped away. We barely spoke, content to feel each other's husky, labored breathing. Exploding transformers right outside the window hammered the room with staccato blasts of blue and white light that sliced through the blackness and turned our shadows into living art against the wall. A final crack, and a sliver of the ceiling gave way, letting in warm drops of rain to mix with the sweat. Trees were ripped from the ground and slammed into the wall outside, their branches scraping violently against the pulsating window like fingernails across bare skin. It was nature in its simplest, rawest form -- monstrous and powerful and exquisite and pure.



I gently slid Abby down onto the floor between the bed and the wall and pulled the mattress up overtop of her, to keep her safe from any possible debris.

And then I walked hesitantly to the door, because like the child in Close Encounters, I had to see for myself what it looked like -- the monster scratching at the other side. The wind was blowing from the east, while the door to the room faced west; it was theoretically safe to open.

I placed my hand on the doorknob, twisted it gently and pushed.

What I saw when I looked into the storm was beyond description. My reaction, beyond awe. I've never seen such power.

I was in the center of the maelstrom.

I have no idea how long I stood there, but eventually I closed the door and crawled under the mattress with Abby, who was already asleep. I pulled her tightly against me, then closed my eyes and let everything go dark and silent.




Part 2: The Other Side


There was nothing, and that nothing was something -- its own imposing physical presence.

Although I was sure my eyes were open, there was no light; although I believed myself to be awake, there was no sound.

It wasn't until I felt Abby's soft hair in my face that I was sure we still existed at all. I exhaled and twisted my neck slightly, then reached a free arm up from around the young girl pressed against me and pushed hard on the mattress above us, sliding it out of the way. Suddenly, I could see -- the world going from black to shades of muted gray.

"Abby, wake up," I whispered.

She groaned and rolled over onto her back in the tiny shelter we had created between the bed's heavy box spring and the wall of the hotel room. My body ached as I pulled myself up and awkwardly half-crawled out into the space of the room. As reality began to come into a difficult focus, I heard the sound of dripping -- looked up and saw timid light coming through a hole in the ceiling, water traversing its jagged edges and falling to the soaked carpet below.

I rubbed the haze out of my eyes. When I looked toward the window, I noticed that it was practically opaque -- covered almost completely by the branches of a tree that had fallen and now rested against it. Astonishingly though, the window wasn't even cracked. How it held together I'll never know, but I'll always be grateful that it did.

I slid into my jeans then moved over to the door and pushed it open, bathing the room in soft, white light. I immediately noticed the strong breeze and heard it moving through tree branches that I couldn't see, pushing leaves and debris along the ground. I stepped out onto the landing and allowed myself a first tentative look around. From my vantage point, facing west, perpendicular to US-1, there was little to see, unless you took into account the miracle of the Gables Inn's ability to have somehow just withstood a Category 5 hurricane without completely evaporating. I saw one or two people -- seemingly shell-shocked -- wandering the parking area directly beneath our second-floor room. I leaned forward and peered over the railing with a lump in my throat, fearing the absolute worst, only to find that aside from being plastered with wayward palm fronds, the Porsche seemed to have survived Andrew unscathed.

I jumped slightly when I felt something brush against me from behind, then closed my eyes and leaned back into the warmth of Abby, who at that moment felt even softer than I remembered. She'd wrapped herself in a blanket, and was now resting her head against my back.

"How bad is it?" I heard her voice and felt her breath on my shoulder.

"I honestly don't know. We should get out of here and find out -- get to the station, if we can."

I turned around, held her tightly for a moment -- then kissed her gently and went back inside to get dressed and get my car keys.



It was bad.

It was very bad.

Abby and I drove in silence, slowly and carefully maneuvering the car around the heavy debris that littered the highway -- everything from street lights and powerlines to trees, billboards and even the massive air-conditioning units from the tops of the high buildings nearby; all were strewn across US-1 and had now turned it into a frightening obstacle course. Every so often, the oppressive stillness inside the car would be broken by the sound of Abby's quiet sobs.

Entire buildings were flattened. Once lush trees were made barren skeletons, standing as sentinels over a wasteland, if they still stood at all. Everywhere, windows had been shattered, turning the structures they once adorned and protected into seemingly atrophied frameworks -- empty and bare. The roofs of homes had been shorn away wholesale and now rested in various spots along the highway so that it would've actually been possible to make a macabre game out of matching the house to its missing canopy.

There were no stop signs. No traffic signals. No electricity. No nothing.

And everywhere you turned your head, there were people trickling out from under shelter looking dazed -- concussed -- the way I always imagined a person looks immediately after being involved in a bad car accident. It's the face of someone who's gone into shock and is seconds away from collapsing -- someone who's already dead, he or she just doesn't know it yet.

We had been warned what a storm like this could do.

Our most dire predictions and worst fears weren't even close.



Abby and I were completely cut off from everyone. We couldn't reach our families, nor could we get in contact with our co-workers. The police had already set up blockades and detours aimed at keeping traffic flowing in certain areas -- safely out of others. With the radio now on and tuned to one of the few stations still broadcasting continuously, we decided to head north, toward Abby's family's condo; it was near water, but from what we were hearing, the storm had veered south at the last minute to come ashore in South Miami-Dade County. Places like Cutler Ridge, Homestead and Saga Bay had all taken direct hits and were now eerie dead zones; there was no information coming out of them. For all we knew at that moment, they simply didn't exist anymore.

The irony of course, which wasn't lost on either of us, was that by heading south on US-1 and ending up in Coral Gables the previous night, without meaning to, we had traveled into the storm as opposed to away from it.

"Next time, I'll let you drive," I said, upon learning of this little revelation.

The farther we got away from the southern end of the county, the more things seemed to return to normal. Power was still out almost everywhere, though, and when we finally arrived at Abby's mother's condo, we were forced to grab an emergency flashlight and navigate a dark and damp stairway -- with only the sound of dripping water echoing across concrete -- to get to the upper floors. We eventually made our way down a hallway illuminated by the sad glow of emergency lights, located the right door and dug Abby's keys out of her purse. Once inside, the gun-metal gray sky beyond the condo's floor-to-ceiling windows provided at least a workable amount of light.

Abby called out to her mother. I slipped into the darkened kitchen, found the faucet and splashed cool water on my face.

After a moment, Abby appeared as a silhouette in the doorway leading to the dining room.

"She's not here."

"She leave a note or anything?" I asked as I used the bottom of my t-shirt to dry my face.

"No, she probably went to my aunt's place up in Boca. That would've made the most sense. She'd figure I was okay."

"That'd be her first mistake," I said through a tired smile.

I heard a chuckle come from the silhouette.

"Wanna try using the phone, see if it works -- see who's out there?" I asked, after a moment of deafening silence.

Amazingly, the phone actually did work, the problem of course was that a lot of the ones we were dialing didn't. The station, as far as we could tell, was still out of commission and Abby and I quietly admitted to each other the grim feeling of calling a television station in a major American city and getting a recording.

With no other legitimate options, and certainly nothing better to do, we turned on a battery-powered radio and laid down on the couch.

We fell asleep listening to stories of the end of the world.





Part 3: Among the Living


I came around the corner at a quick jog, only to be stopped in my tracks by a heavy black bag which hit me square in the chest. I fumbled for a second, caught it, then looked up to see where it came from. Standing in front of me was Mary Alvarez, our senior executive producer.

"Congratulations, you're going to South Dade. Be on the helipad in ten minutes."

She may as well have just spoken to me in Inuit.

"I'm going where?" I said, chasing after her as she turned and began taking long strides back to the newsdesk.

"Cutler Ridge. You'll be field producing for Sally," the back of her head said.

I suddenly debated telling her that, having never actually gone to journalism school, I had absolutely no idea what the hell a field producer did and therefore her choice of me for this particular assignment was a recipe for disaster. I thought the better of it in short order, choosing instead to bullshit around my complete ignorance.

"Uh, okay," I stammered. "Any particulars you're looking for while I'm down there?"

When in doubt, pretend to know things in the abstract while bolstering the ego of management by deferring to it and asserting that only someone of a higher pay grade can be brilliant enough to understand the specifics of anything.

"Find stories. Keep her in check. The first assignment should be a breeze -- God help you with the second."

"Look, Mary--" The cracks were quickly starting to show.

She spun around and looked me right in the eye.

"Nine minutes."



The morning after Abby and I made our exodus from the Gables Inn and our treacherous journey across Miami-Dade county, we were back at the station, which had just officially reopened for business. Right before dawn, we had left the condo -- where the power was still off -- and headed south along I-95, then east toward North Bay Village. We showed our WSVN IDs and had been allowed to pass a police barricade to get across the causeway to the island. Overall, North Bay Village wasn't badly damaged: a few traffic lights down, no power aside from backup generators, debris in the streets, but that was about it.

We hadn't been at work long -- dealing with the trauma of getting the station up and running again -- before Mike Dreaden noticed the two of us standing close together, whispering to each other, calm amid the madness. He lumbered over and asked where we'd each managed to find safety during the storm. Abby and I just laughed a little and separated without saying a word.

Now, the two of us were face to face again.

I had just come back from grabbing my overnight bag out of the car and had both that and the bag Mary threw at me earlier -- the one full of extra equipment for Sally -- slung over my shoulders. I looked like a pack mule.

"You know, I'm trying to stay professional about this whole thing," I said quietly, resisting the urge to run my fingers along Abby's arm.

"Yeah, I know. Do you have any idea how long you'll be gone?"

"None. A few days at least I'm sure. Who knows."

There was silence in the tiny space we occupied together at the center of the newsroom, contrasted by the roar of activity all around us. I checked my watch -- time to go. I glanced up at her and was just opening my mouth to say goodbye when she cut me off.

"Oh fuck it," she said, and leaned in and pressed her mouth hard against mine. "Take care of yourself."

So much for discreet.

A couple of minutes later, I was ducking below the rotor of the chopper, shielding my eyes against the whirlwind it kicked up. I threw both bags onto the seat in the back, then climbed in and slammed the door shut behind me. After patting the pilot on the shoulder and strapping in, I reached into my overnight bag and pulled out my CD Walkman, plugging the headphones into my ears.

As we lifted off, and the ground receded beneath us, Neil Young began to speak to me -- singing that our only hope was to keep on rockin' in the free world.



From the air, the scope of the destruction became clear. The amount of damage was staggering -- overwhelming.

As the chopper headed south, low along the coast, skeletal high-rises slid past us, their windows blown out. Below us, houses were in pieces and trees blocked the streets and highways. Cars were overturned and scattered like children's toys.

When we reached the Dinner Key Marina in Coconut Grove, the images were almost beyond belief. Every boat, every yacht and sailboat along the docks, was smashed and sunk in the shallow water. Boats were piled on top of each other in a gruesome parody of dry dock; splinters of what were once expensive vessels scattered everywhere. As we turned inland to bee-line toward our final destination deep within South Dade, I pulled down my sunglasses and leaned into the window -- awe-struck by what I was seeing.

There, on dry ground, laying against a line of trees at least a half-mile from the edge of the bay, was a ship. A freighter. It was hundreds of feet long. It had been picked up by the storm surge, blown inland -- and then left there when the waters receded.

As we pushed farther and farther into the heart of the dead zone created by the storm's fury, I realized that there was less and less to see -- simply because there was less and less there.

Everything was gone. Leveled. Wiped clean.

Entire communities, once thriving, had vanished as if they'd never existed. It was as if Andrew had a plan -- an actual thought process -- and it involved returning everything to zero. Years of evolution, both structural and cultural, had been obliterated. Thoroughly erased.

After what felt like an eternity, the chopper banked and began to descend. I looked down and once again felt a stab of dizziness penetrate the space directly behind my eyes. Our landing area was the Cutler Ridge Mall -- or where it had once stood anyway. Most of the mall -- formerly a giant enclosed shopping Mecca featuring stores like JC Penney and Sears -- had been flattened. What remained was nothing but rubble. Its parking lot was now a staging area for the National Guard; military green vehicles, hastily-constructed tents and troops at muster seemed to go on forever.

It cemented the impression that we were entering a war zone, which in fact we were.

The chopper set down in a barren area of the lot near what was once the north end of the mall. I ripped off my headphones, grabbed my bags and jumped out, shouting a thank you to the pilot on my way. In front of me as I once again ducked beneath the rotor was a familiar face: One of our photographers -- a guy named Brad Friedkin.

"Welcome to hell," he shouted over the roar of the chopper.

"Is it all like this?" I returned at equal volume, still shielding my face.

"This? Oh God no. It's much worse." He was smiling from ear to ear. "At least they have power generators and air conditioners here."

He grabbed the black supply bag from my shoulder and led me to a waiting Chevy Blazer that was already running. As I climbed into the front seat beside him, the AC did indeed feel wonderful. The heat and humidity outside was punishing; I had only been out in it for a few minutes and I could already feel sweat running down the backs of my legs.

As Brad put the truck into gear, he glanced over at me.

"Do you have any idea what you're supposed to be doing here?"

Now that I was safely miles away from a manager: "Are you kidding? I was hoping you'd know."

He pushed hard on the gas and the truck twisted out onto a side street.

"Yeah, you're gonna fit in just fine," he said, seemingly as an afterthought.

Brad gunned the truck to the intersection of US-1, our only route down deeper into the scarred heart of the devastation and a straight line to the Cutler Ridge processing center. Unfortunately, the highway was a frozen line of cars; traffic wasn't going anywhere in either direction. Before I could even ask what his plan was or suggest one of my own, Brad had pulled alongside a national guardsman and rolled down his window.

"Excuse me," he shouted, getting the attention of the weary guardsman. "Is that thing loaded?" Brad was pointing to the M16 slung over the guardsman's shoulder -- a weapon which appeared to be missing a clip.

"Not right now," he responded.

"Good."

And with that, Brad swung the Blazer past the guy and sped off along the side of the highway, leaving a cloud of dirt in our wake -- by-passing the traffic completely.



The National Guard and the Office of Emergency Management had taken one of the few structures still standing in Cutler Ridge and turned it into a processing center for the victims of the storm. It was a place where anyone could come and find food and bottled water, both of which were almost impossible to come by otherwise as there was no electricity and no clean water for miles in any direction.

Day and night, the place was packed with crowds of desperate people, all clamoring for items which they likely had taken for granted up until two days ago. South Dade had been plunged into the dark ages, and after only 48 hours without the modern conveniences that had over the years unwittingly become necessities, an almost feral atmosphere was beginning to take hold. Tempers were short. A primitive rage was practically visible behind the eyes of everyone you came into contact with.

It wasn't a reality anyone recognized anymore. It was a world consumed by madness.

For the first several hours after my arrival, I herded my anchor, Sally Fitz, here and there, making sure she was in place for her live shots and keeping in constant contact with the station. Having been on the other side, in the control room, I was well aware of what the producers and directors needed from the crews in the field to keep things running smoothly and keep themselves from storming out the door and never coming the hell back. Things went according to plan for the most part, despite the constantly changing situation at the processing center and the fact that in a fit of bizarre anger, Sally had already told another of our photographers, Ralph Rayburn, to "shove it up his ass" live on the air. It was moments like those that forced me to retire to the air conditioned live truck every so often to sit quietly and contemplate a career change.

As the sun set, the darkness began to swallow the entire area whole. With no electricity for miles, a walk even a few feet outside the confines of the processing center would plunge you into impenetrable black. Once again, the world reset by the hand of God -- returned to a time before man and his innovations could lay any claims or plant any flags of progress.

But -- when you looked up, an entirely new reality was revealed. You could see forever. Past the stars. Past the galaxies. Maybe into the center of heaven itself. It was beautiful beyond dreams.

This was what I stared into that first night, before finally closing my eyes to get a couple hours of sleep. That infinite sky.



Somewhere in my dream, Abby told me that we have a problem -- and then told me again.

"We have a problem," came a different voice, one I didn't quite recognize.

I slowly pried open my eyes to find our truck operator towering over me. It was still dark outside.

I groaned, then -- "What's up?"

"The National Guard's threatening to kill Rick," he said matter-of-factly.

I just laid there for a moment.

Finally -- "Well, is there anything we can do to stop them?"

"We should probably try."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

I pulled myself up off the Astroturf carpet that I'd been laying on and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes with the fingers of one hand -- exhaled heavily -- then trudged off to find the National Guard commander in the hopes of keeping him from killing WSVN's main anchor.

Rick Sanchez was stationed about thirty-miles or so south of us, at the second processing center -- the one in the even more heavily damaged city of Homestead. Already a somewhat divisive presence in Miami television, he was either busting his ass to get the word out about the desperate needs of those in the hurricane zone or arrogantly showboating -- taking "The Rick Show" on the road, as it were -- depending on your point of view. As it turned out, Sanchez would go on to inspire this same kind of extreme love or hatred throughout his career, even, eventually, on a national level; this crap was just the tip of the iceberg.

I finally found the commander in charge of the Guard detachment at our station.

"Sir, what's the problem?" I asked, still groggy.

He turned around and motioned to a column of semi tractor-trailers over his shoulder which he was, at that very moment, attempting to direct out of the traffic. "That's the problem," he said, frustrated. "Your man in Homestead went on the air and said they needed baby food. Guess what's in those trucks?"

Rick asks for it down there and it appears up here. Fucking lovely.

"Who sent all that?" I asked, pretending like I could somehow exert any control over the situation whatsoever.

"Who knows. One of the markets up in Broward probably. We're still trying to figure that out." He turned around and ordered a guardsman to put flares down in the road, then whipped his head back toward me. "This is the second time this has happened in 24-hours. We're gonna either pull him off the air or just shoot him -- unless you do something about this. We don't have any place to put all this stuff and we don't have a way to get it all down to Homestead right now."

"So, it's basically just gonna go bad."

"Give the kid a prize," he said, stomping off.

About two minutes later, I was inside the live truck on the two-way with our newsdesk, trying to explain the situation in terms as unequivocal as possible.

"If we don't put a muzzle on Sanchez, they're gonna dispatch Martin Sheen up the river to take him out."

"Well, you know how it is with Rick," came the response from Dreaden.

They're helpless parents who can't control their problem child.

"Just do something please. They're gonna shut him down -- I'm serious."

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door of the live truck. I reached over and opened it and standing there was a guy in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and a trucker hat.

"Hey, you with the TV? We got a bunch of stuff your guy says they need down in Homestead. Where do you want it?"





It was later that day that I tied a bandana around my head to soak up the filthy sweat and set out with a photographer to find a trailer park that supposedly had been all but annihilated by Andrew. An hour or so previously, Sally Fitz had sought me out to tell me that she'd heard rumors of the tiny community and that it had yet to be photographed by any news crews. So, myself and a shooter named Eddie grabbed some equipment, climbed in the back of a pick-up that was driven by someone who said he knew of the trailer park in question and wanted everyone to understand what had happened there, and were soon on the road headed for God-knows-where.

As we rode under a sky that was nearly white with moisture, as well as the ugly gray clouds that punctuated it, we shot video of the homes and businesses that we passed. All were badly damaged, and yet many looked as if they'd been boarded up after the storm hit in an effort to protect what could still be salvaged. Everywhere, there were signs on various properties which featured menacing warnings of the harm that would come to looters, should they even consider trying to take what little of value the hurricane had spared. Given that there was almost no law to speak of in South Dade at the time, I tended to believe, say, the sign that read: LOOTERS WILL BE KILLED!

The truck veered off the highway after some time and pushed down a dirt road and through tall reeds. After several minutes of rough riding that nearly bounced the two of us out of the back on more than one occasion, we entered a clearing -- an open field surrounded by low, barren trees.

It took me a moment to realize that it wasn't a clearing at all. It had once been a trailer park.

There was nothing left of it now. Not a thing was intact. Nothing stood higher than maybe a couple of feet off the ground.

I climbed out of the truck as it stopped and took a few cautious steps forward. There was no sound at all; even the hot breeze seemed to be silent, as it swept not through dense leaves but around desolate and bare branches. I advanced slowly down what had been one of the wide streets between the homes. As I did, I looked to my left and right -- taking in the wreckage of what had once been people's lives.

There was a crib, crushed under the twisted metal of one trailer's roof. Pictures scattered everywhere. Memories. There were toys. A child's shoe. Clothes. Even a wedding dress. A bicycle with training wheels still on it was now perched in what little remained of a tree.

A thumping sound finally broke the crushing silence, the sound of helicopters. As it grew louder, I looked up to see a formation of military choppers glide directly over our heads.

A moment later, the artificial thunder created by the helicopters retreated over the horizon and it was quiet again.

Except for the strange buzz.

And that was what I noticed what had been there all along -- busying themselves above the piles of wreckage where homes once stood. Where people once lived.

Flies.

We were standing several feet apart now, but I turned to Eddie and spoke in a near whisper. Sadly. Desperately. Helplessly.

"They're all dead."

He didn't answer -- just stared, slowly taking in the entire scene.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, which I hoped would help me fight back the tears.

"Yeah, there's no way they all got out," he finally answered quietly -- reverently.

Eddie glanced over at the man who'd driven us to this place. This graveyard. They both simply nodded at each other, and Eddie put his camera on his shoulder and began shooting. I moved back to get out of his shot, then happened to turn my head and look down. On the ground next to me was a picture of a middle-aged couple. They were smiling.



Three days later -- after reporting the story of the trailer park and alerting the overworked authorities to its existence; after mornings, afternoons and nights of live shot after live shot after live shot; after almost no sleep -- I caught a ride back to the makeshift landing pad at the Cutler Ridge Mall. I watched the chopper land. Boarded it. Closed my eyes as it ascended out of the war zone. Opened them only occasionally on the trip back to notice as green returned to the world below; as blue water appeared on the horizon and in time slipped gently beneath us; as the island of North Bay Village materialized ahead -- the island that everyone thought would be covered in water. I'd eventually return home and find that my apartment had also survived the storm. It had come through just fine.

As the chopper touched down on the helipad, its rotors still screaming, I once again thanked the pilot and stepped out into the whirlwind, where I'd spent a lot of time recently.

As I looked up, standing safely outside of the maelstrom was Abby.

She gave me a warm smile, and held me tightly when I reached her. Together we turned and walked toward the rear door of the station.

She held it open for me, and welcomed me back to work.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Listening Post



The new EP from these guys will hit iTunes next week, but for now this is a pretty good example of why they're one of my favorite up-and-coming L.A. bands at the moment.

Here's Kitten -- Japanese Eyes.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Listening Post



This song is just catchy as hell.

It's Haim -- The Wire.

Sorry, but this absence is going to continue for a little while longer. I'm still dealing with a lot of projects and trying to make sure Inara is appropriately entertained and cared for.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Listening Post



Placebo's new album, Loud Like Love, will hit the states in a few weeks. There have actually been two singles already released from it, and since it's Friday I'm posting both of them for you.

Above it's the title track.

Below it's the fascinating little video mystery, narrated by Bret Easton Ellis, for Too Many Friends.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Quote of the Day


"Fein told the WSJ that a U.S. TV producer called her and told her that Greenwald had been 'shopping around an exclusive interview with Mr. Snowden for seven figures.' Greenwald called the accusation 'defamatory' but did tell the WSJ that he had a discussion with NBC about conducting an interview with Snowden and licensing it to them for $50,000."

-- From a Business Insider column titled "Edward Snowden's Father Doesn't Trust His Son's Closest Allies," which details a conversation with Mattie Fein, Lon Snowden's wife, in which she expressed her husband's reservations about Glenn Greenwald and Wikileaks

I love this quote. I love everything about it. It's so wonderfully -- Greenwald.

"How dare you accuse me of shopping around a seven-figure interview with Edward Snowden!" And then in the pretty much the very next sentence, "Well, I mean, I am asking for five figures to license an interview with Edward Snowden, but that's completely different!"

It's rare that the semantic gymnastics and naked con artistry Greenwald regularly engages in and which make him so untrustworthy are put right out there for anyone and everyone to see. But there you have it.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Listening Post



This song was actually released last year out of New Zealand but it finally reached the states in a U.S. version not long ago. It's from 16-year-old Ella Yelich-O'Connor, otherwise known as Lorde -- and it's without a doubt one of the best tracks of the year, which probably explains why it's breaking huge right now.

Here's Royals.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Listening Post



Attention world: Prince is on Twitter.

More importantly, he's tweeted a link to one hell of a reworking of Let's Go Crazy, performed live with his new band, 3rd Eye Girl.

That would be why I'm not even bothering waiting til morning with this.

Speech Impediment


If you need a perfect example of how the domination of the click-bait headline is really just screwing our culture and its collective intellect without Vaseline, here you go.

Over the weekend, Ashton Kutcher picked up a kind of lifetime achievement award at Nickelodeon's "Dear God Please Send the Angel of Death to Smite Every Tween in the Country" Awards. His acceptance speech for the thing was, admittedly, pretty impressive, attempting to impart upon the crowd of screaming 13-year-old girls a little wisdom on succeeding in life through hard work, persistence, and grace.

Really, it was about four minutes of minor greatness from a guy I normally couldn't give a crap about.

So, what most-important-revelation did the Huffington Post reduce Kutcher's speech to?

This:

The Huffington Post: Ashton Kutcher Reveals His Real Name at Teen Choice Awards/8.12.13

I guess it could've been worse. He could've been wearing something that revealed side-boob.

Listening Post



The new single Lady Gaga got a worldwide release yesterday -- and I have to admit it's more addictive than crack.

First of all, she's definitely entering her Lene Lovich phase, both stylistically and aesthetically, and there's something odd about the song in that it's all synth but it's actually so propulsive that it somehow feels like a guitar-and-drums rock song.

Here it is -- Applause.

I'm at least somewhat back after a really difficult weekend funeral and a decision to take a bit of a mental health day with Inara yesterday. At some point I'll come back fully.

Thursday, August 08, 2013

Listening Post



Silversun Pickups are either dragging their asses or just taking their time -- either way, this is the new video for a song that's actually been available for more than a year now.

Here's Dots and Dashes (Enough Already).

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

Listening Post



One more for Mike.

Here's Pink Floyd's On the Turning Away.

Tuesday, August 06, 2013

Listening Post



I posted this song a couple of months ago, but this morning I don't think anything else will do.

Even the images of lakes and mountains and trees seem appropriate.

Here's Shawn Smith -- Wrapped in My Memory.

Goodbye, Mikey.

The world will be a far lesser place without you.

Higher and Farther Than Anybody in a Gray Place Dares To Dream



Any evening that begins with a car on fire is guaranteed to be memorable.

That's how things got underway as the darkness draped itself over New York City on Saturday, April 12th, 2008: with Michael Chobot spending the first few minutes of his big 21st birthday celebration staring in disbelief out of the window of the cab we were sitting in the back of as it crawled with traffic past an inferno that maybe ten minutes ago was a car. We were heading downtown, toward the Village, and firefighters had already blocked off the lane with the burning, empty vehicle, backing up the FDR for a good half-mile. While at least one of us in the cab was frustrated as hell at the delay, the sense of little-kid wonder I'd come to expect from Mike was in full bloom once the cause of it was revealed. From where I was sitting I could make out the expression on his face reflected slightly in the window as we passed the scene -- the open mouth forming an awed smile, the wide eyes, the appreciation for the sheer surreality of such a moment. Live long enough in Gotham and you start to believe that you've seen it all, that nothing can return you to that place you were when you knew full-well how wonderfully weird the entire world is. But there was Mike, with all the unpretentious exuberance that something like the sight of a car engulfed in flames, out of nowhere, to kick off the night of your birthday bash, should elicit. And at that, I remember cracking a little smile in spite of myself, because if there's one thing you learn from knowing Mike, it's that whatever strange magic it is that he possesses -- the singular way he looks at the world, what makes him him -- it rubs off on you, and that's never a bad thing.

The rest of that evening involved, among other things, Mike drunkenly rushing up to me at a bar after having disappeared for a few minutes to tell me that if we were willing to buy a couple of girls he'd just met drinks, they would make out in front of us; Mike being relieved of his leather belt and spanked with it by a bartender at Coyote Ugly; and the night's master of ceremonies, a good friend of mine, nearly being arrested for public urination. The following morning, I was awakened from unconsciousness by Mike standing there holding up the now very soiled blanket that I'd laid out on the couch for him the night before; he asked me, completely sincerely, with a goofy smile on his face that only served to ratify his perceived innocence, "Hey, man -- why'd you give me a blanket with vomit all over it?" I threw the thing in the laundry, we ordered a couple of Irish breakfasts from a place up the street and spent the rest of the day learning how to jump cars off the roofs of buildings in Grand Theft Auto IV. It was, even during that heady period in my life, with a new baby on the way, one of the best times I could remember. I had taken my wife's kid brother, whom I'd known for six years, out to christen his adulthood and we'd both had an absolute blast.

That's my favorite memory of Michael Chobot, my favorite among many memories. It doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of who he is and what makes him unlike anyone I've ever known, truly unlike anyone period, but at the moment it's what I've got. And those closest to Mike are doing the same thing I'm doing right now: quietly but hurriedly gathering these memories like diamonds spilled across a floor and holding tightly to each one. They're doing this because soon it's all any of us will have. Soon, Michael will be gone.

For almost two full years now, Mike has put up a truly remarkable fight against one of the most ruthless and efficient killers on the planet: acute myeloid leukemia. He's been in and out of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. He's undergone not one but two bone marrow transplants. He's straddled the line between recovery and collapse, gone into remission, then returned to that precipice to dangle precariously again. Throughout it all, his sense of humor and his singular outlook on life -- the life he was battling so valiantly to hold on to -- have never waned. He's had terrible days. He's had times he's wanted to be alone, I have no doubt times when he's wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift away from everything and everyone -- to open them and find himself floating freely in the ocean off a sunny beach somewhere, truly alive. But somehow with a strength I can't even begin to imagine he's managed to keep the most important part of himself intact. The Michael his family and friends have always known -- the one I've known for more than ten years, since he was a funny, awkward, endlessly analytical 14-year-old kid -- was still there.

Recently, following this latest transplant, which appeared to be holding, Mike took to looking toward the future. Maybe it was that weekend back in 2008 that sold him on a life in New York City, but in the couple of years before being diagnosed, Mike had moved to Brooklyn and was beginning to get some truly impressive work in his chosen field: sound engineering. He worked on Salt, Pokemon, and It's Kind of a Funny Story. He lived payday to payday, like just about everyone starting out in media in New York, and eventually worked on a PBS feature called An Original DUCKumentary. Just a couple of months ago he called me with some incredible news: He'd been nominated for a national Emmy for it -- outstanding music and sound. The ceremony is this coming October. He wanted to go. I joked to him that he needed to leak the fact that he has cancer to the Academy -- possibly get the sympathy vote.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm 3,000 miles away from him and only know what I hear in his voice when we talk on the phone, but I think I finally put out of my mind the ugly reality that had always clawed at my insides. Maybe all of us pulling for him were right: Michael was special. He had taught himself piano as a child and composed symphonies as a teenager. He had an artistic streak most could only dream of and a staggering amount of talent to back it up. He had a strangely old-soul quality about him, becoming a kid fanboy of music that was popular on rock radio even before I was a kid (so much so that I used to rib him pretty mercilessly about it). He was almost supernaturally optimistic. He was an honest-to-God genius who seemed to control everything around him, making his dreams come to vivid life and bending it all to his will without really even trying, always improving it -- or at least making it a hell of a lot more interesting. He couldn't be taken. It simply wasn't possible. He existed in a perpetual state of grace. He was gonna be fine.

But two weeks ago, he was given the news: there was nothing the doctors could do anymore. The cancer had come back with a vengeance. It was too aggressive. Too powerful. He wasn't going to make it. He's not going to make it.

He's home now. With the family he loves more than anything and which loves him with equal ferocity. He's at peace with what's to come.

How do you mourn for what never existed? How do you grieve not for the past but for the future, a future that will never be? I suppose that's what true grief is -- it's not the disappearance of what was there all along as much as it is the sudden absence of what you were so sure was to come. It's the worst kind of cliché, but Michael Chobot was going to change the world. He was going to do something not simply great but truly monumental. I can't even begin to explain how I know this, but it's as certain to me as the searing knowledge that the man who isn't my blood brother but who embraced me as one and has grown to become an inextricable part of my heart and soul is now dying. The only comfort I or anyone else close to him can take is that he's already accomplished such extraordinary things, had so indelible an impact on so many lives, created love and joy as effortlessly as he created sound and music and film, equally beautiful and without question immortal. There's little anyone can do at this point other than to assure Mike that what he's done with his life has mattered. That in just a little over a quarter-century on this planet, he fulfilled every bit of his promise to himself and those around him. That he made a difference. That he can be proud.

Michael is my brother and my friend. I will go to my own grave loving him. I will make sure my daughter, his niece, grows up knowing how fortunate she is that her uncle was the man he was. She'll learn the stories about Mike, hear them repeated endlessly. The hilarious stories, the unusual stories, the profoundly moving stories. She'll hear the stories from his brother, and his sisters, and his parents, and his friends, and every single person whose life he's touched.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe everyone who's known Michael Chobot throughout the years won't be left with only memories once he's gone. What they'll be left with is what Mike himself gave them, what he gave me: something better. Michael made our lives better. He has since the day he was born -- and his legacy will ensure that he'll continue to long after his physical presence is no more.

He always had fire. He was guaranteed to be memorable.

...

(Adding: Overnight, Michael Chobot died. He is survived by his mother, Gwyn, and his father, Tom, as well as his sisters, Jayne and Sarah, and brother, Joe. And those he called brother or sister, Phil, Megan and, for reasons I'll never fully understand or be able to adequately thank him for, me. He lived with more passion, wonder and innocence than anyone I've ever known or ever will.)

Monday, August 05, 2013

Listening Post



The irony shouldn't be lost on anybody that Gary Clark Jr.'s stuff sounds quite a bit like the Black Keys, a band which gleefully pays homage to the largely black art form of the American blues.

Damn can Clark wail and play guitar, though.

Here's Numb.