Dan Lives

2009-12-09T10:29:00.000-08:00

Bread and Roses, the wonderful organization that brings live music to audiences who can't get to them, recently asked me to perform for group of developmentally disabled adults at Marin Ventures, a day art facility serving them. They were one of the most involved and appreciative audiences I have ever had the pleasure of performing for. Following is a description of the show by Audrey Spector, Bread and Roses volunteer:

20 minutes before the show, the audience was ready and eagerly waiting for the performer to arrive. They were clearly excited to have a musician come and join them and kept asking us when that would be! After the first song that Dan started with, someone in the audience asked if it would be OK if they sang along! Many of the folks were familiar with the tunes, Blowin’ in the Wind, Imagine, Turn, Turn, Turn. They were clapping, singing and there were lots of contented faces with eyes open and eyes closed swaying to the music! When Dan said that he was coming to the end of the show and had time for a couple more tunes, they were clearly disappointed. They asked if he could come back, and if possible play some Elvis Presley when he does! Dan is a great guitarist, harmonica player and singer. He also played some of his original pieces that were very heartfelt and appreciated. Everyone enjoyed the show immensely!

I am honored and grateful that I have the opportunity to give back to the community doing something I love...playing music.

2009-11-25T10:56:00.000-08:00

What Makes a Family?

With the arrival of the holiday season comes a time when more emphasis is placed on the family…gatherings bring seldom-seen relatives together, and people seem more interested in the connections that bind a family…however traditional or untraditional it may be.

A few nights ago, my wife Ellen and I were discussing what the future might hold for our family. My side of the family nearly all lives out of the area, and none of my five siblings have children. Ellen’s brother and step-father both passed away within the last couple of years and other family members have chosen to maintain a certain distance. One of our sons had made the comment that our family seemed to be shrinking. Indeed, we had decided to expand our Thanksgiving table by inviting our friends the Levins, whose three daughters and parents would double the number of our Thanksgiving gathering.

But this past Sunday, a remarkable thing happened that served to remind us that families can take all sorts of forms, if one is open to the possibilities.

Several months ago, we received a call from a social worker, who told us about two children who were younger siblings of our own two adopted sons, Miles and Tyler, of whom we had had no prior knowledge. “Anton” and “Holly” were interested in meeting their brothers, and wondered if an opportunity to meet could be set up between all of us. The social worker met with our children, who are 21 and 20, and a lunch was set up at a restaurant where we joined a group which included Anton, 15, Holly, 13, Mary (sister to our boys’ birth mother) her daughter Mariah (the boys’ cousin) and the birth mother’s mom, Maureen, who is Anton and Holly’s grandmother, and who is raising Holly. The boys’ birth mother’s absence was the “elephant in the room.” She has been out of touch with her sister and the children, and it was apparent that her children missed their mom, but the warmth of Mary and Maureen made us feel instantly comfortable with them. Maureen mentioned that two of the happiest days of her life were the days that her daughter gave Miles and later, Tyler to our family to adopt. Anton and Holly had been less fortunate…they had been placed in foster homes and were struggling to find their place in the world. But on this day, everyone seemed to enjoy discovering new people who could rightfully be considered part of their family. If someone had suggested to us twenty years ago that such a meeting might happen, the thought would have been a bit unnerving, but the genuine sense of connection we all felt, made it a wonderful gift.

It was far too soon to think of including them on Thanksgiving, and our plans had already been made, but at this time of year, it did give us something special for which we could be grateful. And in terms of what makes up a family, sometimes when one door closes, another one opens.

2009-11-24T16:41:00.000-08:00

Living Life as a Thank You

The book, to which I contributed a chapter that appears below, has been released and is now on sale. This past Friday, Nina Lesowitz, one of the authors, had a book signing at Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA, one of the last of the Bay Area's independent bookstores. With Nina were two notable authors who had contributed to her book, Alan Kaufman and Phil Cousineau, who each spoke poignantly on the topic of gratitude and living a life informed by appreciation of its gifts. Nina read the chapter I contributed, and my wife and I were deeply moved and felt honored to be acknowledged and to be part of something larger than just her book. Indeed, the art of living life in gratitude is a simple but profound concept, able to transform the lives of those who can take its message to heart.

It is available at all major bookstores and is heartily recommended.
Here is a link to the book on Amazon.com:

2009-05-03T22:33:00.000-07:00

“Astral Weeks” Given New Life

When Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks” was released more than forty years ago, it was an instant classic, despite its modest sales at the time. Its seamless blending of folk, jazz and Celtic sounds and stream-of-consciousness poetry was unlike anything else recorded before or since, and has become a cherished favorite of Morrison fans. Recently, he decided to perform and record this set of songs the way he has always heard them, with an expanded sound and the electricity generated by a live performance, aided by the insight gained through four decades as an artist. On the first of two nights at Berkeley’s Greek Theater, “Astral Weeks” and a generous helping of his best work was recast in shimmering beauty by a mature artist at the peak of his powers.

Backed by more than a dozen musicians and singers, including a string section, Morrison spent the first hour digging into his back catalog with vigor and a strong, supple voice. A squat figure in a charcoal suit, fedora and sunglasses, he seemed to actually enjoy himself, as his voice dived and swooped over the lush sound provided by the ensemble. Early on, he got a cheer from the crowd during “And It Stoned Me” with the line “Hope it don’t rain all day” as the day’s soggy weather had given way to a miraculously dry evening. He mixed old classics with more recent material, following a harmonica-driven “Baby Please Don’t Go” with a lovely, country-flavored “Magic Time.” Never one for patter between songs, he limited himself to the title of the next song, and the show zipped along with scarcely a second of down time.

He introduced a heartfelt “Have I Told You Lately” with a sax solo…he played five different instruments very capably…and draped “Wild Night” in inventive phrasing that gave the classic tune new life. All night, he challenged himself to bring new shadings to familiar songs to great effect, his rhythmic repetition of lyrics and playing with time demonstrating his signature style as no one else can. Playful scatting decorated an extended and wonderful “It’s All in the Game” and an incandescent version of “Moondance” swung like crazy, featuring horn charts that gave it a big-band feeling. At the end of the first set, he engaged in a spirited vocal exchange with his sax/flute player, who echoed Van’s phrases almost as they were delivered, cascading on top of each other in a rousing climax as the band broke for intermission to a standing ovation.

When they returned, they launched into the title track from “Astral Weeks,” the familiar jazzy groove and sparse instrumentation augmented by strings, but evoking the 1968 original without trying for a note-for-note reproduction. It was apparent that Van wanted the songs to live in the present, as he stretched them out, improvising new parts and giving the 40-year-old songs a new sheen while preserving their trancelike, dreamy quality. The rhythmic support, provided by a drummer and a percussionist, was subtle to the point of being barely audible, while a trio of acoustic guitars, stand-up bass and flute provided the earthy, woody sound that made the original album so unique, and such a departure from anything else that had come before. As the title song built, a tremulous violin added a jolt of texture and gave it an even jammier feel than the original.

Kicking off “Sweet Thing” with forceful strumming on a white acoustic guitar, he tore into the song, filling the amphitheater with his strong, assured vocals. Lyrical violin solos gave the music a chamber vibe, and the simple two-chord progression provided a sturdy platform for spontaneous bursts of vocal and instrumental pyrotechnics. The jazzy, 6/8 tempo of “Cyprus Avenue” gave way to the minor-chord “The Way Young Lovers Do,” given an emotional reading punctuated by a mariachi-flavored trumpet. Reaching a high point with “Ballerina,” Morrison delivered lyrics such as “the show must go on” as if he was describing his own performance, fervently singing and scatting until it sounded as though he was speaking in tongues. He closed the album with “Slim Slow Slider,” extending its memorable lyric twist of “the love that loves to love” for what seemed like several minutes.

After drawing the album’s performance to a close, he brought the band back up for a rousing “Hymns to the Silence” followed by a harmonica-fueled blues rave-up that morphed into the instantly recognizable “Gloria,” which built to epic proportions as Van went into his lower register to growl John Lee Hooker-style phrases that surely were inspired by the version he recorded with the blues great. It seemed only fitting that, on an evening where Morrison was paying homage to his own past, he went back further to acknowledge an even earlier influence.

The concert was a satisfying and masterful new take on Morrison’s classic songs, revealing a wealth of new details while preserving the essential qualities that made them so uniquely appealing in 1968. And to see him having such a good time in the process was an unexpected delight that sent everyone out into the evening sharing the warm glow of a memorable night.

2009-01-29T12:49:00.000-08:00

Gratitude

A dear friend of mine, Nina Lesowitz, is putting together a book on the subject of Gratitude. She invited me to write a few words, and after doing so, realized that it was a logical summary of the series of journal entries I had logged after my brain tumor diagnosis of six years ago. I've decided to share it with you here:

The neurologist met my eyes with a neutral gaze, betraying no emotions, as she told me I had six months to live, and it was time to get my affairs in order. I had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor.

“What are the chances of my making a full recovery?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t think in terms of a full recovery,” she replied, and at that moment, the rest of my life began.

That was more than six years ago. Since my return to health, I feel that I have been living in a state of grace, having been given the gift of a second chance at life.

After my diagnosis, I remember feeling an unexpected calm, accepting my fate without fear, anger or resentment. As I contemplated the end of life as I knew it, I found enjoyment in things I formerly took for granted…a soak in the pool on a warm day, a walk in nearby China Camp Park…and began to feel a profound gratitude for each new day that I had the privilege to experience. I underwent surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, and dedicated myself to finding out as much as I could about my condition and my options for treatment. Friends and relatives sent healing energy and set up prayer circles.

After surgery and each course of treatment, the frequency of seizures would decrease, only to gradually increase as the tumor returned. By this time I had also brought some alternative therapies into my treatment, but my condition failed to improve. I decided to fulfill a lifelong dream to record a CD of original songs, and a wonderful friend, Joe Paulino, donated his recording studio, engineering and drumming talents, and brought together a circle of musician friends who rallied around me and made it happen. I will forever be indebted to their generosity…they gave me something to be grateful for at a time that offered scant encouragement otherwise.

Then I was referred to a local Chi Gung healer named Donald Rubbo. The first time I worked with him, I experienced a seizure, which he felt was a positive sign that the practice was addressing the source of them. He taught me a daily meditation and movement practice, and arranged to have a monastery in Tibet chant for my well-being. On the day of the chanting, I was instructed to keep my mind free of negative thoughts, and I kept myself in a positive place for the entire day. As I fell asleep that night, I felt a pleasurable tingling sensation engulf my whole body.

At this point, I had been having seizures almost daily. For five days after the chanting, I was seizure-free, and I felt my energy level increasing. I was especially grateful to be able to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary nine months after my diagnosis. I began to take long walks, and soon was able to return to running. A special cancer-screening blood test indicated that my body was successfully fighting off the tumor, and an MRI revealed that the tumor was shrinking. I continued working with Rubbo and my condition steadily improved as my seizures became less frequent. My dog, which had been given four months to live due to bone cancer in her jaw, began to accompany me in my practice and she began to improve as well. My feelings of gratitude began to change from appreciating the time I had left to appreciating my return to health, and I seemed to have thousands of people to thank for my good fortune, especially my wife, Ellen, whose unwavering love and support guided my passage.

After six months without a seizure, I was again able to drive, and felt a surge of gratitude for something I had always taken for granted. The next scheduled MRI confirmed that the tumor had stabilized and the seizures that accompanied it were now a thing of the past. Not only was I living on borrowed time, I was fortunate to enjoy the quality of life I had before my diagnosis, except that the enjoyment went far deeper than before. I had been given back my life with the added gifts of gratitude and perspective.

In the ensuing five years, I am grateful for so many things I might not have had the chance to experience…participating in marathons for the National Brain Tumor Foundation, five more years with our beloved dog, my children’s graduations and a 30th anniversary spent in Africa…and for the smallest of things. I look for ways to express my gratitude, from performing benefit shows for Bread and Roses to meditating on Tibetan chants that seek to alleviate suffering in the world. I will often give my prayer wheel a few spins as I think about someone challenged by their health. Every breath, every moment is like a tiny gift, and I try to honor those gifts by never forgetting how fortunate and grateful I am to be alive, and to realize how precious a gift life really is.

2009-01-29T11:46:00.000-08:00

A Memorable Bread and Roses Show

From time to time, I volunteer my services to Bread and Roses, a wonderful organization that brings live music to audiences that lack access to it, and can be enriched by the experience. I have performed both by myself and with others to various residential treatment programs in the Bay Area, and it was my privilege to perform recently for Center Point, a drug rehab facility in San Rafael. The audience was large for this type of show, and very enthusiastic. I brought my guitar and songbook to perform a mix of originals and covers, and was intrigued when one of the audience asked if he could sit in. After hearing several other audience members vouch for his ability, I thought, "why not" and encouraged him to get his guitar. He turned out to be both a great player and an intuitive follower, and he added some harmony vocals and very nice solos to a number of songs. Turns out he used to play with Bonnie Raitt.

The show and the vibe were really amazing. I'll let this write-up from Bread and Roses tell the story...

Of the many locations I have hosted B&R performances, Center Point has always been my favorite because of the genuine responsiveness of the audience. Last night was no exception and, in fact, exceeded that of previous visits. From the moment Dan started with Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" followed by a song he wrote called "SUV" the audience was into the performance with finger-snapping and toe tapping. Within a few numbers, this led to audience participation sing-along on the more familiar covers and the choruses of Dan's own songs.

Several numbers into the performance, a member of the audience, Charlie, volunteered to get his guitar and play backup with Dan. While there might have been some initial reluctance, the audience seemed to feel confident that Dan would not be sorry if he accepted the offer. As it turned out, Charlie added a dimension to the performance through his skillful guitar playing, which even lead to playing a solo on each number, by providing the Center Point clients with an investment in the show through the participation of one of their own.

At the end, the audience gave Dan and Charlie a long standing ovation after which many in the group came up to personally thank both Dan and B&R (through me) for the wonderful show.

2008-12-31T10:46:00.000-08:00

Dec. 7, 2008

Last night, my ‘60s band The Vanilla Extract played one of the most enjoyable shows in our long and semi-illustrious career.

It was a 60th birthday for guitarist Michael Wood’s friend and neighbor, Helen, who lives a few doors away from him on San Francisco’s Downey Street in the Haight-Ashbury…an intimate, two-blocks-long street who hosts an annual Block Party and Barbecue which has invited us to perform for the last four years. In September, after another afternoon of classic rock at the Block Party, Helen approached us about performing at an upcoming birthday party, to which we readily agreed. Thus it was that we pulled up to the Bay View Boat Club in the shadow of San Francisco’s AT&T Park for a night of holiday and birthday cheer.

We had recently purchased a new set of floor monitor speakers, and when we arrived at the club to set up, it was apparent that they would take up about 20% of the available floor space in the corner where the band was to set up. However, we managed to fit everything into place, and after moving a good part of our equipment aside to allow drummer Doug Kassel access to his place behind the kit, we were ready to go.

The Bay View Boat Club is a small, picturesque waterfront joint with a horseshoe-shaped bar backed by a patio and barbecue on the water, and a pool table in an adjoining room. The ceiling is decorated with hundreds of boating flags and the walls display a combination of memorabilia and club information. It’s ambiance is sort of old-time San Francisco without being stuffy…a very comfortable room in which to play. They did, however, request that we sign in and display a sticker affirming our status as a guest sponsored by a member, who in this case was a very nice guy named Ansel, who had attended the San Francisco Art Institute about the same time as Ellen.

After a sound check and a short interlude, we kicked off with our traditional “Magic Carpet Ride.” As our first set progressed, a steady stream of partygoers began to fill the place, and our music grew louder and more energetic, as the crowd’s energy encouraged us to rock out. Helen was joined by several friends who became fixtures on the dance floor, immediately in front of us.

We finished the set with a rousing version of “White Room” and grabbed some food that had been spread out on the patio, and squeezed into position to start the second set. Now fully warmed up, we settled into our grooves and let the music flow through us as the hanging light fixtures seemed to sway back and forth to the music as the floor became more crowded. Near the end of the set, a woman dressed as one of Santa’s elves appeared and singlehandedly doubled the energy in the room.

The second set found us hitting our stride and the crowd filled the dance area between us and the bar. Things were going well despite the cramped quarters, and we were having a great time. We took a bit longer of a break before the last set, as we wanted to play up to midnight. We blasted through our twelve planned songs and the crowd enthusiastically demanded more, and as we had a half-dozen or so alternate songs, launched our encore with “For Your Love” and a reprise of our soundcheck, “Nowhere Man.”

The crowd roared its approval, clearly wanting more, so we ran through several songs we hadn’t played in months: “Tired of Waiting,” “Things We Said Today” and an epic “Shapes of Things.” Thinking we had exhausted our repertoire, we said good night and started to take off our guitars, but again the crowd encouraged us to continue. I had the feeling that we could pull off “Honky Tonk Women” although we had never played it live, or possibly even in practice in this decade, but Rob Sherman was up to the task and led us through a solid rendition as the crowd continued dancing and screaming.

His voice having run out of gas, Rob let it be known that he was done singing, but the crowd still wanted more. I dusted off a couple of Dylan tunes which I sing, “Mr. Tambourine Man” and “Like a Rolling Stone,” thinking that the latter would take a lot of time, which it did, the audience gleefully singing along with the chorus. With nothing left to play, we gratefully thanked the still-screaming audience, who at last allowed us to end the set and take off our instruments. With the last notes still swirling about, we got ourselves a few well-deserved beverages and basked in the glow of one of our more memorable shows ever.

2008-10-28T12:10:00.000-07:00

Maasai Tribesmen For Obama

A Maasai village, in the shadow of Mt. Kilimanjaro in western Kenya, seemed like an unlikely place to find ourselves discussing the upcoming presidential election. On a recent trip to Africa, we were given the opportunity to meet the inhabitants of a Maasai village in Kenya’s Amboseli National Park, and learn about their lifestyle. But after discovering that we were from the United States, everyone in the village wanted to know: were we Democrats and were we voting for Obama?

Their keen interest in our election was an indication of a culture in transition. For hundreds of years, the Maasai have been semi-nomadic tribes, relying on livestock and shelters built from sticks and mud, relatively isolated from the influence of the western world. They are fiercely proud of their traditional lifestyle, but are also aware of the benefits that tourist dollars can bring, from freshwater wells to schools and bathrooms. With global warming, as evidenced by the disappearing snow on Kilimanjaro, access to water is more vital than ever, and the education of Maasai children is preparing them for the modern world, allowing them to gain employment outside the village while providing funds to help improve the villagers’ lives yet still preserve their traditions. Tourism has thus become an essential part of Maasai life, and they go to great lengths to share their way of life and make their guests feel welcome.

Our safari guide, Divan, had arranged for our visit after collecting $30 per person (allowing us to take as many photos as we wanted) and we were met by a delegation of colorfully-dressed men and women. A row of women in bright sarongs and festive ornamental beadwork sang a traditional welcoming song with sweet call-and-response harmonies. The men engaged in the adumu, or “jumping dance.” They invited me to jump with them, pretending not to notice that I attained relatively modest heights. We were introduced to our host, Wilson…a tall, articulate man who was soon to succeed his 92-year-old father as Chief. Soon we were escorted through a gap in the vast circular fence of thorn acacia that protects the village and its livestock from predators.

Several dozen podlike huts were arranged on the perimeter of the village, while the dusty center was mostly reserved for the livestock at night. During the day, small groups of men played mancala, a counting game with beads or stones. A medicine man’s apprentice explained the role of various herbs, including one said to boost virility and another designed to suppress the growth of a fetus late in pregnancy (to reduce the likelihood of complications in childbirth) that seems to have had no ill effects on the tall populace. Another villager lit a small fire without matches, using a method nearly identical to that of Native Americans.

Things got really interesting when Wilson invited us into his living quarters. After stooping to enter through a small door, we found ourselves in near total darkness. Only a couple of small openings near the ceiling let in any light, and it took a minute for our eyes to adjust. In the single room were only a few stones on the floor that formed a cooking area, and several platforms of cowhide stretched over a framework of sticks against the wall that served as beds. Wilson, his regal form silhouetted against the darkness, talked about the traditional Maasai diet of meat, milk and blood (supplemented more recently with grains, fruit and vegetables) and the polygamous family structure (the wives don’t mind as it allows them to share household duties). Emerging from his hut, I couldn’t help but notice other huts with padlocks on the door…a sign that modern life and its trappings was making inroads against the traditional no-frills lifestyle on display in Wilson’s hut.

A display of native crafts turned out to be more of an opportunity to purchase them than anything else, and the earnest friendliness of the villagers made it hard to refrain. Wilson, for his part, tried to insure that we bought something from each of his many wives, lest any of them feel left out. “Look! I made this myself!” they would exclaim as we examined a carved zebra or elephant, hoping we weren’t aware that they had no woodcarving tools or tradition. The beadwork was another story, as intricate wedding necklaces fashioned from thousands of primary-colored beads adorned many of the exhibitors as testament to their well-developed skill. All told, there were dozens of women with blankets strewn with bracelets, carved animals and beaded baskets. In the end, we wound up with a fairly sizable collection of souvenirs as Wilson proudly pointed out a new schoolhouse a few hundred yards outside the village and described the new well that saved a six-mile trip to the previous watering hole. Despite the knowledge that some of our items may have come from an export shop in Nairobi, it felt as though our contribution to the Maasai economy was being well spent.

As Wilson bade us farewell, we were reminded to vote for Obama, the son of a Kenyan, who enjoys the near-unanimous support of not only the Maasai, but the entire country. I assured him that we would, although it made me wonder whether they would have treated us any differently had we voiced a preference for McCain. As long as we were willing to buy something from each of Wilson’s wives, probably not.

2008-07-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

The massive buffalo stared us down, his angry eyes and horns picking up the light from the Masai escort’s flashlight. “Yi-yi-yi!” shouted the Masai, shaking his flashlight violently. The buffalo stood motionless. “Yi-yi-yi!” The buffalo lunged in our direction and stopped. Again, the Masai shouted and waved his flashlight, and this time the buffalo sauntered off into the night, and we were able to safely walk the short distance to our room at the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge.

During our stay at four different safari lodges in Kenya and Tanzania, it was standard practice to provide a Masai tribesman, equipped with a flashlight and a spear, to escort guests to and from their rooms during darkness for their safety. In seven previous nights, we had not seen anything larger than a lizard, and the escort seemed like a quaint ritual we were happy to entertain. This time, however, the need for an escort had become clear…we were in the animal’s domain, and had to behave accordingly.

Our African adventure really began outside of Nairobi, at an amazing place called the Giraffe Manor.,,a storybook stone lodge where a handful of giraffe nonchalantly strode about the grounds. A short flight the next day delivered us to the Satao Elerai Lodge, in Kenya’s Amboseli Park, at the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro. A sturdy-looking guide, Divan, loaded our bags into a Land Cruiser. As we got farther from the landing strip, large groups of Thompson’s Gazelles, wildebeest and zebra could be seen, as well as groups of hippos and elephants. We were able to get within a few yards of a small pride of lions, resting after a kill as unconcerned prey grazed nearby. They were magnificent, even in repose.

As darkness fell, we reached the lodge, a collection of wood and stucco huts fashioned imaginatively out of twisting branches and local stone. The accommodations were quite cozy, and we were served a delicious dinner next to our own portable fireplace. The next morning, we awoke to see Mt. Kilimanjaro gloriously lit by the rising sun, and took breakfast on a lovely view deck. The staff was refreshingly polite and friendly…greeting us with a cheery “Jambo” (hello) whenever we passed. These qualities would be consistent everywhere we went. Out into the bush, we saw new sights…beautiful Crown Cranes, a frolicking troop of baboons, an assortment of ostrich, and then a fantastic confluence of elephant herds around our vehicle. Three groups of perhaps 20 elephants of all sizes passed on either side of us on their way to a watering hole, almost close enough to touch. A truly amazing moment.

After lunch, we visited a Maasai village. They welcomed us with a performance of singing and jumping. Wilson, our host, invited us into his house, a dark two-room mud hut with a few tiny openings, and only the simplest of furnishings…a few stones for cooking and two beds of cowhide stretched over a wood frame. We saw a demonstration of native medicinal herbs and firestarting. They all were pleased to hear that we planned to vote for Obama. Late in the afternoon, we passed a couple of lions peacefully sleeping on the road, and a huge mamba snake on the road. Soon we were back at the lodge for dinner and drinks around a roaring fire.

En route to Tanzania’s game preserves we stopped for a night at the Arusha Coffee Lodge, an elegant inn set in the middle of a coffee plantation. We enjoyed a superb dinner and restful night. The next morning, we were off to Grumeti River Camp. We hooked up with our new guide, Waziri, and checked into our room, a giant thatched A-frame covering a tent facing the river and its noisy resident hippo population.

Our afternoon game drive began at the river, where we saw a group of storks…pretty yellow-billed ones and surpassingly ugly Maribou, with their fleshy pink wattles that dangled halfway to the ground. A couple of Nile crocodiles lay about. We roamed about freely as herds of impala and wildebeest watched our progress. Suddenly, Waziri spotted a male lion in a thicket, and we pulled up for a closer look, being cautioned not to make any sudden movements. Two more lion were nearby, all sitting in a restful manner. We pulled closer to observe the peacefully resting cats.

Later, Waziri set up a small table for the traditional “sundowner” drink. Over cocktails, we toasted each other and marked the occasion with photos. We arrived back at the camp in darkness and prepared for dinner, which was served in a courtyard area framed by a fence of timbers ringed with hurricane lamps. It felt like “Survivor.” The five-course dinner was superb and a nearly full moon added to the atmosphere. Afterwards, we retired to our tent and fell asleep to a symphony of bird calls, monkey shrieks, hippo grunts and a couple of lion roars.

On the next day’s game drive, we were greeted immediately by a solitary hippo wandering about the landing strip, far from the river. With few clouds, the light was great as we encountered a large herd of giraffe. Driving further, we encountered a den of hyenas, perhaps as many as a dozen, with several cubs that occasionally popped their heads up. One hyena held a wildebeest’s leg in its mouth, refusing to let go. Then Waziri spotted a concentration of buzzards, so we took off in that direction to investigate. A huge gathering of perhaps 40 buzzards of several species were attacking a wildebeest carcass, with much squawking and jostling for position.

Soon afterward, I spotted a lone buffalo in a thicket. Next to her was a newborn calf, glistening in the morning light and struggling to stand. The umbilical cord still trailed from the mother, who whirled to defend her calf, nostrils flaring. Soon she realized they were in no danger, and as soon as the baby could walk, they rejoined the herd. We saw a troop of baboons …clinging to one was a very tiny baby, with pink translucent ears which let the sunlight through. A pair of beautiful Bateleur eagles with bright orange beaks surveyed the scene from a nearby perch.

We drove back to camp for lunch and a midday break, enjoying a calamari salad as the hippos entertained us. Not long into our afternoon drive, Waziri picked up a report of a lion sighting. We discovered a male in a thicket, who started walking slowly towards a clearing, the most active lion we had seen. Another lion emerged and walked slowly towards our vehicle, stopping to rest about 20 feet away. We watched breathlessly as a whole pride emerged, one by one, and came to rest in front of us, unconcerned by our presence. Ten lions in all gathered, and we remained there for quite a while. Our return to camp crossed the river at a point where we could see four of the mighty Nile crocodile.

The following morning we were to depart for Klein’s Camp, which enjoys a beautiful ridgetop setting. The circular, white stucco room was nicely furnished in a Colonial style. We enjoyed a late lunch in their open air dining hall, and met the rest of our afternoon party… Jeff and Amy, a honeymooning couple from Manhattan…in the clubby, comfortable bar with its sweeping views.

On the afternoon game drive, we employed a Masai tracker, Labo, who sat in a chair mounted on the front of the vehicle. We encountered the familiar giraffe, elephant, impala and baboons, until a radio report of a lion sighting led us to a male and female lion enjoying a siesta under a tree. Suddenly, the male mounted the female, shuddered once and dismounted as the female let out a cry. The whole thing took perhaps five seconds. We found out that lions will mate for a period of five to seven days, every 20 minutes or so, and that it is painful for the female. Apparently foreplay is not part of the lion’s mating ritual.

Sometime later, Labo spotted a group of cheetah lying in the long grass. They did little other than raise their heads on occasion, but we were thrilled to see these seldom-spotted creatures, and spent a while observing and photographing them. Soon it was time for the “sundowner” and we stopped to toast our adventures. This night we were scheduled for a night drive, in which the tracker shone a spotlight into the bush, looking for pairs of eyes. We failed to see many animals…the experience of bouncing along in the moonlit bush the only entertainment to be had.

The following morning, we scoured the river areas for trees for leopards. Herds of hartebeests, zebra, gazelle and impala caught our interest from time to time, but we were captivated by a cheetah that suddenly appeared just a few feet from our vehicle, apparently stalking something. As sundowner time approached, we parked on a flat granite outcropping, and set up the bar.

As we finished our drinks, another vehicle picked us up for a surprise honoring our 30th anniversary, and we took off into the long grass. 45 minutes later, we saw a group of lights as we approached a clearing ringed by hurricane lamps. Two giant bonfires burned in the center, and a smiling group of Klein’s staff stood next to a candlelit table for two. We were served a bountiful feast of soup, salad, lamb curry and champagne. Chocolate mousse ended the meal on a sweet note, and as it was served, a group of Masai performers entered the clearing, stepping and harmonizing with skill and enthusiasm. Our chef couldn’t resist joining in. The magic of the evening enveloped us in a warm glow, carrying us through the rest of the extraordinary night.

The next day, we flew to the Ngorongoro Crater. We met our driver and were whisked from the bustling town of Karatu up the long grade to the rim of the crater, 7000 feet above sea level. Arriving at the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge was like entering Middle Earth…rows of salmon-colored thatched huts with medieval-looking chimneys cascaded down a gentle slope towards the crater, as zebra grazed nonchalantly on a grassy common area.

Our room was spectacular…a fanciful and eclectic mix of materials and architectural styles combined to create a magical space. Two soaring palapa roofs rose above the expansive bedroom and bath areas, with a crystal chandelier suspended in each. Looming over our bed was a giant panel of crimson silk fabric framed by carved wood.

The afternoon game drive was brief. Departing around 3 with our guide Timothy, we descended quickly, soon sighting a couple of lions, and spending time at a hippo pool marked by lots of splashing. At a distance, Timothy spotted a rare black rhino, and we strained to see it through the binoculars. Back by dark, dinner was again wonderful, and soon we were dialing up the twin electric blankets in our bed.

The next morning, we dressed warmly for the game drive. Shortly after reaching the bottom, a cheetah appeared right next to our vehicle and stayed close by for several minutes and good photographs. Timothy had packed a breakfast, and we stopped at a picnic area near a hippo pool. As we munched on granola, bacon and fritatta and sipped warm coffee to offset the morning chill, we watched the hippos interact. A number of beautiful ibis, starlings and weaverbirds flitted about.

As the clouds receded, we drove about, encountering a herd of zebra which practically had to be pushed off the road. We parked to watch a group of lions…four females and two cubs…which walked directly towards us, practically touching the vehicle as they appeared to be stalking some wildebeest. One female stayed behind with the cubs as the other three began approaching the herd under cover of the tall grass. Steadily they advanced, one at a time, the cubs and their guardian behind. Suddenly the wildebeest became aware of the lions’ presence, and adopted defensive positions at a safe distance. Soon, the lions abandoned their quest as the wildebeest trotted away. Later, we noticed a herd jumping across a river at great speed. Soon we spotted four hyena, closing in on the herd and causing them to reverse direction. They kept the wildebeest scurrying back and forth, but eventually they too left in frustration. By mid-afternoon we were ready for lunch, and we ascended the steep road back to the lodge.

After lunch, we repaired to the room and lit a fire, sipping sherry and basking in the luxury of our surroundings. After another splendid dinner, we stopped by the bar to chat with our new friends from London. When we were ready to call it a night, we encountered the surly buffalo mentioned earlier. Once safely inside our room, we bedded down for our final night on safari, feeling wistful that it had come to an end, but looking forward to a few days in Zanzibar, the Spice Island.

The drive from the airport offered a fascinating study into Zanzibar life, as the road was teeming with pedestrians, bicycles and “dala-dala” buses, on which as many as 20 people jammed onto two long benches. Small shops sold everything from lumber to groceries, cell phones to plastic laundry tubs. Women, dressed in colorful fabrics that covered their heads were reflective of the Muslim culture, which comprises 95% of the population. Groups of schoolgirls, dressed in bright uniforms and white scarves, walked alongside carts derived from automobile parts and pulled by oxen or donkeys. Houses built of varying materials and in varying states of completion alternated with small plots of bananas or maize. Farther from town, the road was lined with rows of mango trees, forming a shady canopy. Soon we turned into the driveway of Beaches.

The resort was, in contrast to the intimate feel of the safari lodges, a sprawling collection of bungalows and villas, adjacent to miles of white, powdery beach. Here, instead of 6 AM wake-up calls and hours hanging onto a jouncing vehicle, we had little to do except lounge by the beach or the pool, sipping Kilimanjaro beer and South African chardonnay. The room was nice, although nothing like the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge, and after checking out the beach, we were content to chill out for the rest of the afternoon.

Dinner was served in a large, covered, open-air setting with views of the pool and beach. Entertainment was provided by a local group who, after a set of instrumental jams, began performing rock covers, which were was an interesting cross-pollination of western and African styles. We left to the strains of Marley’s “One Love” which gradually faded as we walked back to our room.

The next day we took a trip to historic Stone Town with our guide, Mudi. He escorted us into chambers used to house slaves during the infamous Zanzibar slave trade, which had flourished until 1873. Seeing the conditions the slaves endured was very disturbing. We visited an old Anglican church serving the small Christian population, and soon found ourselves in the marketplace, a maze of narrow alleys into which were crammed booths offering all manner of food and merchandise. People flowed past each other with barely enough room to get by. One alley served as the fish market…mounds of octopus and fish of varying sizes were heaped upon stone tables...nearby were meat and poultry markets.

We stopped at a spice booth, offering bags of spices as well as assortments. Strolling past produce booths, Mudi showed us some of the local fruit, such as jackfruit and lichee. Roving merchants accosted us offering necklaces, Tanzanian soccer jerseys and CDs. We passed a booth with some beautiful scarves, one of which Ellen picked up for about $4, and poked around several curio shops. At one point our guide identified some amplified chanting as the work of a traditional witch doctor, which many locals still trust. Our walk continued through an old Arab fort with a grassy courtyard that had become an impromptu art market featuring touristy paintings.

We stopped at the Africa House hotel for a beer on its veranda overlooking the harbor. From there, we toured the local museum with exhibits covering periods of Portuguese, Arab and British colonial rule, as well as Swahili culture. Mudi also pointed out the building where Freddy Mercury, the lead singer of Queen, was born. A couple of historic government buildings marked the end of our tour, and we rode back to the resort, satisfied with our three-hour crash course in Zanzibar culture. Later, dinner was served at our table as a troupe of acrobats and jugglers performed an assortment of stunts, such as somersaulting through small hoops, and handstands on stacks of bricks.

We booked a massage for the following afternoon…two petite Asian women worked their magic fingers into our receptive muscles. A stint in the eucalyptus-scented steam room and a Jacuzzi completed our spa experience. Afterwards, we took a long walk on the beach. We stumbled onto a beachside souvenir shop, and met an artist in his studio, who was displaying pretty much the same ubiquitous paintings.

The theme for dinner was “Spice Night,” and music was provided by a small ensemble of older gentlemen. They performed hauntingly beautiful music that seemed to combine all the threads of Zanzibar culture. The next morning, we got up early for sunrise photos. It was beautifully quiet. We had breakfast and packed for the last time. All too soon, it was time to drive to the airport. Soon, we were on a flight to Nairobi, during which we could see the crater at the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

By the time we were picked up at SFO, it was mid-afternoon and we had been in transit some 38 hours. But along with the carved animals, masks and other curios, we had brought back memories that would last a lifetime.

2008-06-03T17:43:00.000-07:00

Recently, a pet cloning company in Marin County decided to hold a contest, and award someone the prize of having their pet cloned, normally a $100,000 proposition. There was a certain amount of controversy brewing around the company, having to do with not only the stratospheric cost of cloning a pet, but the vast number of animals in shelters who are euthanized if they can't find an adoptive home. I decided to enter the contest, since I have a wonderful pet with a great story to tell, and pledged that if I won, I would adopt a dog from a rescue group to serve as the cloned dog's companion. Here is the story:

“I can’t save your dog.” The words of the vet hung over us like a dark cloud. Our beloved yellow lab, Ginger, had been brought in to examine a growth on her cheek which turned out to be a malignant bone cancer. “She has maybe four months to live. Eight with surgery or chemotherapy.”

We considered whether it was worthwhile to prolong her life with such invasive treatments, and decided that a few extra months wouldn’t be worth the suffering it would cause. Meanwhile, I had begun my recovery from a brain tumor one year earlier, with a regimen which had involved nutritional supplements and Chi Gung, an ancient Chinese self-healing practice involving movement and meditation. I had faced a similar prognosis, and was slowly returning to health, and thought, “Why not put Ginger on the same program, and see what happens?”

We started adding a couple of supplements to her food, and when I did my daily practice, Ginger sat at my feet, absorbing the Chi energy I was gathering. Four months passed, and as my recovery continued, we noticed that the growth on Ginger’s cheek was shrinking. More months passed, and we both continued to improve…I was able to resume driving after a year of being seizure-free, and Ginger’s growth disappeared. We resumed our weekly runs near the Loch Lomond Marina, where Ginger loved to alternate between running the trail among the high weeds and plunging into the Bay after a tennis ball.

Nearly five years later, Ginger is still very much alive, although slowed somewhat by arthritis and the fact that she is now 14 years old. Looking back, she has given so much to our family over the years it’s difficult to imagine life without her. She came to us when our two boys were 6 and 7, and the three of them basically grew up together. From the beginning, her expressiveness has inspired comments from friends and strangers alike, all of whom have marveled at the human-like quality of her facial gestures. Her unfailingly cheerful greeting to all who have come to our door has resulted in uncounted treats willingly offered by express delivery drivers who have come to know her. We did have concerns that should a thief approach in the dead of night, she would treat him with the same affection she freely gave everyone else, but fortunately, we have never had to find out.

Having faced life-threatening conditions and survived against the odds has bonded Ginger and I in a wonderful way, and as she nears the end of her life, I find myself wanting to make the time we have left last as long as possible. Yet I am grateful that she has lived a full and rich life, and that after she is gone, her spirit will live on in our fond memories. Should she be chosen for cloning, we would be thankful for the opportunity for her spirit to live on in a more tangible way.

2007-09-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

Five Years of Survival

Five years ago this month, my life changed forever when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Since that time, I have chronicled my journey back to health with a series of messages, of which this is the latest. At first, when things were changing rapidly, they were much more frequent. As I improved and the need for MRI tests stretched out to every six months, so did these updates. Today I am blessed to be able to share with you the results of yesterday's MRI…a clean bill of health! At five years out, this represents a significant milestone, and an occasion for me to express my gratitude to all who have helped me achieve it: the doctors at UCSF, my Chi Gung teacher Don Rubbo, Michael Broffman of the Pine Street Clinic, cranial sacral therapists Ramona Sierra and Maureen O'Neil, the musicians who helped me record my CD (Joe Paulino, Anne Zesiger, Michael Woods, John Gomes, and Paul Lamb) my mother's prayer circle in Fort Collins, Colorado (as well as the countless friends and relatives whose prayers undoubtedly helped) and most of all, to my life partner and sweetheart Ellen. Her unwavering love, faith and strength pulled me through the darkest of times, and continue to make my life the wonderful thing that it is. Thank you all so very much.

A lot has happened in the last six months. Ellen has had a couple of gallery showings of her photography, and business has picked up considerably compared to the past few years, with several new clients. The startup I have been working with continues to develop, with funding hoped for by the end of this year. We hosted several parties this summer featuring performances by my band, The Vanilla Extract, who is also scheduled to perform at Ellen's upcoming gallery opening at California Closets in San Rafael September 6, which features four “travel collages” incorporating Ellen's photos, my sketches and hand-written journal entries.

In July, Ellen and I took an amazing trip to Costa Rica, where for eight days we toured much of the country with a tour group (not something we would normally do, but it turned out to be fun and informative as we had a terrific tour guide). We stayed in some cool places, and took in a lot of wildlife, breathtaking rural countryside, picturesque towns, and a wonderful thermal hot springs resort next to an imposing volcano. The highlight of our trip was a zip line canopy tour… strapped into a harness and suspended by a pulley from a series of cables connecting elevated platforms, we flew through the top of a cloud forest at heart-pounding speed. We returned with fond memories and a couple pounds of really great organic coffee.

This week, Miles began a new life for himself at Cuesta Community College in San Luis Obispo. After securing a room in a house on a visit several weeks ago, we drove down with him over the weekend, with several pieces of Ikea furniture in boxes and all of his necessities, and set him up for the school year. A friend from high school will be staying with him for a month, and another friend lives nearby, so he has a couple of familiar faces to help him make the transition. He's very excited to be living away from home, and we expect this year to be one of tremendous growth and blossoming for him. Eventually, he plans to transfer to Cal Poly and pursue a career in computer science. Tyler is taking classes at College of Marin as we encourage him to start thinking about his future as well.

When I think back to five years ago, I realize what a gift these years have been to me. I am filled with gratitude that I am here typing this in August 2007, four and a half years after the doctor who diagnosed me initially gave me to live. I am truly fortunate to be able to witness my children heading off to college, and to be able to share the wealth of experiences both large and small that each day affords me. I have learned what the power of love and faith can accomplish. And I have every expectation of being here to update you all for many years to come.

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey, and may your own journeys bring you blessings and good fortune.

Peace and love,

Dan

2007-08-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

If you are looking at this in Internet Explorer, be advised that it doesn't look like it is supposed to. I started this in March 2006, using Firefox and Safari as my browsers. I never looked at it in Internet Explorer until today, and had no inkling that it didn't look more or less the way it does in Firefox. But no...it's strange. The text doesn't form nice neat columns and some of the text elements are sprayed about in random fashion.

I have a message out to the fix-it folks at Blogger in search of a solution to this problem, but until then, please don't think I designed this blog to look like this.

2007-01-31T09:55:00.000-08:00

Imagining the First Startup

As someone who has worked for a couple of startups, I’ve often been asked what it’s like. Usually I talk about how challenging, interesting, and intense it can be. But capturing the mix of euphoria and despair while pursuing esoteric technologies is difficult. So I have constructed a fable using technology more familiar to the masses, which I will now share.

Let’s say, sometime around the dawn of history, that someone had a vision to create a new technology known as the “carriage.” This technology, which we’ll call “Carriage 1.0,” consists of a platform with wheels at each corner, with which things (or people) could be carried, hence the name “carriage.”

Of course, no one had ever seen a carriage, besides the visionary in his own vision. To actualize that vision, he gathered resources, including other people, to develop, prototype, and eventually sell, carriages to the masses. The people on Team Carriage invested their faith in the vision, betting that this vision will ultimately succeed on a grand scale and make them all rich, but first they needed investment capital.

Team Carriage had a hard time explaining what a carriage was, because people had never seen a wheel or a platform before, let alone a carriage. They tried. “Imagine these four round things connected by an axle…sorry, I mean stick. Now picture this flat thing that sits on top of the wheel thing…Oh. A wheel is the round thing that rolls….oh, never mind.” Most of the people didn’t get it, but Team Carriage moved forward, fueled by the vision of being able to transport things with this new technology, and a group of investors stood warily by, not impressed enough by “Carriage 1.0” to act.

Then the visionary thought to improve the performance of “Carriage 1.0” by adding another wheel. After all, five wheels would be better than four, wouldn’t it? Not knowing any better, the hard workers at Team Carriage all cried “Yes!” in unison, as they began re-engineering Carriage 1.0 to include the fifth wheel. Soon, Carriage 2.0 was unveiled, complete with five wheels. “Bravo!” crowed the visionary. “Let’s begin testing.”

“How do we get it to move?” asked one of the workers. “Engineering is supposed to have worked that out by now,” the visionary replied. “But for the time being, why don’t we push it?”

So several of the more robust workers got behind Carriage 2.0 and began to push. The carriage started to move forward, but the extra wheel on the front caused it to veer to the right. “Wait a minute. Isn’t the idea of this thing to transport things from one place to another? It seems to be going around in circles,” said the Head Engineer. “We need to do something to fix this, or the investors are going to bail.”

“I have an idea,” said a bright young intern. “A friend of mine worked on Sailboat 1.0 and they used wind to correct the direction of Sailboat. Why don’t we put a sail on Carriage 2.0?”

“Well, it will take a lot of re-engineering, but I suppose it’s worth a try,” grumbled the Head Engineer. Several all-nighters later, Carriage 3.0 was unveiled, with its brand new sail. “Let ‘er rip!” shouted the visionary as a crew began to push the contraption. But the results were the same…it pulled to the right, stubbornly refusing to travel in a straight line.

“What’s the matter?” the Head Engineer asked the intern. “I thought this was supposed to work. “You need wind. There isn’t any today,” he replied. “Well, that’s not acceptable, barked the Head Engineer. We need something to create wind whenever we need it. What do you suggest?”

“Well, I’ve seen people create wind by waving a palm frond back and forth really fast,” offered the intern. “It’s sort of a workaround, but it might be good enough until we think of a more elegant solution.”

“Okay, Thog – get on top of the carriage and wave this palm frond into the sail as hard as you can.” Thog took the frond, mounted the carriage and began to fan for all he was worth as Team Carriage once again began to push. But the results were again disappointing, as they could not even attain the modest speed of their earlier attempts.

“Performance seems to suffer a lot when Thog is on the carriage with the palm frond,” observed a member of the team. “That’s because Thog is too heavy,” replied the Head Engineer. “We need a lighter person, but we are going to have to accept a certain cost in performance.”

So the team set about building Carriage 4.0, recruiting an eight-year-old to wave the palm frond, and summoned their investors to view the official unveiling. At the appointed time, a small crowd gathered around the unwieldly contraption. The crew from Team Carriage moved into position, and soon the carriage began to lumber forward, sort of. After it had traveled a few hundred yards in fits and starts, it ground to a halt as the crew stopped, exhausted. “Well, gentlemen, what do you think?” inquired the visionary of the investors.

“Frankly, I don’t think it’s nearly as useful as Oxcart 2.0,” one of them replied. Oxcart places their source of locomotion in the front, and they have proprietary technology that allows Oxcart to change directions.” The other investors nodded, and slowly they began to file away.

“Wait!” cried the visionary. “You haven’t seen 5.0 yet!”

2006-11-06T17:26:00.000-08:00

Denver’s Astonishing New Art Museum
(photo: Ellen Goldstein)

Driving up Santa Fe Avenue on an unseasonable balmy Friday night, the streets teemed with people taking part in a monthly Denver tradition known as “First Friday, as galleries stay open for the evening crowd. This night, with the nearby town hall bathed in pink light for a breast cancer walk, the buzz had an extra fizz: the imminent opening of the Daniel Libeskind-designed Hamilton Building of the Denver Art Museum. Three years of anticipation, and much local curiosity as to what form the tangled collection of steel would eventually take, had reached its zenith with one last invitation-only gala to kick off its grand opening weekend. The next day, the DAM was inviting the whole city to the party, free, over the next 35 hours.

From the new Acoma Plaza on 13th Avenue, the titanium-clad building…which Time Magazine describes as “the most captivating building to appear in the U.S. in a while”…is an explosion of massive origami shapes that jut out at all angles, the largest of which extends over 13th Avenue like the prow of a huge landlocked ship. Outdoor decks, festooned with partiers, extend from several floors, and the matte-finish cladding and few windows result in vast expanses of softly burnished metal, lit in such a way as to accentuate its angularity. A striking see-through pedestrian bridge connects the new building to the existing museum north of 13th, an imposing building in its own right designed by Gio Ponti and completed in 1971. The Plaza and the bold Denver Central Library complement the dramatic site, which seems destined to anchor Denver’s burgeoning cultural downtown, with as distinctive a silhouette as any building in the world.

33,755 tickets were distributed at timed intervals, and the museum exhausted their supply about halfway into the 35-hour party. Ours are for Sunday morning, and are intriguingly titled “Hot DAM: Art At All Hours.” As we approach the entrance, we pass a giant whisk broom and dustpan (attracting kids and their camera-toting parents) while an equally large, whimsical spider appears to be guarding the door. Once inside, the airy first floor belies the imposing exterior, and the myriad of exterior angles continue, in structural components and a winding, four-story staircase affording dazzling, almost disorienting views of the space below. Concrete walls meet at odd angles, punctuated by 80 mysterious stainless-steel disks with elevator-style LED numbers that seemed to blink and change at random…a mesmerizing installation called “ENGI” by Japanese artist Tatsuo Miyajima, who enlisted the aid of 80 Denver citizens to set each LED’s speed. Climbing the staircase is akin to hiking up a canyon (indeed, it has been named the “Boettcher Canyon Walk”) and the view from the top affords a loopy M.C. Escher-like perspective.

Amid the grotto-like gallery spaces, the lack of traditional vertical walls makes for some unconventional displays, such as paintings hung on wires from the ceiling, or Jennifer Steinkamp’s trippy “Rock Formation Digital Video Projection” which cascaded down steeply angled walls. The Bonfils-Stanton Contemporary Gallery features works by Chuck Close, Alan Rath, Robert Arneson, Roy Lichtenstein, and many others. Sean Landers’ “Pater Naster”…a wall-sized canvas of random musings bathed in light from the narrow opening above, overlooks another stairwell featuring a Calder mobile. Tucked into another nook (it’s hard to refer to them as “corners”) is the vibrant Daniel Yohannes African Gallery. A walk down the stairwell leads to a grouping of Andy Warhol’s iconic Campbell soup prints, and to works by Picasso, Mondrian, Matisse, Modigliani and others. Particularly striking, and a little gross, is a 10-foot ceramic ashtray by Damian Hurst filled with cigarette butts and discarded packs. The Andeman Gallery of Oceanic Art displays intricate works from the South Pacific island of Vanatua. On the west side of the floor, a small sculpture deck affords fresh air and a different perspective of the exterior.

The second floor contains many of the most eye-catching displays, housed in temporary exhibits such as “RADAR: Selections from the Collection of Vicki and Kent Logan,” an eye-popping array of provocative and memorable pieces from the renowned Vail, Colorado collectors. The entrance is dominated by Michael Joo’s “Headless 2000”…an arrangement of 28 terracotta Tibetan monks, seated as if meditating, but without heads, as if they had been chopped off. Suspended above each with fine wire and magnets is a different, cartoonishly small doll’s head, ranging from tiny ceramic antiques to plastic icons such as Barbie’s boyfriend Ken and Alfred E. Neuman. Other highlights included a vivid, spellbinding trio of life-sized solid-color figures by Catherine Fritsch representing commerce (red, suited with a cloven hoof) medicine (a white skeleton in a lab coat) and religion (a black Franciscan robed monk) and the huge canvases of Neo Rauch, with their retro palette and early ‘60s clip art imagery. “Breaking the Mold: The Virginia Vogel Mattern Collection of Contemporary Native American Art” is a thought-provoking exhibit combining traditional materials with new esthetics, such as stunningly modern yet distinctly Native pottery. An interesting contrast is provided by the Dietler Museum of Western Art, with its expansive odes to cowboys and canyons.

A dramatic, glass-lined pedestrian walkway with views of the Rockies and the Denver skyline connects the Hamilton building to what is now known as the North Building. There, museum-goers can tour four floors of exhibits, and sample culinary art at the reinvented Palettes restaurant on the first floor. Chef Kevin Taylor’s selections range from a sirloin burger to smoked sweet corn soup with guacamole and barbecued shrimp. More casual dining is available at Mad Greens in the plaza, serving soups, salads and panini. Several small galleries and a convivial pub are within a couple of blocks, and across Acoma Plaza, Libeskind-designed condos advertised as “Gallery Inspired Residences” are offered for sale…a clear sign that Denver’s art culture is embracing downtown.

Libeskind, best known as the architect chosen to design New York’s World Trade Center Memorial, has made a dramatic statement in his acknowledgement of the progressive, pioneer spirit that Denver has always possessed, and the project represents a stirring testament to the support of the arts that its citizens provide. Denver’s skyline has steadily embraced a collection of distinctive buildings as its downtown continues a stunning renaissance from the doldrums of decades past. The new Hamilton Building, with its brave new way of experiencing art and space, places an emphatic exclamation point on Denver’s emergence as an international art center.

2006-08-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I ran the San Francisco Marathon. Well, some of the San Francisco Marathon. Full disclosure: about a third of the San Francisco Marathon. Nonetheless, I crossed the finish line before the cops let the traffic and sanitation trucks onto the course, and made good on my pledge to the many people who contributed to the National Brain Tumor Foundation on my behalf. More than $2000 was raised through dozens of generous donatons, and I made it my mission to finish within the allotted six hours.

Unlike my previous marathon experiences, I developed a sound training and race-day strategy… start with race-walking until my legs started working properly, run until something feels stiff, switch to race-walking until I’m so tired of it that switching to a run feels like a break, and repeat until done. I had managed a half-dozen run/walks in the 12-15 mile range, and had timed myself for 13.1 miles (half a marathon) in 2 hours, 35 minutes, which would result in a near-5-hour marathon, and lots of margin for error if I failed to keep up such a blistering pace. Packed with my water bottle, four packs of energy gel and a phone, the ever-gracious Ellen whisked me to the starting line at the first glimmerings of daylight at 5:15 a.m. and I took my designated place in Wave Eight, some four blocks from the starting line where the elite flight of runners were lined up. Seven “waves” and forty minutes later, our group officially shuffled through the starting gate as the East Bay was silhouetted against the orange and pink morning sky.

A river of people flowed down the Embarcadero, many wearing yellow team jerseys for AIDS organizations or memorializing friends or relatives, and I strode purposefully, passed on both sides by people who were actually running already. At Mile One, I switched to a trot, which took me through the wonderfully green Crissy Field area and I could see the snake of people climbing the slope towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Soon, I was there myself and switched back to racewalking to attack the hill. At the mid-point of the bridge and facing the first downhill in a mile or so, I let gravity be my friend and ran for awhile. Rounding the vista point, I spotted a pacesetter…a runner with a sign indicating his estimated finishing time…and it was 5 hours 0 minutes. And I was keeping comfortable pace with the small group surrounding him.

Off the bridge, down through the Presidio, up through Sea Cliff and into the park, the crowd pressed on. And it was amazing some of the people who were doggedly shuffling ahead. People who looked like they were at least 70. People who looked way too overweight to be doing this. But everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Racers hummed the “Rocky” tune. I passed a couple of women running for the NBTF team. Volunteers handed out water and directed traffic, and every so often, someone had a professional sound system hooked up to a generator. (My favorite such moment was hearing U2 belt out “Sunday Bloody Sunday” just as I was wondering if I could keep this up for three more hours.)

Every mile brought a different decorative banner, and sprinkled over the course were signs each displaying a SF trivia question, and 50 yards, later, the answer. We rounded the buffalo corral in the park without seeing any, and headed for Stow Lake, a part of the course dear to my heart as a favorite running spot from 30 years ago. Around Mile 16 or 17, I was striding around the lake when I approached one of the race photographers and broke into a run, feeling that a walking photo would be lame. Unfortunately, when I directed my legs to start running, they didn’t get the memo. I staggered, Joe Cocker-like for a few yards before abandoning the charade, letting the photographer snap a shot that will never see the light of day.

On through the park, past a homeless man sleeping within a few feet of the race course and the only beer stop of the day (“carbos!” they cried with their paper cups) and onto Haight Street, sans buses and cars and most of its everyday inhabitants. As Haight sloped down towards Market, the bay and the ballpark could be seen in the distance, and those whose legs were still operating took advantage of the hill to coast towards the Mission. By this time, volunteers were beginning to let traffic cross the race route in small groups as the parade of marathoners was thinning out. I had long since lost sight of the 5-hour man and the 5-1/2 hour man, and was concerned that my deteriorating pace might not get me within the time limit. Thick 60-year-old ladies continued to pass me. At one point, the only band of the day was playing on the east slope of Potrero Hill, serenading us with Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” I tried to sing along, but had only enough wind to emit a pathetic squawk. Photographs from this part of the race would reveal a taut-faced, determined but very slow man trying to complete the course.

As the ballpark loomed ahead, I crossed the 23-mile mark and realized that I had one hour to go. If I could average better than 3 miles per hour, I would beat the 6-hour time limit. By inhaling deeply and pumping my arms purposefully, I adjusted my cruising speed to 3.25 miles per hour and held steady, swigging some water and popping the last of my gel paks. One mile from the finish, rounding AT&T Park, I attempted what seemed like a routine transition from the street to a sidewalk, but once again my legs had their own agenda, and I jerked about spastically, simultaneously trying to regain my balance and work out a half dozen different cramps. Soon, I had rounded the corner on Embarcadero and could smell the finish line. Looking up, I could see the Ferry Building clock reading 12:10…exactly six hours after I had begun. Although there were people behind me, there was the definite sense that the circus was folding up its tent. Soon, I spotted Ellen’s welcoming arms and we walked to our car, parked some half a mile farther up the street.

Once home, I took a nap…hoping that when I woke up, I would have a brand new body. Unfortunately, the three hours were not enough, and when I emerged, it was with only slightly more vigor than if I had been in a coma. But by evening, I was starting to function in the fully upright position, and had tracked down the race results online to find that I had finished in an official 5:59:04…smashing thru the time limit by nearly a full minute. Despite this performance, it has been gently suggested that perhaps the half marathon is a more appropriate distance for me. I am, however, already planning how to improve my performance in the next marathon…I feel blessed beyond words that it is even possible for me, and feel that I can still get better at this. Even so, next time I’m packing some Motrin.

2006-07-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

The Tour De France

I admit it. I’m hooked.

Every morning, I turn on the Outside Living Network for live coverage of the Tour de France. It’s not that I’m a cycling maniac…I’ll pedal around town now and then on my mountain bike, but nothing really serious…but it is some of the most compelling TV I have ever seen.

As a sports fan, I enjoy the drama and spectacle of competition, particularly when it is on the international stage. The World Cup, Grand Slam tennis and golf tournaments, and the Olympics all get my juices going. But the Tour adds so many elements that make it special…the footage of glorious alpine villages, the motorcycle cams that get way up close to the cyclists and give us the cyclists’ view of the scenery as it flashes by, and the crowds of people and their unpredictable behavior make for a spectacle unlike any other in sports, or life, for that matter. The high drama of the competition is often upstaged by a spectacular wipe-out or an enthusiastic but clueless fan getting clipped by a racer as he tunnels through a sea of people.

The last three days in the mountains have been awesome. Floyd Landis, the American riding for Phonak, takes the yellow jersey on the first day, bonks badly on the second and loses more than eight minutes on the field. The following morning, both the newspapers and the race announcers opine that he is finished; too much time to be made up for any chance at victory. Landis rides incredibly, picking up all the time and more, before fading just a bit to finish in third overall, but just 30 seconds behind the leader. At a point where the leader generally has as many as 5-10 minutes on the field, half a minute separates the top three riders. Great stuff!

Part travelogue, part sporting event and part freak show…it just doesn’t get much better.

(Posted Aug. 15) ...Well, it does get worse, doesn't it? Floyd, say it ain't so. Wait...you already have.

2006-06-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

A Long Marin Weekend…four days of all we could pack in

Starting with the graduation of our oldest son, Miles, and finishing with a cross-country foot race, a street festival and a celebratory barbecue, our family spent the long weekend indulging in various Bay Area traditions and delights whose schedules neatly avoided collision, and left us happily exhausted.

The festivities began on a cool, sunny afternoon on the San Rafael High football field. Ellen’s mother Lois had driven up to stay with us, and as we all took our places in the bleachers, we surveyed the neat rows of white chairs facing a raised platform, which had been decorated with crepe paper and potted plants. The San Rafael High band (less its seniors) launched into “Pomp and Circumstance” and the procession of graduates entered through a tunnel of faculty members and greenery. We spotted Miles, whom we had instructed to smile for the photos. As he approached, his face was frozen into a stony glare. “He looks like he’s being tortured,” I whispered to Ellen. “He’s probably just nervous, “ she replied, and I hoped she was right.

Speeches were made, music played, and the procession to receive diplomas began. Miles was among the first to make the walk up to the platform, have his name read aloud, receive his red cardboard object (not a diploma, they wouldn’t be released until August)
shake hands, and return to his seat. Soon thereafter, we noticed him chatting up the girl standing next to him, and realized that he had loosened up and seemed to be enjoying himself. Every student had a moment where their name was read aloud, followed by applause. Some of the students had apparently brought their own cheerleaders…one in particular sounded as though she could have sung the national anthem at AT&T Park without a microphone…and others merited only polite applause. I wondered if it was a popularity thing or the fact that some graduates invited their entire extended families. We clapped as kids we had known for years stepped up to be acknowledged, and laughed as Miles’ friend Marcus sported a daisy tucked behind his ear. (I doubt that he would have gotten away with a gardenia.) Miles seemed happy in the company of his friends, and posed for a series of photos that ranged from cute to goofy.

After a celebratory dinner at the Buckeye Restaurant in Mill Valley, Miles joined the Grad Night excursion to the Scandia game complex in Fairfield. He was expected back around 4 am, which meant that we probably wouldn’t see him until the following afternoon but he surprised us with an appearance mid-morning. We had Giants tickets for the night game, and knowing Lois had planned to stay with us, had gotten an extra ticket. She gamely walked the quarter-mile from our favorite parking lot to the stadium, and found the stadium food to be better than acceptable (a Cha-cha bowl and chicken Caesar salad from Orlando’s Barbecue in center field). The Bonds-less Giants tried their best, but couldn’t muster enough firepower to outscore the suddenly-hot Pirates.

Saturday dawned grey and overcast…an ominous beginning to a day we had planned to spend on Mt. Tamalpais at the annual Mountain Play, which this year was “Fiddler on the Roof.” The plan was for me to drive up in the morning and secure seating for six, and occupy myself for several hours while the rest of the party got a picnic together and hopped on a shuttlebus. Towards the top of the mountain, I broke through the fog and realized that it would be sunny at the top. Once I had staked out a suitable spot, I called with the weather report and the location of our seats. While I waited, I was treated to previews of a couple of scenes and the sound of an amplified violin playing the familiar melody. Various other pre-production tasks were carried out (such as a man who came out to water down a cow that was part of the set) and as the start of the play approached, everyone arrived and we situated ourselves and shared some sandwiches and salads. The performance was heartfelt and engaging…the Tevye character was bombastic, energetic and thoroughly charming and the music had a healthy dose of klezmer to keep it from being too generic. Happy and sunburned, we descended the mountain, got Lois to her car and on her way to another social occasion, and returned home for a low-key evening of visiting with our sister-in-law Susan, who we don’t see as oftern as we’d like, and some pasta dinner.

The pasta was a traditional preparation for the following morning’s activity…the Dipsea footrace. I’ve written about this before, but briefly, it’s a 7-mile footrace from Mill Valley over the shoulder of Mt. Tam to the coastal town of Stinson Beach. It’s limited to 1500 participants, handicapped by age and sex (a ten-year-old girl won it one year, more recently the winners have tended to be 60-somethings) and a beautiful but challenging trek through redwood groves, slippery slides, ankle-breaking steps and breathtaking coastal vistas en route to a finish line accompanied by an announcer and a middle-school marching band. It’s glorious fun, and I try not to miss it if at all possible. Nursing a sore leg left over from the Los Angeles Marathon in March, I had fared disastrously in a practice run over the course just ten days before, therefore my training featured little running and lots of hill-climbing and stretching. Ellen graciously drove me to Mill Valley in time to pick up my race bib at 8:00, and we hung out near the Depot to watch the start of the race. My group (54-year-old men, 11-year-old boys and women 19-39) was scheduled to start at 9:10, so we had some time to kill. Soon our friend Terry Parks (an ultramarathoner with multiple 100-mile races to his credit) showed up with the original silver Dipsea trophy (its long and shaggy history is also recounted elsewhere) filled with water. Terry was blessing runners with Dipsea “holy water,” muttering ersatz Latin as he sprinkled a few seekers with Dipsea mojo. Soon a minor stir was created as an ancient creature with a walker moved in our direction. It was Jack Kirk, the “Dipsea Demon,” a legendary figure who had run more than 60 races and continued until he was about 96. Now nearing 100, his running days were behind him but he has become an icon among Dipsea runners, and both Terry and a newspaper photographer converged on Jack as Terry blessed him and the photographer clicked off a few shots. I captured the scene with Terry’s camera…the other photographer’s image would land on the Marin Independent Journal website before the day was over.

Before I knew it, I was in the starting gate, getting ready to head down Throckmorton. I hoped I’d be able to run as far as the Dipsea steps, a point at which nearly everyone slows down to a walk as there are 692 steps. Encouragingly, I was able to keep up with the group past the crowd gathered on either side of the street, and make it to the steps at a relaxed jog without anything hurting. Unless I went into the fast lane (with those in a big hurry, who tend to be young and heedless) I was limited to the speed of the person in front of me, which suited me fine as I was able to conserve energy. Once at the top of the steps…more uphill. Then down, down to Muir Woods and the creek that spans its middle. Leg feels good, I can keep up with these people. Across the creek, then up. And up. Something that feels like rain falls on my head. I continue. Up. Then there is a clearing. Then up. After going up some more, I reach the crest of “Cardiac” and can smell the ocean for the first time. This is the moment every Dipsea runner cherishes, knowing that it is almost all downhill to Stinson Beach. I’m able to air it out a little, as downhill landings don’t seem to aggravate my injury. I pass a few people. I realize I have plenty of gas left, and it’s a good feeling. As the finish line approaches, I see if I have a sprint left in me. I don’t, but am able to manage a reasonably strong-looking effort, documented by Terry’s camera. We find our friend George, who ran a goodly distance ahead of me, and his wife Cindy, and discuss getting together later at a barbecue hosted by Terry. But first, there is another event to go to: The Italian Street Painting Festival.

Every year (and seemingly also on Dipsea Day) San Rafael closes off a couple of downtown blocks, paves them over with a smooth black finish, and turns them over to hundreds of artists who paint sections with chalk, using techniques and imagery that span a range from Renaissance recreations to surrealistic Photoshop composites involving Pez dispensers. Most of the art ranged from pleasing to spectacular…many artists used a combination of a unique vision and superior rendering skills to create startling canvases on the smooth black asphalt. Some of Tyler’s classmates were involved, and we viewed the sections painted by his school as jazzy sounds filtered in from around the corner. Soon it was time to go home and refresh ourselves for the barbecue to come.

We arrived at Terry’s house for the hastily-arranged Dipsea Tribute event, where we were joined by George and Cindy, mutual friends Jeff and Libby, and a couple we met for the first time, Allen and Ingeborg. A wonderfully Californian spread of salad, roasted asparagus, chicken breasts and salmon sustained us through a lively and fun discussion, which had to do with the misadventures of our teenage children and an unfortunate baking incident in which Terry mistook spackling paste for flour. By the time dessert was finished, all of us were feeling the effects of the weekend, and rose to say goodbye at nearly the same instant. Soon we were home in bed…sleeping off four days during which we graduated a son, caught a ball game, traveled up Mt. Tam twice, attended a festival and got invited to dinner. Next weekend should be a little more low-key…all we’re doing is celebrating our anniversary.

2006-06-06T12:45:00.000-07:00

Ready for the Dipsea

Yesterday, I was featured in an article in the Marin (CA) Independent Journal about people who run a local foot race as a memorial to loved ones. In my case, I ran last year in memory of someone I had never met...a woman named Summer Skye who had survived a brain tumor to run races and raise money for the National Brain Tumor Foundation.

Despite a maddeningly persistent muscle pull, I will be at the starting gate on Mill Valley's Throckmorton Street this Sunday as 1500 of us head out (in a staggered, handicapped start) for the town of Stinson Beach, 7 miles and several long climbs away. Next week: the race. Will I finish? How many people will ask me about the shirt?

2006-05-25T12:52:00.000-07:00

An Amusing Defect

Every so often, one buys a product that, upon opening, turns out to be defective, and one returns the item and exchanges it for a new one. Yesterday, such an event happened, but the defect was so entertainingly bizarre that it deserves mention before we repackage it and send it back.

My wife received a Janis Joplin boxed set of 3 CDs. Each CD was housed in a tall, flat case along with the printed inserts that normally accompany single CDs, stacked in a square compartment. As we unpacked the set, something seemed amiss. There was a “Pearl” CD and a “Pearl” insert. There was a “Cosmic Blues” CD and a “Cosmic Blues” insert. There was a “Cheap Thrills” CD and…wait a minute. What’s this? An insert for Cheap Trick’s Greatest Hits.

So…yeah. Someone put the wrong insert in the box. And I can see how it might have happened…the words ”Cheap Thrills” sort of looks like “Cheap Trick” and maybe if one wasn’t very detail oriented or didn’t read English particularly well or had a poor grasp of pop culture…stuff happens. Still, it’s pretty bizarre. But I take some comfort in the knowledge that only a human being, rather than a machine, could have made this error.

2006-05-22T14:04:00.000-07:00

Dan Lives

I titled this blog “Dan Lives” to communicate the belief that life is its own reward…and because it’s short. It started as my version of the “Bird Lives” graffiti that appeared in New York after the death of Coltrane, but it has come to serve me well as an affirmation in my journey to recovery from a brain tumor, and as a personalized license plate. But up to now, this space has been devoted to a variety of topics as I have cast about to find my voice. Yesterday afternoon, as I ran through China Camp State Park, I got a little closer.

The route I take most often, from my house to Miwok Meadows and back, is pretty close to 10K, and I had been training for Marin’s fabled Dipsea race next month. The trail varies from canopies of trees and fallen leaves to breathtaking views across the bay, and with a focus on improving my speed (speed being a relative term in my case) I managed to shave a couple of minutes off my usual time. As I ran, I marveled at the ease with which I was now breathing, striding, and climbing hills. I felt very much alive. As I savored the run, my mind drifted to thoughts of those who died before their time, wondering why I was here and they weren’t, and about the forces governing these things. And I reminded myself that I had taken on a purpose, and that purpose was to provide hope, either by example or through words and music, to people who are facing what might seem like a hopeless prognosis.

When I was first diagnosed in 2002, I was given no chance of recovery and six months to live by a doctor in Wyoming. As it turned out, my odds were much better than that, but I went through some invasive treatments and scary periods to get to my present-day blessedly good health, which I owe in great part to an alternative self-healing practice called Chi Gung, and a wonderful teacher. I continue to wonder what would happen to someone who lived in Wyoming instead of the San Francisco area, who couldn’t go to UCSF, and who likely has no way of visualizing a different outcome than what their doctor provides? They most likely die. Not everyone gets a second opinion, and not every doctor balances their prognosis with stories about survivors. (My first doctor definitely did not.) The poor and elderly are most likely to trust their doctor’s prognosis as the only possible outcome, and I believe that when a doctor offers no hope of recovery, people die that don’t need to. Simple as that.

In an effort to raise awareness of the progress being made with brain tumors, I’ve been running on behalf of the National Brain Tumor Foundation and their Racing Ahead program, raising money and being interviewed for a news segment at last year’s Los Angeles Marathon, and participating (“run” might be too generous) in this year’s event in March. In July, I plan to take on the San Francisco Marathon. In the meantime I run, and write Dan Lives, to show that regular people – not just the Lance Armstrongs of the world but lucky weekenders like me – can beat long odds and achieve their own special triumphs…just by enjoying a healthy life. Sharing stories of survival is one of the most powerful things we have to give hope to others facing similar challenges.

2006-05-09T15:20:00.000-07:00

Dave Barry on Guitar

(illustration: "Big Ol' Thing"

Today I received an e-mail from Broadjam, a website where independent musicians are given a place to promote themselves. It linked me to the founder’s blog "Session Players" (click on "Founder's Blog") which had to do with a recording session using top-drawer players, including a guitarist named Dave Barry. Broadjam had held a contest, with the winner’s entry getting the musical equivalent of “extreme make-over.” The before-and-after was impressive, especially since the original version of the song sounded so good it was hard to tell where it could be improved. The “after” version, though, sounded more “radio-ready,” which I suppose was precisely the point…to take a good song and make it go “cha-ching.” It would be interesting to see what they could do with my somewhat left-of-center offerings

My next thought was of Dave Barry, the esteemed humor columnist, who also plays guitar in the a Rock Bottom Remainders, a band comprised of best-selling authors. (“We play as well as Metallica writes novels,” boasts their home page.) I seem to recall something about the humor column winding down as Dave pursued other interests, and wondered to myself if he had just decided to practice a lot and get really really good.

Once at the Dave Barry blog, it was apparent that he was up to his usual mischief, and did not appear to have written anything about his experiences as a top-drawer session player. So I have to assume that they are two different Dave Barrys, although I have heard the author/columnist Dave Barry do a pretty good job on “Louie Louie.”

I wonder if the other Dave Barry is funny.

2006-05-02T11:50:00.000-07:00

Start Me Up

In the fall of 2001, I was approached to do a logo and one-page flyer for a startup company in Marin County. The work was needed for a trade conference taking place the following week. I got busy and delivered an approved logo and flyer two days later. The next week began with 9/11, and the trade conference was cancelled. But out of that project my first professional relationship with a start-up tech company began.

I had missed the first merry-go-round of dot-commers in the late '90s, but missed getting flung off it as well. Despite the timing...the beginnings of a long period of cautious venture financing...I signed on as their creative director, although that title now seems ponderous for a company who met at the founder's kitchen table. It was a "sweat equity" deal...I was to keep track of my hours, and when the company got funded, my time would be turned into cash and stock.

A year later, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and couldn’t work for a few months. I lost my driving privileges due to seizures, and sold my beloved VW camper. The startup was very supportive, and when I could return to work (which I could largely do from my home) I did. Because their product involved multi-media, and because they didn’t have a lot of people, there was ample opportunity for me to work in a wide variety of disciplines. I did soundtracks. I did voice-overs. I assembled video-like presentations out of my wife’s travel photos. Even my kids got into the act…serving as a playground trash-talking chorus to a primitive basketball game. Then they got funded, and everything changed.

They opened up a SOMA loft-like office. They hired a CEO and a marketing director. They were going big time, and had little use for the kitchen-table team. This was both good news and bad… I was to receive a nice check for my three years of work, but I would not be along for the ride as they shot their way to the top. In the interim, I had recovered to the point where I had been driving for about a year, but without my own car. So I did what any mid-life carless male receiving a big check would do…I went out and bought a 1999 Porsche Boxster.

Last October, I got a call from the founder. It seems the CEO had burned through 90% of the funding, had been sacked and the founder was assembling a small team to try and rescue the company…was I interested? They offered a modest salary plus more stock. I jumped back in.

The pace began to accelerate. There were weekly emergencies…deliverable here, conference there…people left, people were reassigned, harsh words were said, nerve endings were irritated. Ultimately there was a restructuring of sorts, and the merry-go-round kept spinning as I found refuge on solid ground. No work, but no vertigo either. With tax time approaching, I realized I needed to sell the car to pay the taxes on the money that enabled me to buy the car. (An O. Henry tale for the millennium.)

Now, things are picking up, and I’ve plugged into a new group of creative and entrepreneurial people. Perhaps another ride is about to begin.

2006-04-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

Graphic Design for Next to Nothing!

I've been a professional graphic designer for about thirty years now. When I first started, logo design was an esoteric art, done by hand, and expensive. The tools of the trade were special illustration board, black and white ink, and a variety of pens and brushes. Developing and refining a logo was a labor-intensive process of inking the board, standing way back, and squinting at your work. When all the lines were smooth and exactly as desired, the finished product was printed by making a negative of it, stripping it into a larger negative of whatever the logo was to appear on, making printing plates, and printing it. Freelance designers who did logos generally got $1000 or more for their efforts (in 1976 dollars, mind you) and some of the big studios, such as Landor and Associates, often went into six figures in implementing a logo across a wide variety of media for a large, global company.

Now, computers have taken much of the tediousness and complexity out of the process, and it is now possible to create a serviceable logo and print it in a matter of minutes. What computers can't do, of course, is create the best possible logo out of the universe of possibilities...this still takes a trained eye and creative vision. It may well take the same amount of time it always has to create a world-class logo, if one factors in the creative process of arriving at the idea, and exploring various possibilities, but the "instant gratification" that desktop publishing ushered in has created a perception that a logo can be done in, like, an hour. Hundreds of companies have sprung up on the internet, offering logos for as little as $100 and turnaround in one day. These "one size fits all" logos seem to work for the companies that commission them, especially given the cost. They fall far short of the type of personalized branding that a great logo can provide, but those who wind up with them apparently either can't tell the difference, don't care, or both.

In order to be competitive in the face of these developments, I have seen the price I can charge for a logo drop steadily over the years, from $1500 or so, to the point where $500 seems to be as much as anyone seems to want to pay...when I can even find someone who hasn't already ordered a logo online. Other service businesses don't seem to be affected so much (my mechanic and my doctor aren't charging me a third of what they used to) but in the face of technological advancement, I have had to accept the fact that logo design isn't the commodity it used to be.

Having said all that, it still chaps my hide somewhat when I come face to face with just how devalued this craft has become. Yesterday, on CraigsList, I encountered the following post:

"I own a Hot dog cart and i need a logo.

For $75 i need...

1. I want a scalable vector based logo in .psd form. I Want it to be a versitile logo that can be on t-shirts as well as promo material. I would like to incorporate the outline of a dog, the barking variety. The rest is up to your creativity.

2. I would like a 8.5 x 11 promo brochure. I will e-mail you the basic format, it just needs some creative touches.

Send me an e-mail with a concept of the logo, and i will let you know if i would like your services."

Let's review: This person wants a logo created in two different formats, appropriate for a variety of applications, and also wants a promo brochure that just needs some "creative touches." (such as words and imagery?) Then, this person wants to see what you come up with before they will consider hiring you. For $75.

I responded by posting the following:

I'm hungry and i need a hot dog.

For 75 cents i need...

1. I want a hot dog that can scale to a foot long bun or a standard one. I Want it to be a versitile hot dog that tastes good with mustard as well as sauerkraut. I would like to incorporate an artistic squiggly line of mustard. The rest is up to your creativity.

2. I would like a side of fries and a strawberry shake. I will provide the styrofoam, it just needs some filling up.

Give me a sample of your hot dog, and i will let you know if i would like to buy one.

Well, several people at CraigsList flagged my post (perhaps the hot dog vendor multiple times) and it was taken down. Apparently, someone found it offensive.

Personally, I'm much more offended that someone expects a graphic designer to do a logo and a brochure for which they might get paid $75.

2006-04-20T09:30:00.000-07:00

The Brain Tumor Guy

A few months ago, a friend of one of my children told them "I saw your dad on TV last night on VH-1 playing a guitar." When this news reached me, I was both intrigued and clueless. I did put out a CD a couple of years ago to widespread indifference, but that did not begin to explain how I got on VH-1 playing a guitar. Then I heard from someone else that they had seen a photo of me on the Food Channel, Soon we figured out that the National Brain Tumor Foundation was running TV spots to promote its annual Angel Adventure fundraiser, and they were using a still photo of me playing a guitar, in front of my small collection. The photo was taken by my wife, Ellen, for use in the Foundation's annual report. Apparently, MTV was running the same spot. And both the Food Channel and VH-1 were running it a lot.

More phone calls came in. "Dan, you're famous" said our friends, as they recounted afternoons in which they had seen the spot five or six times. It became sort of a ritual...the Food Channel would be on in the kitchen, and someone would say "hey, Dad's on TV again" and everyone would look at the TV and the photo would be gliding across the screen, along with some others. It was the kind of exposure musicians dream about, and yet: No name, no CD title, no web address, nothing except the Brain Tumor Guy strumming his guitar. It would have been crass to have used the Brain Tumor Foundation to promote my career, I know, but still...if I had known I was going to be all over VH-1, why didn't I sneak the web address into the shot somewhere (www.danreichandfriends.com!) or hold up the CD (Bigger Is Better, Available at CD Baby!)?

Then it began to sink in that I was being "outed" as a brain tumor patient. My friends and relatives have all been aware that for the past 3 1/2 years (or three more than the doctor who diagnosed me thought I would last) I have been a Brain Tumor Guy. But now, anyone who recognizes me from the TV spot probably thinks "Gee, I know that guy. He has a brain tumor?" This could make for an awkward job interview..."Say, aren't you the Brain Tumor Guy with the guitars?" I imagine a perfunctory interview, and after I've left, a conversation like this: "He's talented and a nice guy, but we can't afford to invest a lot of time in someone who's going to die." "Right."

But this is part of who I am, and there's nothing to hide. At least not any more. I collect guitars. There, I said it.

2006-04-13T09:08:00.000-07:00

Ginger the Wonder Dog

Ginger the yellow lab sits on her ridge in San Rafael, surveying the neighborhood from our house to the ridgetops where she occasionally gets to run free after the odd jackrabbit or turkey. When she is at her appointed station, the family of deer that live in the open space respect her authority, and don't try to sneak into the garden to nibble on a new rosebud.

Ginger was diagnosed with bone cancer and given four months to live without invasive treatment, eight with. We elected not to do surgery or chemo, but I included her in my own daily self-healing regimen and gave her some of the nutritional supplements that I have been taking to aid my own recovery.

That was more than three years ago.

Now, as I watch her chase a tennis ball or jump into her favorite pond, it's not hard to believe that she is the happiest dog in the whole world.

(cool PhotoShop filter art by Ellen Goldstein)

2006-04-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

Renaissance Man

Thirty years ago, I had no idea whether I was going to make my living as a musician, an artist, a writer, a graphic designer or what. So I created this business card. Unfortunately, there weren't very many jobs for renaissance men in those days, and I'm not sure it is much different now. The truth is, I still haven't decided. Perhaps the appeal blogging holds for people like me is that whatever you are...and whether you know what that is or not...is OK. Like they say... on the internet, nobody knows you're a dog.

As a Renaissance Man, part of the job involves bringing forth Art (or what they now call content) as it is my belief that offering interesting content will encourage visitors to return, and to build a community. (If I were seeking venture capital, I would re-word that to read "Offering best-of-breed content to maximize ownership of subscribers and upside potential," but there's no elevator here.)

Here is a sampling of content. Enjoy.

Photo by Ellen Goldstein ©2003 "Cows"

Here's a modern folk song about SUVs

Then there's the brain tumor story

Thanks for looking and/or listening. I'm off to look for interesting blogs. See you soon.

2006-03-21T17:15:00.000-08:00

How did I get here? This is not my beautiful house...but I digress.

I am a graphic artist and musician who has landed here in the course of doing research for a project that involves social networking. Having always been fascinated by social networking and trend spotting, I found this assignment particularly interesting. Naturally, my research soon brought me here, and I have decided to dip my toe into the Blogger.com pool.

In my 54 years on the planet, I have been a musician, artist, husband, father, closet writer, business partner, and brain tumor survivor. This last attribute has informed my perpective and approach to life. I'm here to to share my voice...my thoughts, old pieces of writing, photographs by my wife and partner, Ellen, and links to various roadside attractions on the information superhighway. And being a small business, we would be missing an opportunity if we didn't encourage you to visit our studio.

A very thorough introduction to me (too thorough, probably) can be found here.

I am involved in other interesting ventures, which will appear in future installments. Which is another way of saying "there's more stuff...if this interests you, please come back."

(Photo: Ellen Goldstein ©2003. "Snug Harbor, New Orleans" January 2003)
Here are some more New Orleans Photographs.