My Blog No. 2
Saturday, June 28, 2025
Hey, Scotty, what's the formula for converting to "star date?"
OK, I'll ask Spock.
I'm not a Trekkie but all the movies, TV shows, music, books, articles, life experiences have informed my perspective-- as for all of us.
My dad was a humorist, started out as a cartoonist, compiled College Parodies, wrote for the original Captain Marvel comics, wrote radio comedy, had a show on Broadway (set the world's record for shortest run)... taught me to do a job writing humor for one of his publications.
Writing words since then- my early 20's- has taken many forms.
I've written and given a few speeches, written press kits, websites, articles, lots of teaching materials. My first book was written for my students- combines music history, theory and ear training.
Tons of dream journals. Tons of other journals, most of which I've thrown away. The endless writing allowed me to find my own voice.
And then I forgot that I am a writer.
I forgot that that I am a musician. I forgot that I am competent. I forgot that I was OK... as much as anybody is OK.
I stopped being OK gradually.
It just occurred to me that my erratic blood sugars, volatile mood swings, meandering career, hyper-productivity, are all representative of a man constantly undergoing midlife crisis.
When I was in first grade, my teacher told my dad that I was "slow." It took until fifth grade before I caught up. Then it was exponential. More likely it was exponential all along with a protracted, almost hugging the flatline early childhood. My dad in his infinite wisdom, chose to tell me that "my teacher says that you are slow."
Back then they didn't recognize that some people have learning disabilities-- or individual learning styles. Even the labels hurt. "Disabled, different..."
Dad also told me my friends all played piano better than I. My mother's role another day.
He used to complain in my presence, to my mom, "why doesn't he have any friends?" When my mom set up "play dates" it would infuriate him that she used the term "play date..." to say that he was homophobic is a tad bit of an understatement. Undoubtedly this had something to do with the stiff, unnatural way I held myself. Boys don't cry. I learned that lesson with one slap to my face in public. My wife says "at one end of the spectrum there's effeminate, at the other is macho... You, Ken are way past the masculine end... she made a sweeping hand gesture to indicate where I am. I don't feel particularly macho. In fact, I feel I have a highly developed feminine side. (My left side, usually).
Despite my being "slow, a friendless, lousy piano student," I had an adult vocabulary by the age of five. Go figure. I was also creative and prolific — always.
When I emerged at a family get-together at the age of five, proudly showing off my "concoction: liquid pizza," dad wasn't too pleased that I was creative in the kitchen: boys don't cook.
He also was less than thrilled when after my first clarinet lesson, my teacher called to tell him "Your son could be a professional musician."
So like any parent, dad gave me good stuff as well as stuff that while not killing me softly, did make me stronger.
He did lots of sports with me:
tennis, track, swimming, rowing, golf, bowling, ping pong, shuffleboard, softball- he would take me to the park then organize a kid's game with two teams. He pitched. (He was managing editor of Joe Wieder's muscle magazines.) I think I found my weightlifting coach on my own.
Dad would have been a good gym teacher— a very demanding olympic team coach. It just occurred to me that my style of teaching— having perfectionist standards for students is exactly his style. Fortunately, over the many decades, I learned a few compassionate techniques.
Enough for now. Time to start my day.
