"When I'm running the world, there's gonna be some big changes, big changes!" Who hasn't had that thought from time to time? We're only human, we all have our daydreams, our wish lists and our pet peeves. Who wouldn’t want to change the world for the better? And being human, we also notice that the people who actually do run the world are also humans, in most respects no different from you and I except that they get to run the damned world and we don’t.

Careful scrutiny of many of these people convince a lot of us that we could do as least as well as they are doing. Heck, look at the Bush administration, you tell yourself. The president himself seems to be some amiable half–wit who couldn’t spell cat if you spotted him the C and the A. Those surrounding him? I don’t see any Daniel Patrick Moynihans, Henry Kissingers or Adlai Stevensons, if you catch my drift. I mean, when this nation got attacked, this administration responded by invading the wrong country! How is that possible? After Pearl Harbor, did Roosevelt attack Peru? Did he ramble on about not giving much thought to Emperor Hirohito’s whereabouts or where Hitler was hiding himself these days or what they might be planning?

And when Hurricane Katrina devastated one of our great cities and other areas of our Gulf Coast, what happened? You tell me. So far as I can tell not much. Hell, we rebuilt Germany and Japan quicker than New Orleans following World War II, and they were our enemies! So you say to yourself, hell, even I’m notthat big of a screw-up. And I wouldn’t employ my good buddy as the nation’s Attorney General, the highest law enforcement position in the nation, because he was a nice guy who spoke just like I did. Well, maybe I would…

And it’s not just our own leaders you look at and say to yourself that you could out-perform this guy. Check out some of the princes and kings who were born into world-runner status. Dumb as fence posts most of them and completely out of touch with the people they rule. What about the sons of dictators who inherit the tyrant’s seat when Pop checks out? Fredos, every one, not a Michael Corleone among ‘em. Baby Doc Duvalier comes to mind, a vicious fool so stupid he could have held a key post in the Bush Administration. Kim Jong Il is another one of these clowns, presiding over a starving population while spending all their dough on the military and his personal “pleasure squads.” A very sizable chunk of the population of North Korea were born just fine but are permanently mentally retarded because they didn’t get enough nutrition when they were developing. This jerk-off will be long gone when some other leader has to figure out exactly how to care for these people who will never get better and cannot ever be productive citizens. Where’s Moe Green to slap him around when you need him?

But this human doesn’t really think I could run the world. The aforementioned rulers are aberrations, really, part of life’s rich pageant for the time being. The sick joke portion of life’s rich pageant, that is. America will learn from eight years of Moe, Larry and Curly politics and elect a smart guy or gal next time who will in turn will surround themselves with very smart people. As for the princes and sons of tyrants, the dumb ones don’t last all that long. Has anybody heard from Baby Doc lately? A phone call, an e-mail, a Christmas card maybe? Guess not. Truth be told, running the world is a serious business requiring serious people to fill the seats of power. But it is nice to dream, no?

If I were in the seat I don’t think I’d propose any big sweeping changes. Politicians are always promising you stuff they know they can’t deliver ‘cause they know you’ll vote for them since you want that stuff. Remember Clinton and universal heath care? About time, the whole country cheered. Boy, that went away quick, didn’t it? Or Jimmy Carter promising that this nation would never deal with other nations that oppress their citizens with his Human Rights Initiative? Great idea, Jimbo!</>. Now look at the labels of everything you’re wearing and see how many “Made in China” labels you’re sporting

Or Ronald Reagan, the man who wanted to greatly reduce the size of the Federal Government, get it off our backs for good? Cool, Ron, go for it!The man then proceeded in his eight years to triple the size of the federal government and put is in a financial hole that was eating more than half our tax revenues until Clinton found something that was doable and he balanced our national budget for the fist time in half a century, with trillions left over to boot. Of course George Bush the Younger proceeded to squander that surplus and then some swiftly, ringing up Reagan-sized deficits that will have to wait for a smart guy to fix.

And what about his promises? No child left behind? Hell, some of the poor tykes are so far in the rear-view mirror education-wise they’ll be lucky if they learn to speak a little more coherently than the current president, and that won’t qualify them for anything. Unless of course they’re born into a ruling class family flush with oil billions. And what about Dubya’s promise to track down and annihilate those responsible for attacking our country? See above, the part about attacking the wrong damned country. But I digress, and he’s just too easy a target. Back to my daydreams.

When I run the world, I’m going to change stuff alright, but I won’t promise anything outlandish. No sense getting foiled by a hostile Congress. Maybe promise the voters that I’ll be the sharpest dressed president ever. That ought to be a snap, judging from the identical wardrobe of every president I can remember. Get some designer duds, liven up the colors, throw in some accessories and a little leather and you’re done. Mission accomplished. I’d only make promises I could realistically fulfill, like swearing a solemn oath to never waste my time clearing brush. Not that I have any brush to clear in my tiny yard in Brooklyn but if I did I’d have some other guy do it for me. People don’t hire a president to pose in the hot sun with a damned weed-whacker. I figure they want him in his office figuring out solutions to the brain-busting problems confronting the nation. The least a man elected to the highest office in the land can do is to pretend to do so.

I’d also call off the war on fat guys. Like it’s not embarrassing enough to not fit into any of your clothes anymore and now you’ve got not only your wife but the government up your ass to eat salads and jog? Please! Whatever happened to being too polite to mention other people’s personal habits? Some of my best friends are heavy and I figure it’s their business, not mine or the government’s. We’ve already got a sizeable community of scolds, doctors, and that’s plenty. When was the last time they cured a disease? It was polio, wasn’t it? And that was like, what, 50-something years ago? A little less scolding, a little more curing, okay people? And I wouldn’t quit smoking to please anybody either. I’d be a sharp dressed, cigarette-smoking president with a bunch of very smart tubbies around me giving me sound advice. Better I should start some stupid war I’m too old to fight myself or get a blowjob in the White House from some twit too young to be my daughter? Me, I’d go to a Motel 6 just like anybody else.

So you see why the likes of me runs no nation. No ambition or aptitude for the job. Oh sure, I could improve our education system tomorrow by tripling the salaries for teachers and thus attracting better qualified people to the job., but Congress would only water down the proposal with maybe a 2% raise saying it was way too expensive and irresponsible. Then they’d proceed to load the bill with pork barrel projects costing ten times more than the raise for teachers and I’d look like an idiot for proposing it in the first place and Johnny and Mary still won’t read up to grade level. Don’t forget, this is the same bunch who weighed down the 9/11 legislation and Katrina funding with billions and billions of tax dollars for useless personal projects like bridges to nowhere and cheese museums. Without a line-item veto, the job of president takes a stronger stomach than mine. Who wants to eat all that crap from all these smiley photo-op blowhards? They all want the job anyway. Let them see what they can do with it. Me, I’m happy enough with my daydreams…

Now we say goodbye to Phil Rizzuto, one of the last of the great Mom & Pop baseball announcers. As the broadcast voice of The New York Yankees, that most corporate and successful of baseball teams, Phil Rizzuto was a rube, as unsophisticated and spontaneous as they come. He was nicknamed The Scooter, a moniker given him by a fellow minor leaguer when they played in the Yankee farm system’s Kansas City affiliate. He “scooted” over thae basebaths like his feet didn’t even touch the ground, his buddy told him.

The name stuck and Rizzuto was Scooter until he died at 89 years young. He played shortstop for the Yankees from 1941 until 1956 (with a couple of years off to serve in the U.S. Navy in World War II), appearing with some of the greatest baseball teams that ever graced the diamond. A small man by regular guy standards, never mind professional athletics, He was a star in the field and at bat, even earning the coveted Most valuable player award in the American League in 1950 over the likes of teammates Yogi Berra, Joe DiMaggio, and the Red Sox’ Ted Williams.

The great Ted Williams often said that if Boston had Rizzuto at shortstop and not the Yankees it would have been his team winning all those pennants and World Series in those years. Williams figured the sure-handed infielder was responsible for saving dozens of runs per season from scoring, big difference makers in close games. Advantage, Yankees. None other than Ty Cobb, a mean-spirited soul extremely stingy with compliments of the many gifted baseball players that followed his own era, went out of his way to praise the Scooter, calling him a “scientist” with the bat. Never a power hitter, the pesky singles hitter and superb base runner is still considered to be one of the best bunters to ever play the game.

But none of those Hall of Fame accomplishments are why I remember The Scooter so fondly. I don’t remember his playing days. Instead I remember him as the voice of the Yankees for practically my whole life, seeming more like a lovable uncle than a professional sports announcer. He lived up to his youthful nickname with a wide-eyed boyish enthusiasm for the game and unabashed rooting interest in his team. He plugged his favorite restaurants, talked about his family and friends and wished Grannies a happy birthday on the air.

Phil cared nothing for jaded, detached professionalism and was more like an announcer for a rural semi-pro team than the radio and television voice of the most successful franchise in sporting history. Listening to Rizzuto and his various broadcasting partners over the years was a comfortable experience. The other guys would tease him about his many phobias or his reputation as a cheapskate and he’d call them Huckleberry or exclaim his trademark “Holy Cow!” He never lost his wide–eyed innocence or supreme good humor and loved a good laugh at his own expense.

I remember taking my sons to Yankee Stadium many years ago on “Phil Rizzuto Day.” The Yankees had a ceremony before the game honoring him and showered him with gifts, among them a real cow. No one got a bigger laugh about that than Rizzuto. The game that day was also very memorable when another New York sports hero, the Mets’ Tom Seaver, then pitching for the Chicago White Sox, proceeded to beat the Yanks and earn his 300th win. Years later Seaver shared the Yanks’ broadcast booth with Rizzuto for several seasons and Phil always moaned to him that he had ruined his big day. I still have our ticket stubs from that game.

The fact that he was a funny and lovable character masked a shrewd baseball mind and a gift for calling the game. On the radio he made you feel like you were there at the Stadium alongside him, such was his talent for verbally describing the game of baseball. On television he was a perfect complement to the action you saw, often pointing out nuances of the game with his ballplayer’s eye for positioning and strategy. And always you felt like you knew the guy, that nutty uncle or lovable neighbor sharing his passion for baseball in general and the Yankees in particular. When he retired you felt like the old timer ay your job was retiring and you wished him all the best. You missed the guy who taught you so much and was so generous with his praised and so down to earth. He was the Mom & Pop announcers and we won’t se his like again. So long,Scooter. I’ll miss you and baseball will miss you. You made us both better.

Wonderful devices these computers. Store lots of valuable data, connect you to the largest reference library ever assembled out there in Etherland, make communication with our fellow humanoids swift and easy. So what's not to like? Plenty. Sometimes I hate this damned machine. Hate it! Did I mention that I hate these machines sometimes? Maybe because they remind me of people. Oh I like people just fine, they're really good eggs, except when they annoy the crap out of me when they say one thing and then do another.

Which brings me back to my personal computer, purportedly my devoted helpmate and servant, ever willing and able to do incredible tasks if you follow proper procedure. Well, Ido follow proper procedure and sometimes the fickle bitch refuses to cooperate! I don't turn her off until she says it's okay to do so, I follow the menu she provides for performing her various tasks, carefully defragment her when she's frazzled and get rid of any excess baggage in her memory banks (Sure wish I could do that!) So how come this Putrid She-Spawn of Satan loses my stuff or refuses to send it to my friends sometimes? Why? Why, you bitch?

No amount of gentle cajolery or sharp reprimands can reach my computer sometimes. She just does not respond, even to threats from the business end of a ball peen hammer. Talk about your blah-zay attitudes! I think she knows deep down that I'm a paper tiger and would never carry out the dire threats I make. Most times she's the model of consistency, performing all manner of wizardry in the blink of an eye and telling you she's ready for whatever I desire, my own personal insatiable wench, eager to please and wanting more, more, more!

Today that's not the case. I’m tying to e-mail a song stored within my computer to my fellow musician Gary Kroman. E-mailed him a bunch of tunes already. Today she’s not having it. Maybe Gary insulted her somehow? I doubt it since he’s a computer wizard from way back, before they were a dime a dozen, and he knows better than to insult these finicky creatures. He’s in my address book, a regular correspondent, so that can’t be the problem.

Maybe she doesn’t like the song? I hope not, it’s one of my better efforts. Judge for yourself. It’s called What About the Hungry?and is up on my web site. Just click on to Songs and check it out. Free listens for10 songs, no strings attached. While you’re at it click on Stories and Essays and check out some of my writing, fiction and otherwise, also in their entirety and string-free. (I figure it’s always a good time for a little shameless self-promotion.) So why won’t my computer share this with Gary?

I know, I know, I could tell Gary to listen to it on the website but there’s a problem with that. You can’t download stuff from Bob Crespo.com, at least not yet. I wanted him to forward it to our bass player Ian to learn the song before we rehearse for an upcoming charity gig. In the future you’ll be able to download songs and stories, but only if you pay the ridiculously low fees I’ll be charging.

Hmm… Maybe I’ll do just that, tell Ian to listen to the song on my website, an also forward the web address to everybody he knows while he’s at it (Self-promotion once again rears its ugly head, or rather my ugly head). That still doesn’t let my computer off the hook. I’m still mad as hell at her. The lovely wife Louise, peeking over my shoulder at my blog, wonders why I insist my computer is a she. Why isn’t it a he? she queries, more than a little piqued.

Well, my love, I say this is because the thing acts a little like you’re acting now, all peeved and whatnot. “Like you don’t?” she deftly parries. She’s got a point there, I have to admit, which is why I’m convinced my computer is a she. I never win arguments with either one of them.

Got a new globe recently, the countries of the world all etched out in different pastel shades, their borders in bold, permanent-looking black. Hah! The last globe I had was about twenty five years ago, the one before that when I was a kid back around the time of the last Ice Age. The three globes might as well be maps of three different planets if it wasn't for the fact that the land masses these countries occupy are still the same. There are lots of new nations these days, some so small that their printed name is out in the ocean rather than emblazoned across its real estate.

Makes you wonder if they have room to make a U-turn when the country isn't even big enough to contain its title on a world map. But that's nonsense, really. I've been in Rhode Island, our tiniest state, like a hundred times smaller than Texas or something, and it seems pretty big when you're there, plenty of wide open spaces, baseball fields for the kids, forests and farms and whatnot. Which tells me that the world is a pretty big joint. What maps tell me is that it's a pretty restless joint, too.

Seems a lot of people are unhappy a lot of the time when a certain flag flies over their Capitol, one not of their own choosing. I can see where that would rankle, especially if the government it represents is actively killing some of the folks who live under that flag, or merely stealing the wealth of the so-called nation. Either way, the borders don't seem so permanent when you piss off a large population. Even the world's largest standing army can't prevent people from leaving the fold when this happens. Check out the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, emphasis on the former.

While Russia itself remains the largest piece of pastel on the globe, there's a good dozen or so sizeable independent nations with their own soothing map colors all around the Big Bear. I remember when that happened. It was a huge shock to everybody in the world, including the Soviets themselves and the vast intelligence community in Western Nations whose only job was to monitor these things. Makes you wonder exactly how they got the title"Intelligence Operatives." Seems they're just as clueless as the rest of us when it comes to predicting what next year's Rand-McNally World Atlas will look like.

Russia itself was mighty pissed off about it but did nothing but seethe about lost glory. Oh sure, they attacked a few of her former member nations, condemned a whole bunch more but eventually it dawned on them that they were the Spain, Britain and France of today losing their ill-gotten empires. Maybe that's why one Mr. Vladimir Putin, their ex-KGB Intelligence Operative who is their president recently claimed the North Pole in the name of Russia, maybe figuring that'll make up for the lost square kilometers of the Soviet breakup. Yeah, sure, like Santa's gonna give it up that easy! Good luck to you, Mr. Putin. If you could not subdue the various Ikstans that make up your new southern flank, what makes you think you can defeat Clauseikstan and his minions of industrious elves? You don’t want Santa ordering his toy assembly lines to be converted into munitions factories (Guess he never saw the documentary "The March of The Wooden Soldiers.").

Back to the maps. South America has remained remarkably stable, border-wise, in a region long renowned for its volatility. Europe, however, that reputed bastion of long-settled borders, has taken on a lot of different little patches of paste and melded the two Germany swatches back into one bluish-green garden of harmony. The Balkans borders, however, have been completely re-drawn yet again. It seems that every fifty years or so that region gets a makeover. The same people remain living there, it’s just that they occupy different nations every couple of generations without ever re-locating. Maybe it’s a flag-fetish thing, and all that ethnic-cleansing and bloodshed just a clever cover for this embarrassing obsession.

Africa and Asia get the most points for map-redrawing, mostly due to the demise of European Empires. To their credit, however, the governments who replaced their former oppressors and occupiers have for the most part been equally tyrannical, larcenous and bloodthirsty. (No sense confusing the people who are used to a certain way of life.) Some of these countries possess within their borders everything it takes to become a successful world class nation; an abundance of natural resources, farmland, seaports, navigable rivers and plentiful water supplies, great cities and an industrious population. For various reasons (Tribal warfare, corrupt regimes, religious intolerance to name but a few.) only a handful of these new nations have made strides in those directions, prompting the watercolorists at Rand-McNally to start mixing up some new and attractive pastel shades for next year’s World Atlas.

Woke up this morning feeling real good. Don’t know why and don’t want to ask, I just do. Most mornings I wake up in a grumpy fog, stumbing around until I’ve had a couple of cups of Joe, and even then it takes a while to come back to my normal happy-go-lucky self. I walk to the corner for newspapers to peruse over breakfast, always starting with the back of the paper, the Sports Section. The main part of the paper with its bad news and fear-mongering can wait until after I’ve had my coffee. I think it’s safe to say that I’m not generally what you call a morning person.

I’m a nerd for baseball box scores and the like. When baseball’s on hiatus for 5 months I make do with with football and basketball results and the occasional boxing story. Hockey is for others, not me. Ditto soccer and golf. I usually wake up an hour or two before the lovely wife Louise, who requires more Z’s than I do, so my mornings are usually solitary affairs. I rarely have to be anywhere so early since most of my work is at night so I can relax and slowly de-grump myself to the point where I can stand to read the news of the day. Today I think I’ll put that duty off for a while since I’m feeling too damned good to read about the latest idiotic blunders of our blockhead government, the foibles of drug-addled celebrities, senseless murders, plane crashes, disasters natural and otherwise or the prospect of paying even more taxes.

Later for all that. I’d like to ruminate on what’s right with the world, and there’s plenty. Take today’s weather, for example; warm, but not too hot, sunny and low humidity. Perfect for the barbecue we’re having later on. Joining us will be my wonderful mother Mary, my handsome sons Rob and Mike with their lovely wives Lydia and Maria, my cousin Ray and perhaps his brothers Joe and Jim and their ladies. Maybe a neighbor or two as well. I’m hoping my in-laws stop by too, Louise’s parents Mike and Lena, a couple of good eggs who provided me with my lovely spouse. The more the merrier. I always cook too much anyway so unexpected drop-ins are more than welcome.

I’ve been very lucky in this life to be blessed with so may good people around me, every one of them unique and interesting. Lydia is from Austria, came here as an adventurous teenager and stayed when Rob romanced and married her. Smart move on his part. She’s a tall beauty with a zest for life like few you”ll meet in this world. She’s shown Rob her native land and other parts of Europe. He’s returning the favor by taking her to the West Coast for a couple of weeks since she’s eager to see more of America. Mike’s wife Maria is a dark-haired Italian American sweetheart, and a brain to boot, being a VP in one of the great financial houses on Wall Street. Her family is from Italy and she’s the only one of three sisters born in The USA.

My mom, Mary Crespo, is a very interesting lady and and kind and wise and smart as they come. She has many talents aside from her gift of making everyone who has been in her company feel at ease and better about themselves. She’ a talented oil painter who has not let arthritis put a stop to her creative drive. She can’t play guitar and piano anymore but can still paint. She also builds incredible dollhouses and tiny furniture, complete with tiny working hinges the size of a fingernail clipping. She’s also a world class Scrabble player and taught me to love hard crossword puzzles and to love reading, among countless other valuable lesons. I thank her always for the gift of optimism and my capacity for feeling happiness and hope to attain some measure of her patience someday. I still learn from my mother.

The Crespo cousins I’m referring to (I have twenty-three first cousins) are real beauts too. We are actually double cousins since their mother is my mother’ youngest sister and their father is my father’s youngest brother. They’re all artists. The eldest, Carol Crespo is a drama graduate of NYU and produces videos with her husband Lee Harris, the morning voice of 1010 WINS, the  most listened to news radio station on the planet. Their company Harris Media makes all sorts of corporate and inspirational videos. Her Brothers Jim, Ray and Joe are all excellent musicians.

Jim is a super-tralented guitarist who made me the second-best guitar player in the family, the rat. Ray is a drummer and a fine singer and is also in possession of one of the greatest personalities you’re likely to run across. He has a good time wherever he goes because he takes the good times with him. Joe is a fantastic bassplayer and songwriter with the up-and-coming band Hello Nurse (visit their website hellonurse.com). I like to think that I as an elder cousin and the first musician in the family that I had something to do with them taking up their instruments. I can’t hog any credit for their talent though, much as I’d like to. Same with my son Mike. I taught him how to play guitar and how to siing but he did his own thing with them, sounding like no one else but himself. I told them all to learn from the best but to imitate nobody. If you sound exactly like so-and so, what’s the point? People will always prefer the original so-and-so to any imitation, however accurate.

And one thing we Crespos are is a bunch of characters. When this crew gets together we have a ball, no matter where we are or what is the occasion. We sure have some laughts and plenty of fun. Too bad my sister Nancee can’t be here today. She’s just arriving from Barcelona with her husband Nick and my very special and beautiful nieces Lauren and Suzanne and their body clocks are al out of whack. She loves our family desperately and throws some great bashes for us at her house in New Jersey. And speaking of talent, she’s got a ton. Nancee Brown is one of the finest interior decorators in the country. Don’t believe me? Visit nanceebrown.com and feast your eyes.

So I started out to write a column about feeling good and all the good things in this world and wound up bragging about my family. Perhaps not my most meaning blog, but hey, what can I say? These are some of the things that make me happy, having my people around me and being one of their people. I didn’t even mention my maniac braniac older brother John who lives in Florida or semi-recluse sister Beth from Colorado who toils in the R&D department of a giant computer firm inventing stuff or my Webmaster son Rob who runs this little dog and pony act for me. I guess I did the written version of whipping out the old snapshots for you, but every word is the God’s honest. You can always scroll down the page to read my other blogs if you like. Today is a gorgeous Summer Sunday and my clan is coming over and I’m feeding them. I feel good, very good indeed.

Thou Shalt Not Steal. Sound familiar? It's one of the things everybody teaches their children from infancy, whether or not you're a believer in any religion. We all take care to impart this rule to our little ones, simply because stealing is wrong. Anyone who's ever been robbed knows exactly how wrong it is. And more than that, it's a double offense since the act of theft robs not only the victim but the thief. Perhaps the greater damage is done to the stealer rather than the steal-ee.

One's sense of self-worth is all shot to hell and your set of priorities is immediately warped and deeply challenged, especially when you get away with it. I'm not talking about robbing banks or stealing cars or burglarizing people's homes here but rather, little things, petty theft so to speak. I'm talking about stealing music and movies on the internet. I know parents who have carefully raised their children and instilled a strong sense of right in wrong in them who turn a blind eye to their kids' stealing songs. And since most of these music thieves are teenagers, what does that tell them about all the other rules Mom and Dad taught them? That they are as elastic and optional as the admonition against theft?

Just because junior can hack his way past the 75 cents charge for a song and download all of Mom and Dad's favorite Classic Rock songs for them, that doesn't make it okay. Some reason that rock stars are rich so they won't miss the dough. Is that the point? Well, Donald Trump's rich. Would it be okay for your child to steal his watch? He's probably got a hundred of them, won't miss one lousy watch, right? Probably not, but it's his watch, not anybody else's. And the fact that he's an annoying loudmouth wouldn't absolve anyone caught stealing his watch in the eyes of the law, or of common decency.

Bill Gates is richer than just about anybody and if you noticed, his Microsoft company gets pretty testy when people steal his various programs. And rightfully so if you ask me. You may have paid a bundle for some of his products, as have I and a billion others, you reason, so what's the harm of snatching a freebie copy of some other Microsoft program a friend has burned? Probably not so much harm to Bill Gates as to yourself. He may not know you're stealing, but you sure do. When you break the headlight of your expensive car for which you paid thousands of dollars to a mega-rich car company, will you expect them to replace it for free? Heck, it's only a headlight, can't cost all that much, and look at the profit they made on me already. I'll just help myself to a new headlight. Good luck with that.

Me, I'm guilty too of things of this sort. I can't say for certain which of the programs in my computer are licensed and properly purchased and which are not. I have other people do that for me since I'm pretty lame at that sort of thing but it's my computer and thus my responsibility if there is pirated material on it. Many's the time I've watched pay-per-view boxing matches at the home of a friend who had the zapper box that enabled them to get the signal for nothing. Though it wasn't my house or my illegal zapper, I sure sat there and watched. I didn't reason that the cable companies are rich or the boxers are guaranteed their purses no matter what, I didn't reason at all, just watched a stolen show.

Movie houses don't offer free admission. Movie pirates, however, offer current movies on DVD for 5 or10 bucks, a fraction of their legitimate cost. These I don't buy, nor do I buy pirated music CDs. CDs are huge investments for the musical artists and the companies they work for and movies cost anywhere from 10 to 100 million dollars to make. How many more will they be able to make if everybody's stealing their product? Film makers are rich, you say? A few, perhaps, the ones you've heard of. For every Scorsese and Spielberg there's a thousand aspiring film makers trying to catch a break, men and women risking all to chase their dreams. Do we rob them of that?

Actors? Again, the ones who are famous are wealthy but the acting community as a whole has a 90% unemployment rate. How wealthy are the struggling ones? Ask their bosses at the restaurants where they wait tables or the cab companies whose cars they drive while they struggle to get acting gigs. How about musicians? I've been one for decades. Ever heard of me? Of course not. And I can tell you right off the bat that I don't have any money to speak of, never did. Would you steal my songs because you could? They're right there on my web site for a free listen. You can buy them and there’s more available if you ask. Cheap, too.

Is saving 75 cents or a buck that big a difference maker in your budget? Well, I'm not ashamed to say that it would be in mine, because there's a hell of a lot of people stealing art on the internet and that adds up to a lot of dough that the small guy can't afford to lose. Thieves can put the marginal artists out of business and then what? There's always the established stars, you say? They're wealthy and can take the hit. Maybe, but who takes their place when all the up-and-comers are downloaded out of existence? Unless you're okay with only all the music that's been created so far, or all the movies made to date. That's enough for a lot of people, the ones that feel that all the good music and movies have already been produced. Do you agree with that? Then don't bother listening to Gogol Bordello, one of the most exciting and different music acts to explode on the scene in years. And stick with Classic movie channels, steering clear of the exciting new films shown on Independent Movie networks.

By all means take whatever's offered for free, there's a lot of it out there. Who doesn't love free stuff? But remember, everything costs money to produce, whether it's a paperclip, a car, a song or a film. And the people who produce these things spend years gaining education, training and experience and painstakingly honing their crafts. And now it’s yours for nothing? Think of it this way; everything you own is yours alone, right? Surely much of what you have is means a lot to you, or is very special because it took a lot of diligent work to attain. How much of your sweat and hard-earned went into getting the stuff you have? Plenty is the answer to that one. How much of it are you willing to give away to strangers for nothing? Bet I know the answer to that one too.

Check me out, folks, I'm a Modern Man, pushing buttons, making things happen. Got me some computers, carry a phone in my pocket like Captain Kirk himself as I tool around in my climate-controlled automobile with earnest purpose etched on my face. You need to speak to Crespo ASAP? Sure thing, just ring me up on the old cell. Got an urgent message that needs my immediate attention? No prob, Bob, just e-mail it over to me and I'll deal with it pronto. Need some copies of something or other? The Modern Man presses another button and makes it so. Life is smooth and seamless for the Modern Man! Can do!

Got a house full of gadgets and a basket full of remote control devices. Burn you a CD? Bam, done! Got an ionizer that removes (or adds, who knows?) those pesky ions from my house. Flip on my surround sound rumbling speakers and fill the house with music while I micro-wave some tasty food? Easy as pie. Need to hop in the Crespomoblie and tool off on yet another purposeful mission? Bingo, press the automatic garage door opener, hop in and go! Will my mission take me to uncharted territory? No worries, mate, I'll consult my handy Global Positioning Sattelite device! Will waste no time at the fueling station, simply slide my credit card at the pump and fill-er-up. Wait a minute, is that a traffic bottleneck directly ahead at yon tollbooth? Hah!,. EZ-Pass will allow The Modern Man to sail through the wall of motorized metal like a hot knife through butter! All these things and more can Modern Man do…

Unless, of course I forget to charge my phone or cannot open the attachments on the e-mail. Or I forget which remote controller controls which device. These things happen frequently enough to put a few dents in my Modern Man armor. What can I tell you? I'm really not as modern as I can possibly be. I confess that until recently I was a backward technophobe and still have a foot in both worlds. I was probably the last man in America to get a cell phone. I only have a CD player because my sons Mike and Rob were embarrassed that their musician father was still listening to cassettes and bought me one. And until a month or so ago the only web site that I had was the one made by an industrious spider outside my back door. A pretty elaborate and impressive one, too, assembled every night and dismantled by the morning. Wish I was that consistent.

And oh, the GPS stystem and EZ Pass? I don't have those. Don't want them, either. Don't want to be kept track of any more than I already am in this well-monitored society. Foolish? Irrational? Perhaps, but that's where I stand. And all that driving around with earnest purposefulness? Hardly. Most of the time I'm sort of meandering around aimlessly unless the lovely wife Louise is in the car with me. Then I'm asking "where to next, love," quite frequently. And truth be told, I miss my cassettes. As far as my web site goes, it's designed and run by my son Rob, my contribution being only the writing, a technology as old as Phonecia.

So how modern am I? I've mastered VCRs and DVD players, like most American 8-year olds, but I don't have an i-pod even though my computer has a bunch of i-tunes stored up waiting to be downloaded to one of those things. I think they isolate people from one another, just like those dumb-ass video and computer games. Me, I like to actually talk and interact with my fellow humans, they're okay by me, most of them. The ones that I don't care for I leave alone and hope they do the same for me. No sense wasting my time trying to correct people. They pretty much are what they are and I'm not convinced that my way is the only way to be. Works for me (at least as often as not) and that's fine.

So I muddle along in this Brave New World taking what works for me and leaving the rest alone. I know, there's so much more I could be doing and so many more modern devices I ought to be employing but there's a limit. For example, I recently purchased a top-of-the-line digital home recording studio, figuring I'll be able to bang out polished songs at a swift clip in the comfort of my own home. Three months into my fruitless attempts to get the thing working I'm selling it and getting a less-than-top-of-the-line home recorder that's a lot more technophobe-friendly and gets great sounds anyway. Oh, I tried with the Digital Wonder, believe me I tried. Sat with the written and DVD instructions for hours, even tried to hire a tutor to show me what's what. No dice. Even the young techies that abound in this Modern Age couldn't make heads or tails of this modern marvel. Oh well, defecation occurs. Time for plan B.

Like my computer whiz brother John told me years ago, forget about keeping up with the latest advances in technology. "You're not NASA or IBM and have no need for stuff that will be obsolete in six months anyway. Just get what you need and what you can deal with." Amen, brother. Like Clint Eastwood said in one of his movies, "A man's got to know his limitations." Amen, Clint, or rather, the screenwiter who actually wrote the line. As far as the Modern Age and all the cool stuff in it, I like it and don't really long for the good old days. They were fine too but they're gone now and we must deal with what's in front of us right now. Life really wasn't any simpler back in the day any more than it will be simpler in the future when we have even more new toys and gadgets. What is, is, period, amen.

And at the risk of being called retro, I think I'll continue to carefully pick and choose what I want as part of my life, no matter how extensive becomes the menu of choices. The lesson I learned from my Digital Wonder recording device only reinforces this notion. To quote yet another great American, Popeye the Sailorman: "I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam!" Hey, it's not like I'll be chopping wood or drawing water from a well or anything like that or that I can't learn new tricks, but there's a limit, even for this purposeful button-pushing Modern Man.

"There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who lump everybody together into two categories and those who do not." -some comic I saw on TV
I suppose I'm in the second category, the kind of person who doesn't try to organize the people of this world into neat little categories. Life would be simpler if we could readily label people and what they do and the things they like into neat little boxes, but alas, life is simply not simple. Hope I'm not bursting any bubbles out there, pigeonholers. I live in Brooklyn, where there's no shortage of pigeons. Ever seen a pigeon's nest or stood just below one? You get the picture…

That's why I think artistic categories are a bird stain on our garments. While there are many valid categories in music, writing, and art, I think the marketing and business people who run music and publishing companies have gone way overboard. In music, these non-artists were not content with categories like Classical, Pop, Rhythm & Blues, Rock& Roll, Standard, Swing, Salsa, Country & Western, Heavy Metal, Folk and Easy Listening. That's quite a few, no? Not for some.

Apparently there's a third type of person in this world, one whose mania is to create narrow categories of everything under the sun in order to nail it down firmly, label it and sell it. Only you can't do that with artists or the "product" they create. Music executives have invented a mind-numbing array of categories in an attempt to sell music to the people they think want to hear it. What the hell is "alternative neo-traditional country?" You tell me, and as a songwriter I have no clue as to what this person is looking for or even if he or she has a grasp of reality. Who else but a delusional fool would create a category like that? Or "Emo ballad adult pop rock crossover." What?

Same thing with books. Used to be there was fiction and non-fiction with the non-fiction having vague subheadings like Mystery, Romance, Adventure and the like. No more. Publishers and agents have taken a cue from music executives and are trying to micro-manage the creativity of the people who actually create the books that provide them their living by trying to force authors to write for a "demographic." Imagine Mark Twain in a publisher's office these days trying to pitch "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn." It might go like this:

"Mr. Twain, you're writing is certainly fluid and engaging…'
"Thank you, sir."
…"but…"
"But?"
"We feel that our target readers can't relate to rafting down the Mississippi River."
"We? I only see one person in here besides me. And I don't necessarily target anybody"
"A publishing house is a sort of committee, you see, with specific rules and guidelines for writing a book…"
"So go write one already. I wrote this myself, without any committee."
"Well, sir, with all due respect, that's where you made your first mistake. You ought to have submitted a proposal first and allowed us to guide you in formulating your novel."
"Formulating? I'm a writer, not a damned chemist!"
"And our wish is to make you the best, most successful writer you can possibly be. You do understand, don't you?"
"Can't say as I do, sir."
“Aren’t my points obvious?”
"Listen, I don't expect my readers to know about rafting on the Mississippi, any more than readers of old Bill Shakespeare had to know about Royal Courts…"
"Ah, William Shakespeare. You've read him?"
"Who hasn't?"
"Me, for one, at least not for more than a few sentences. I can't believe a writer of his talent didn't choose to submit his work to a skilled editorial and marketing team to really sharpen his style and hit his target audience."
"Seems he did alright without you fellas…"
"Which brings us back to your book and this Huckleberry Finn person. Most people have never met anyone named Huckleberry."
"I expect that's so. But there's also a Tom and a Jim in there, as well as an Aunt Polly."
"Aunt Polly? Mr. Twain, that's as corny as they come if you don't mind my saying so."
"I do mind, sir. I had an Aunt Polly! Using her name for one of my characters is a tribute to a woman I loved dearly."
"Well then, let's talk about your Jim character and your unrestrained use of the n-word. In today's market that word is simply unaccept…."
"You mean 'Nigger Jim' of course."
"Yes, n-word Jim."
"Wasn't no such thing as the n-word at that time in the rural south, you mutton head! Jim and millions like him were slaves and everybody called them niggers! Ought I not point that out and what a horrible situation we had here in these United States? You think glossing over that fact and using some cutesy-pie euphemism can change what was, sir?"
"There's no need to get testy with me sir…"
"Testy? ,Testy? Why, you're lucky I don't throttle you right here and now, you callow bloodsucking fool! Good day to you, sir!"

And so The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn goes unpublished. Or how about an interview of Jimi Hendrix by a record company executive. Might go something like this:

"Next!"
"Sir, my name is Jimi Hendrix and I've got some songs I think…."
"Next!"

So the next time you go to a record store to buy some CD's bear in mind what category of person you are and buy only the sort of music the executives expect you to enjoy. They put a lot of time and effort into peigeonholing your particular butt so don't go upsetting thier applecart. Same when buying books. Don't buy or read any books that are offered for sale in another type of person's category. And don't read any Mark Twain, for God's sake. The foul man uses the n-word and refuses to have a committee of business people control his artistic output. As for Hendrix, you're on dangerous ground ground listening to his beautiful music. Tread lightly, pigeons! Or better yet, let the Committees in Charge of Categorizing Your Ass know what pigeons do to people who try to get too close to home.

100 degrees today. Tornados in Bensonhurst. What are we, the Midwest all of a sudden? There’s not even any trailer parks in Bensonhurst, or anywhere else around here for that matter. I was under the vague impression that trailer parks were the cause of tornados. Guess I’m wrong. Wouldn’t be unprecedented. Apparently they are caused by hot air rubbing against cooler air and updrafts and drops in barometric pressure and things like that, at least according to the smiley-faced well-groomed meteorologists on TV. Since all the stuff they are blathering about is invisible I have to assume they either possess super-keen powers of observation or are making it all up.

Whatever their cause, tornados are a bitch and I wish they’d go back out west where they belong Not that I have anything against trailer parks, it’s just that I prefer a little brick around my butt when that big bad she-wolf Mother Nature huffs and puffs and tries to blow my joint down. My brother John learned that the hard way down in Florida where he had houses severely pummeled by both hurricanes and tornados. He finally wised up like the smart little piggy and his latest house is a brick fortress that survived all of Florida’s heaviest storms in the past twenty or so years, and there have been some beauties down there, real rootin’-tootin ripsnortin’ slices of hell in the form of wind and rain that wrecked thousands of homes and killed a whole bunch of people. Seems like a high tax to pay to live in a warm climate, but hey, lots of people seem to like that sort of thing, my big brother among ‘em.

I suppose that’s why I love living in Brooklyn. Everything’s paved and lit up and sturdy as hell. Oh we’ve got plenty of parks and beaches when you want them but for the most part everywhere you go in the course of a routine day you’re treading on stuff built to last. We get some wicked hurricanes here from time to time, maybe every ten years or so. Aside from a few trees falling over and some minor flooding, the town looks just the same when the storm goes away, not like the Luftwaffe just finished a major bombing strike. I had planned to do a bit of cement work with the lovely wife Louise to make Casa Crespo even sturdier and more waterproof but that can wait until the temperature drops back to double digits and there’s no threat of tornados. Extreme heat and humidity make me a very grumpy and lethargic pain in the ass, even more so than usual. Add the threat of a tornado (Bensonhurt’s only a couple of mile away from Casa Crespo) and I’m miserable. Only one way on a 100 degree humid August day to lift this foul mood.

Let’s talk snow!

Now, blizzards I like. There’s nothing more beautiful than New York City during and just after a blizzard, especially late at night. Everything’s quiet as a cathedral, there’s barely any traffic and the air is as bracing as that of the Rocky Mountains. It’s hard work just walking around but well worth the effort. The few people you meet in such walks are doing what you’re doing, out enjoying the show. You exchange joyful greetings and keep on keeping on, even though you’re not going anywhere in particular, each giving the other their private space to be alone with the incredible beauty everywhere you turn. Sometimes you run across people in trouble with their cars and everyone’s eager to help out, appearing like apparitions out of nowhere, cheerful and eager to assist. Snow brings out the best in people. Can’t say the same about oppressive heat.

I love having four seasons, there’s something about each of them that touches one’s spirit profoundly. Making it through a New York winter feels like an accomplishment, and your soul says: “Yeah! I made it! You did your worst, Mr. Winter and I’m still standing, thank you.”
And no Spring is as sweet as one that follows a hard winter. The plants, the trees, even the bugs are welcome old friends sharing the experience of rebirth. And of course the women start to wear sexy clothes again and that’s always a welcome sight. Add Opening Day of baseball season to the mix and Spring just might be my favorite season.

But then Summer comes and wraps you in its warmth and before you know it you’re leaving the house without a thought to bringing a jacket, just shorts and a shirt and some sandals and you’re good to go. You fire up the barbecue at the drop of a hat and sit in the yard swatting bugs, talking baseball and daydreaming deep into the night while the summer breeze rocks you slow. You go to beach and swim in the ocean and appreciate the artful construction of the beautiful young ladies in their tiny swimsuits. There’s not a bad view on the whole beach.

But seasons wear on you. By the end of February you’re pretty sick of winter and your heavy clothes and the sniffling and the wet feet and drafts and skidding on black ice. By the beginning of June you’re tired of rainy Spring days and you long for Summer. Then Summer comes and it’s great, everything it’s supposed to be and more until… until days like this one with hundred degree heat and the humidity of a steam room. I opened the door this morning and it was like opening up a blast furnace. Walked to the corner for the newspapers and the hot wind singed me good. So much for doing cement work. So Instead I long for Autumn, that time of cooling off, leaves turning colors and the bracing, intoxicating air. Fall brings the baseball playoffs and women dressing in smart, sexy turtleneck outfits with sharp looking blazers and those very cool knee boots.

Then comes Winter and blizzards. Today is a day to think about snow; cold, deep, white and fluffy snow. Red nose and cheeks, your breath puffing out in steams of vapor, your heart singing, tossing some snowballs around. You come in from the cold to a nice hot drink and a warm house and look out the window at the beautiful snow. Life is good. There’s always something to look forward to around here, profound changes and new challenges. Like the song says: “To everything there is a season…” Okay, New York, what’s next? I’m ready.

Hello again, people. So, I asked the lovely Louise how often bloggers blog. She said every day. Every day? Every friggin day? No way. Hey, I'm as big a windbag as the next guy but I just don't have that much to say. I'm going to have to start interviewing people or something. Quoting someone, citing known facts, anything. I sure as hell don't want to have to do any research here. Once again I ask myself, as in so many other times in my unplanned and chaotic life, just what the hell have I gotten myself into?

Help me out here, someone. I’ve never read any blogs, don’t know what’s expected. My talented son Rob, the guy who created this web site and encouraged me to blog, tells me I can talk about whatever I feel like; hobbies, people, music, the news, baseball, whatever. Well, I don’t have any hobbies I feel like sharing with the world. I don’t shove model ships into little bottles, tie my own fishing lures or paint or mess with toy trains or anything like that.

The news is pretty depressing, music is better heard than discussed and baseball is already over-dissected by sports writers and the hairdo boys on sports TV. There’s always people. There’s lots and lots of interesting ones around. Perhaps I’ll get to them in future blogs. But right now I want to ask somebody to invent a better word for blog. It’s a lousy sounding word. Creepy, even. Does it stand for something? Should it be B.L.O.G.? And what would that acronym stand for? Big, Long, Overblown Gasbags? Or is it B-log? That would make sense for me since my name is Bob. What about a guy named Fred? Flog? Or Sally? Slog?

There’s got to be a better term. E-chronicles? Web diary? I don’t know, Diary sounds so teenaged girl to me. Not that I object to teenaged girls or their diaries, mind you. They make the world a better place. It’s just that I never kept a diary. Anything’s better than blog, though. Blog just sounds so 1950’s low budget sci-fi film. I can hear it now in that whiny high-pitched voice: “People of Earth! People of Earth! Remain in your homes! Remain in your homes! We are from the Planet Blog and we mean you no harm! Resistance will be crushed! People of Earth! Do not fear the Bloggers!”

See what I mean? Until a couple of days ago I was a singer, a musician and a writer. Just some guy from Brooklyn going about his business. Now I’m a damned blogger all of a sudden. It’s not right, people, it’s just not right! You just know the term was invented by some creep with no life at all. Fine for him, he stays in his house all day watching Star Trek reruns and playing video games. He’s happy if all he gets called is a blogger. I have a life, dammit, and a family and neighbors and friends for crying out loud! Now they’re all going to know that I’m a blogger. Will people point and whisper and stare when I’m out and about? Will little children flee?

Well, I guess I am a damned blogger ‘cause here I am blogging like some damned fool. But I’m not blogging every day, I’ll tell you that. I’ve got other stuff to do. Besides, what would I write about if I never did stuff? Well, I guess I did okay today writing about nothing in particular. Not so hard. Could I really get away with doing nothing all day? Maybe I’m getting the hang of this, maybe even getting to like it. It certainly doesn’t make you break a sweat. Maybe, just maybe… hhmmm…. PEOPLE OF EARTH! PEOPLE OF EARTH…