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This past Wednesday I had the immense privilege to be a very small part of history when I witnessed Billy Joel putting Shea Stadium to sleep in one of his two farewell-to-Shea concerts. The man is 59 years old if my math is accurate, and the fact that he is still kicking like he is is a testament to both his perseverance and the legendary staying power of his music. Though I have to admit he is starting to show his age (a good number of the songs were in a lower key to accommodate a shrinking vocal range), he still put on an energetic, moving, and killer performance.

The Piano Man rocked our collective socks for over 3 hours on one of the greatest put together sets I've seen him do in the 6 times I've seen him. He opened with Miami 2017, a personal favorite, so I saw it as a good omen that we were in for a special show. And that we were, a fact that came into clearer focus when he introduced the likes of Tony Bennett, John Mellencamp, Don Henley, and John Mayer as special guests throughout the set. For those of you who know me, you'll know that I'm lame enough to be most excited about seeing John Mayer on stage, but I was. I confess. It was like a collision of my two favorite songwriters of two different generations on one stage, and I nearly pooped myself, to put it eloquently.

One of the things I loved the most about the show is that he didn't close with Piano Man. He played it, dismissed the band, then closed with a surprisingly touching simply solo piano rendition of Souvenir. The cherry on top of a heaping sundae of musical awesome, says this critic.

I hope to one day be able to say I have the staying power of Mr. Joel. To write timelessly and truthfully. To not only express the selfish personal anguish all songwriters are entitled to, but to connect to the masses on a visceral, man-to-man level. This is the standing I desire.

And hey....don't take any shit from anybody.

B

I'm a day late on the blog this week, as I was in Michigan this past weekend attempting, fruitlessly I might add, to waterski. After repeatedly wishboning by gangly white legs and smashing my face into the surface of the lake at speeds of what felt like 600mph, I'm feeling a little less than good. I think I inhaled water through every hole in my body. Every. Hole. And after numerous trials and subsequent failures, I never even got on my feet. Add that to the growing list of thing I canNOT do even if my life and the lives of those I love depended on it. As the cherry on top, I also managed to turn my pasty 175 lb. frame into a walking strip of bacon by not reapplying sunscreen after my being dragged violently through miles of water. In fact, it would appear that I completely neglected to apply any sunscreen at ALL to one portion of my body, as I seem to have forgotten that I do, in fact, have knees. Now that they are more clearly visible, however, I could feasibly fry an egg of each of them. Mmmm, breakfast.

All that aside, though, it was a fun trip that also included "putt putt," or MiniGolf, as I was raised to call it, as well as indulge in a waterslide that ended in an approximately 6-inch -deep puddle of recycled water. It was cool, because that way, I could break both my ankles AND get hepatitis, all without having leaving the water park.

But I got my revenge. I peed in the lake. Several times. Eat that, trout. I know you will.

B

As you well know, I sometimes like to hand off my blog to a "guest blogger" in order to get a fresh perspective on things, or at least give my lazy ass a break for a week. This week, I have the pleasure of introducing to cyberspace someone I have a great deal of respect for, as well as a great deal of similarity to. This week, I pass the blog baton to....my older brother, Mr. Greg Fenkart. Enjoy...

"My brother blogs a lot about the search for happiness and the idea of satisfaction, so I figured I’d chime in with my own three cents on such things. Yes, three. Take it up with Bryan.

I am dissatisfied with several aspects of my life, and yet I consider myself a generally happy person. So I am trying to take steps to improve the things I don’t like, and trying to enjoy the things that I do. Notice I do say “trying”: I’m as guilty as anyone of getting into a funk, and I’m probably guiltier than most when it comes to becoming complacent and convincing myself that it’s happiness.

It’s a cliché, but attitude is everything. Taking joy in things is essential. I know Bryan believes to some extent in The Secret, and one aspect of that is taking stock of your life and showing gratitude for the things that you have. Similarly, it is my belief that we need to find things in our lives that we take pleasure in, and – most importantly – allow ourselves to enjoy them.

This is all easier said than done, of course. Crappy things happen to everyone, and we’re not just going to smile and dance and have a great day every day. Hell, I don’t even dance when I am having a great day, but that’s my own issue. All we can do is weather the storm and see what comes next. It’s often tough to remember in the exact moment that the shit is actually making contact with the blades of the fan and spattering your carefully planned life, but sometimes negative changes lead to ultimately positive results. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need. Like a kick in the ass.

On to the man that puts the bryanfenkart in bryanfenkart.com… Whereas I sometimes neglect to distinguish between happiness and complacency, I think that Bryan sometimes fails to make the distinction between happiness and satisfaction. I could be grossly mistaken, but I think he’s happier than he thinks he is. He loves and values the assortment of humans in his life, and I know they make him happy. On a slightly more superficial note, I know good art (movies, music, TV, etc.) also bring him joy. I know he craves more success than he has yet achieved, both in acting and in music, and I also know it will come. He is not satisfied with his career, and that’s OK. He should, however, be proud of and happy with what he has already accomplished. He doesn’t have a “day job” and makes his living solely on his art, which has always been a dream of his. So just remember Bry: while you’re furiously toiling away on your next project, wondering when this will all pay off, just take a moment and smile and say to no one in particular, “That’s right bitches! I’m living the dream!” (If you’re in a room full of people, you might want to rephrase) To use repeat your own blogged words back to you: “The joy is in the journey, not the destination. That's really tough to remember most of the time.” So, I’m reminding you: enjoy.

There’s nothing wrong with never being satisfied. In fact, the quest for that elusive Something Better is motivating and healthy. However, there’s a great deal wrong with never being happy.

In closing: never settle, always aspire to be something more than you are right now, and smile whenever you can. And never trust a vegetarian – life is too short and meat is just too tasty.

Of course, if I’m ever asked back for a second guest blog, I’ll probably just contradict myself.

Or maybe I won’t.

B

This past week I had the great privilege to be in the front row to see Eddie Izzard's brand new act at Radio City Music Hall here in NYC. For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Izzard, in addition to starring in the hit FX drama series "The Riches," he is the most brilliant stand-up comic I have ever witnessed. His mind works on a level I am unable to comprehend fully. I'm not sure how much pot I'd need to smoke to catch up with him, to be fair, but all that aside, he is simply one of the greatest entertainers to ever set high-heeled stiletto boot on a stage.

Last week, I wrote my entire blog about the people who "make it looks easy." Eddie Izzard is the archetype of this person. When this man/woman walks onto a stage (he is a transvestite, by the way), he OWNS that space. Nothing else in the world exists for the 120 minutes he is talking. That sense of entitlement is something to be envious of as a fellow performer. He is, in a word, free. His imagination is boundless and his ability to turn his imagination into a vivid and hilarious picture for the audience is second-to-none. He is one of a handful of people whose head I would want to live in for about a week, just to see how the machinery works. The amazing thing about most of Izzard's stand-up is that it's not really scripted in the strictest sense. He comes up with ideas he wants to talk about, jots down a few key points he wants to hit, then just riffs onstage. And inevitably, it is genius. Whether it's funny or not, it's genius (though to be fair, nine and a half times out of ten, it is freaking hysterical). His freedom and willingness to unadulteratedly play is truly something to aspire to, in any art form. Or just in life! If I could be as present at any given time, I feel like my life would be an entirely different adventure.

Of course, in real life, he is probably just as neurotic, insecure and self-destructive as anyone else, but onstage it is hidden beneath layers and layers of brilliant showmanship and staunch confidence. But that's the trick. If you are aware of these flaws, come to an acceptance of them, befriend them, and carry them with you having learned to use their powers for good, you can be free. Pure. And more than likely successful. I know it's counterproductive to envy such grace and fluidity, so I say I aspire to it, but the truth is out there.

ANECDOTE ALERT** A few months back, I was recording a voiceover in a major studio, and Eddie Izzard was at the front desk handing over his ID at the same time as myself. The security guy behind the desk handed them back saying, "Mr. Izzard...Mr. Fenkart," before ushering us to the elevators. Eddie and I got on the elevator. Upon the doors closing, Eddie turns to me and asks, "Are we both astronauts?" I quizzically replied, while desperately trying not to crap myself laughing, "What do you mean exactly?" And he said, "Well, they were handing out code names at the front desk, and I just figured in all those astronaut films they're always handing out code names and...I might be wrong." Changing the subject, I asked what he was doing at the studio that day. He replied, "I'm doing some looping for this show called 'The Riches.' It's a drama on FX starring Minne Driver and myself." I responded, "Oh yeah, I know, I saw the whole first season. I love that show." He paused and said, "Oh. I probably didn't have to say all that then, did I?"

No you didn't Eddie. No you didn't.

B

Imagine a high-stakes major league baseball game. We are embroiled deep in the bottom of the 9th, two men on, two men out, winning run at the plate, full count. The pitcher begins his wind-up, the runners stretch their already daring leads. The pitchers deals, the batter swings deep and connects decisively with a fastball outside. The ball sails to deep center. The runners are moving, the center fielder is in hot pursuit, and the ball is saying its last goodbyes. The ball drops as it approaches the center field wall, the center fielder picking up speed and planting his foot defiantly into the dirt of the warning track. He leaps, and with naught but a few nanometers of air to spare, his glove arms shoots above the wall and robs the home team of an almost certain victory. And amidst rabid celebration with his grateful, ecstatic comrades, the play-by-play announcer says of the center fielder, "Boy, I'll tell ya; he makes it look easy."

That, to me, is a pinnacle of what I want to be said of my entertainment career. I say "a" pinnacle, and not "the" pinnacle, because new ultimate goals and purposes are constantly revealing themselves as I go along. But right now, I can't help thinking what a real affirmation it would be to "make it look easy." Now, I'm not stupid. I know this does not mean it's going to BE easy. Quite the opposite. In all probability, the chosen task becomes more and more difficult in direct proportion to how easy it would look to a casual onlooker. But it always seems to me that the ones who stand out, the ones who are referred to as the ones who "make it look easy," are inevitable the ones I aspire to be like. Quite simply because they are, bar-none, the best at what they do. They are The Game. They reason it appears so effortless is because the countless hours, nay, years of effort have melted into pure skill, to the point where the cultivated talent cannot be separated from the person. It is second-nature. The skill has matured, grown and sewn itself into the fabric of this person so that it is probably the best definition of who they are.

I want to believe I'm not, at this point, too old to become a virtuoso of sorts. I'd like to think that I can punch in, put in the hours, do the overtime, and when it comes time to sleep? Stay up and work more. I want to believe I still have the fortitude and the pure child-like energy to fight without tiring for the highest prize. The championship. Ease, form, beauty and a sense of the whole. These are the four marble pillars that hold up the perfectly proportioned and pristinely carved masterpiece that is The Expert. The Professional. The Natural. The Guy Who Makes It Look Easy.

I know I am far from this particular milestone. I know I will never attain it, inasmuch as I will always be looking to better myself, even if I do someday manage to reach the vague idea I have now of what mastery is. And even if I did, how would I know? Would it feel easy? Would the rhythms on the guitar and the licks on the piano flow from my fingers without even the ghost of a thought? Would the melodies burst from my throat with a silky smoothness and perfect timbre that is as effortless as it is beautiful? Will my writing bleed from my pen like it is automatic, cutting deeply into my nature and imprinting it on paper? Would all this feel easy? I want it to. I even sometimes feel as if, if I really focus, I can reach those transcendent moments where all that exists is the moment, and that I am one with whatever I'm doing. This is some Zen shit.

B

THINGS I REALIZED THIS WEEK:

• I admire simplicity, but don't aspire to it.
• Life without a soundtrack is meaningless.
• I will not be happy until I have moved as many people as I possibly can, and probably not even then.
• Lack of ability to communicate may well be my biggest pet peeve.  And listening to people eat.
• "Lars and the Real Girl" challenged me to feel, and to do so courageously.
• The joy is in the journey, not the destination.  That's really tough to remember most of the time.
• M. Night Shyamalan is either the world's best filmmaker or the world's most self-indulgent hack.  You decide.  Cuz I can't.
• Seeing through the eyes of another person is impossible when you can't even see properly through your own.
• Few things, including personal tragedy and professional failings, have disappointed me as much as the new Indiana Jones. 
• I am probably hopeless in a lot of ways.  And that gives me hope.  How's that for an overdose of irony?
• Chuck Klosterman makes me smarter.  Even if it's artificially smarter.
• I will never be satisfied.  And if the day ever arrives when I am?  Kill me.
• "Realization" is a cheap word, inasmuch as you will "realize" something completely and totally opposite before you know it.

B

I wonder, probably more often than is productive, how much of what I do is guided by a Hand higher and mightier than mine, and how many things are simply the quaint decisions of my puny human mind. I am a believer, and for me, I like to think that a great deal of divine nudging goes into my everyday wanderings, without which I would wander aimlessly off a spiritual cliff like a giant lemming. I like to think that the answers I'm asking for are being called out to me immediately after I ask for them, no matter how monumental or how seemingly petty. But then how come I almost inevitably feel like I'm not getting answers?

Now, most Catholic die-hards would say, "Oh my child, (all Catholic die-hards start every sentence with 'Oh my child'....look it up), the answers are being spoken, you just aren't listening." Well, after countless naive and frankly moronic years of literally listening for answers....with my EARS....I realized these old white-haired traditionalist men simply meant that my heart was not open to receive the divine messages being pronounced at every moment of every day. So, that's easy. All I gotta do is completely open my heart. Wait, did I say easy? I meant fuckin impossible. And yet, every single morning, I still ask. And ask. And ask. And why? Because I think I'm starting to hear faint rumblings of what may eventually unscramble themselves into answers. Before I start to sound like a drooling crazy person, let me clarify that I don't hear harp music and then the booming, bearded voice of God (Yes, His voice has a beard too. Deal with it.). What I mean is, I think the responses I ask for have been circling and hovering about forever, I just needed to accept the possibility that they were going to be subtle, they were going to sound suspiciously like my intuition, and they were simply NOT always going to be what I wanted to hear.

But then, what if I'm misunderstanding all this? What if I'm becoming one of those religious nuts I hate, desperately flailing about, grasping blindly at whatever symbolism or manufactured "sign" of divinity that's within my feeble, limited reach? I am driven crazy daily by people who are thinking of their ex-lover, and "their song" comes on their iPod, and this is SURELY and beyond DOUBT a sign that they MUST get back together. The universe just TOLD them so. This is both coincidental and ludicrous. This is our minds making up for our own human failings by filling in the gaps. This is us taking the holes left by our own self-destruction and filling them up with misplaced blame and made-up, meaningless spiritual rhetoric. Well, yes, sometimes something was "simply meant to be." But other times? You fucked up, you made the choice, and it is your responsibility to own that and everything it comes with.

And yet, the answers are there. All around. Waiting to be acknowledged. We just need to hear them. We know when we do. We feel it. When something just feels right, we know we have heard and interpreted correctly. Or maybe we just made a choice, and that choice worked out, end of story. Either way, it is my belief that we are guided if we ask for it. It is then on us if we choose to ignore it or if we miss it. I personally did this far too often. But now I'm looking. I'm listening. I'm listening for answers.

And I'm sure, once I think I have all the answers? Life will, no doubt, change the questions.

B

Why do we fight? I know there's a documentary out right now that would likely help answer that question, but I think that's more about wars and politics and other things I know far too little about. I'm talking about warring with those we love. Using words as weapons instead of bandages. It's remarkable, the capacity we have to hurt those we care about is so much more vast. I suppose it's due in part to the fact that we see them and their quirks and faults in such clearer focus than anyone else's. Our ammunition against them, then, is so much more powerful and well-aimed than it normally would be against a little-known enemy. But these people should not be considered enemies. They are meant to be the allies. I suppose when we are armed with the knowledge of past mistakes and indiscretions, and of past arguments, we are far more likely to dig up long-dead pains than not.

But why can't love overpower that? Am I being foolishly naive and optimistic to think that love is enough? Do I sound like a character from Moulin Rouge if I think that love should simply overcome all odds? Maybe. But I've never been accused of being terribly rational. It seems almost unfair that the more we get to know someone, the more landmines we inadvertently lay out for them to stumble across when words start taking on more and more heat. So, I guess my question is, how do we clear that minefield? How do we allow ourselves the almost inhuman capacity for forgiveness to permit 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 37th chances when the gashes keep getting reopened time and time again? How do we wake up every day really clear out the cataracts left by the previous day's fog of unnecessary bullshit? How, in short, do we start over?

I don't even know if what I'm asking is possible. I choose to think it is. I like the label of impossibility. It makes me try them...

B

I just opened in a short one-act play as part of the Ensemble Studio Theatre Marathon Series, now in it's milestone 30th year. This is my second year doing it, and though it certainly does not pay well, it is an honor to be a part of this great company in its quest to debut new works by established playwrights, as well as giving a chance for exposure to countless up-and-coming talents.

The piece I'm starring in is entitled "Ideogram," and it centers around an unassuming stock broker named Jasper who accidentally discovers that he has a vrilliant talent to write in Chinese. He stumbles across it while writing a joke birthday card to an Asian-American pal of his, and he becomes a monumentally influential writer in China, while his friend is left in the dirt. None of this is what he asked for. And yet, this accidental talent finally gives his previously mundane, meaningless life a purpose. A genuine one? Maybe, maybe not, but at least he IS someone now. And isn't that what everyone wants? Somewhere deep down? To make an impact? To not blend into the ocean of faces and suits, but to leave a crater before you decide to sign that big dotted line in the sky. But then, is just the illusion of an impact enough? Is believing you've done something worthwhile just as good if it's made up? And if you really ARE making a name for yourself, is it okay if it costs the friendship, or even the live, of a close companion?

Come see the show if you get a chance. It's part of Series B of the Marathon, and all the information is available on www.ensemblestudiotheatre.org.

Until next time...

B

Yesterday was my first ever live radio performance. Myself and the band headed over to Sirius Satellite Radio to compete in a sort of makeshift "Battle of the Bands" on "Breuer Unleashed," a popular talk radio show featuring the lovable Jim Breuer (you may know him as Goat Boy, or perhaps Joe Pesci), and his equally lovable scoundrel of a co-host, Pete Correale. I didn't know going in that it was any sort of competition, but here's what the deal was. Each of the main personalities on the show "represented" and act that they brought into the show to perform one song. Then, everyone in the studio would vote on a scale of 1-5 on who they liked best. They took callers who would do the same, as well as offer their sometimes useful, sometimes scathing input.

We performed a new song called "Okay," a choice that I made after probably too much deliberation, because it's upbeat, it's catchy, and overall a solid representation of what we are capable of in a live setting. I agonized over this choice, because a part of me thought that with this being our first relatively major national exposure, that maybe we'd be better suited playing a song that people could buy if they liked it.

In the end, the performance was good. Not great, but good. Perhaps I'm cursed with a chronic lack of personal satisfaction, but we could have done better. We hit a triple when what we needed was a homerun. Now, could my opinion be slightly colored by the voting ( we came in 2nd)? Maybe. Could my opinion be slightly marred by the fact that I (I don't wish to speak for the rest of the band here) was a bit nervous about this new set-up? I'd never played in the fishbowl like that, and though I liked it, it was a jarring and unfamiliar experience.

The bottom line is we got out of it what we should have gotten out of it. Victory in a loose competition is moot when it comes to the bigger picture of making connections where they count. Not that we got ripped apart (though one caller wished to see Parry bludgeoned to death with a hammer, a punishment I felt a bit extreme...maybe a wrench or a toaster.), we just didn't do what I know we are able to do in a big game situation. The difference between good and great is confidence. And we lost a bit of it in the tilt of a new and uncharted situation. It'll come back. I promise.

Something isn't right.

B

A few weeks ago I handed my blog over to my friend Derek Sonderfan to get a fresh perspective on things. This week, I'd like to hand over the reigns to another guest blogger, this time to get a female perspective. Gifted writer/thinker Kate Hensler recently wrote an article about me, so in return, I'd like to loan her this space for a week and see what's floating around in that head:

a reoccurring theme in this website is relatability, which to me is the key aspect that distinguishes good writing from meaningful writing.

i grew up in upstate, NY in a small town you probably haven't heard of. if you have, you probably drove through it on your way to Canada or you are a Mets fan who is obsessed enough to know that part of your farm system is located in Binghamton. i go to Seton Hall University, which is 3 hours from my very normal but quirky parents and a 25 minute train ride to my creatively gifted sister in the City.

like everyone, i struggle. especially us twenty-something year olds.

my teenage years were tumultuous at best. i muddled through a rocky terrain that included more than acne, social awkwardness, and inconceivable chemistry equations, although they were all too present. but what occupied most of this awkward stage was a heavy dose of difficult life lessons, which were treated with hard pills to swallow. rape, cancer, alcoholism, betrayals, family feuds. i forced most of my energy on coping, which is a really great way to become exhausted. i had to be the one to keep it together, to be the caretaker, to make everything as easy as possible on everyone else, no matter what sacrifice it meant on my end. and of course i knew the right way to cope. i was twelve years old after all.

years later, i found myself trying to climb out from underneath the bus where i threw myself so many years prior. where is the line between sacrificing for others and sacrificing yourself? it's a line that is hard, and damn near impossible to correctly straddle , and if we lose our balance in either, our downfall can spiral for what seems like an endless length of time. but i promise you we land. usually bloody, with some broken bones and bruises. but we land and then we heal. i have the scars to prove it. they are alongside the scars from my stupid acne.

i often wonder, is there really a difference between the emotional maturity of a scared seventh grader and a twenty-something year old with no obstacles to over come? i feel like there isn't, which is why i would redo everything in a heartbeat if i had to. growth keeps us honest, it yields pain, but most importantly growth defines you, whether you are 12, 21, or 112 years old. it is how we cope with these experiences that keep us human. it's creates the threads of relatability that keep people connected. otherwise, wouldn't we all be impersonal, out-of-touch robopeople? like a giant societal text message. no amount of "easy-going" is worth losing the ability to be personal. i don't think you can live a truly satisfying life if you can't relate to people and connect to their identity somehow. maybe that's why i'm a PR major.

if only "baggage claim" was as easy as it is at airports. we wait a little while, go around in a few circles, and eventually lift the load and unpack. and the really lucky ones can stow their baggage away for good. and some of our baggage gets lost about along the way.

accept, heal, and learn.

Thanks Kate. Tune in Monday May 19, 2-4pm, Sirius Channel 104 for "Breuer Unleashed," to hear us play live on the radio...

B

This past week I had the nerve-wracking honor of playing an acoustic showcase for the network juggernaut NBC , on the 16th floor of the fortress that is 30 Rock. I've never played a show in a corporate boardroom before, and I wouldn't recommend it. The acoustics are such that every sound you make gets swallowed like a tequila shot at the Lohan house. Tack onto that the fact that an almost uncomfortable amount of power rests in the manicured hands that are currently holding my set list, which itself is designed to leave room for notes on each painstaking song.

But, as it always seems to happen, once Jer, Parry, Neal and I started laying down the grooves, the anxiety and weight melted off and drained slowly from the room. I instantly became more comfortable when I was in my natural habitat, which is easily portable in a Road Runner gig bag. Also, even though sometimes it takes a while for a room to come into focus when I'm in a big-game situation, once it inevitably does, I am able to see that it's just a room full of people. People like me. People named Mike, who grew up in the suburbs, got beat up in school, now they're doin this. It's a much less harrowing experience when the monsters in your mind prove to be nothing more than humans that were simply out of focus.

I don't know if this'll lead to anything. But whether or not it does, it was another step on a long path towards a confidence that can't be shaken, only stirred.

Till next time...

B

So my myspace page has been taking off considerably in the last few weeks, and in that time, I'm honored to say I've received my first bit of hate mail. I'd like to include it right now, verbatim:

"you suck man. you are really pathetic. The primary reason being that you have to post a message begging people to check out your music. If you think that it worked with me, you are wrong. I didn't listen to any of your crap music. Be original. Sing on the streets, get your crap out that way and stop being so cheap"

This message came from "Chad," a 34-year old balding single man from Fargo, North Dakota, a city known for its glitz and glamour, as well as its raging music scene. Now, of course, this is MySpace, so there's a solid chance he's actually a 9-year old girl from Honduras, but let's assume for the sake of argument that he's telling the truth. This email irked me on a couple of levels. Number one, Chad and I must have opposing interpretations of what "begging" is. Either that, or he just grossly misspelled "marketing." Posting comments on the pages of folks of similar musical genres is simply smart PR, and if it gets some people to go to my page and check out MY tunes (and it has), then this technique has paid off in spades. I'm simply appealing to the ears of those who appreciate the same music as I do, and cordially inviting them to give my stuff a chance if they find the time. Nothing wrong with that.

Another thing. Chad kindly suggested that I sing in the streets to get my music out there. This was ridiculous on a few fronts. First off, this suggestion is foolishly based on the premise that I never HAVE played in the streets, or filthy dive bars or second-rate coffee shop open mic nights on Mondays in front of sad alcoholics who hate everything. I HAVE. And I have graduated from that particular school. Magna Cum Laude. Secondly, I believe that Chad's suggestion is based on an old-school mentality regarding music and its dispersion to the masses. I saw that one of his favorite artists was Martin Sexton. Martin Sexton is also one of my heroes. He is one of the most brilliant, pure and inspirational talents I have ever laid ears on. Now, Martin Sexton dragged his way up the road to success by his fingernails, playing subway stations, street corners, and barely scraping by to support himself and his family. I respect that in a way that defies words. However, you can't tell me that if Martin Sexton, or ANY NUMBER of that generation of songwriters, were afforded the opportunities that today's musical scene provides, they would have taken them without even the slightest hesitation. It's a different world now. And we songwriters do what we can to be heard. If I have to play in a subway all day, so be it. But when I get home, I'm going on myspace and shilling the crap out of myself.

So thanks for the Blog Fodder, Chad. And when you're done looking at anime porn, call your mom and say hi. Don't bother with a phone, she's probably right upstairs, making you waffles.

B

I just returned from a road trip to Michigan, and I haven't fully processed the experience. You can learn about a person/people from many consecutive hours in a confined Ford Focus, and from exposure to new families and experiences. And most of the things I learned were good things. Here's a short list of things I learned:

-People from Hudsonville "don't bite unless bitten at."

-People can really change, and change for the better.

-A person doesn't just have to be a lover or just be a friend. Perhaps they can really be both. Again.

- 7 year olds are equal parts adorable and dramatic.

- 13 year olds are just discovering what it's going to mean to be an adult. And it ain't gonna be easy.

-Parents are very human, and very mortal. They have the same doubts, insecurities and painful pasts as everyone else; they just have the monumental added responsibility of passing a better life onto their children than they were ever given. And they often deserve a break. If not a medal.

-Police don't pull you over for doing 95mph on Sundays.

-Love is an unconditional thing. And a pure thing if done right.

-God will always be questioned. But He will always be there to be questioned.

-Oprah has changed. For the better or for the worse? Time will tell...

-Michigan smells like onions. And sometimes poop, depending on the wind.

-Eating Cheez-Its and Doritos and Corona for dinner is ill-advised.

-Being accepted comes much easier when you accept yourself.

-Springsteen's "Magic" is great freakin' driving music.

-Balance. Is. Everything.

There is more to say about this trip, and I will send out little bits of it as they come to me. In the meantime, remember the Alamo...

Till next time...

B

The concept of public privacy is so much more difficult to accomplish in practice than it is in theory. I suppose that's why people say that hindsight is 20/20. Because it's not until after the fact that we are able to live in the moment, which is, by then, a moment that has already passed. Why is it that "The Moment" is such an elusive concept? I mean, in truth, that's all there ever is. There is nothing else. Our past is a collection of moments that have already passed, whether with our consent or not. The future is a series of outlines of moments yet to be colored in by the wide brush of our decisions. And the present? Well, there's the rub. That's the actual Moment. The one that seems impossible to live in without judgment, particularly from the harshest judge of all, yo damn self.

The loudest voice of any of the critics is The Watcher; that miniature version of You that sits on your shoulder and tells you exactly what you're doing and how you're doing it. What face you are making, what your voice sounds like, how pretty or funny you are, how you are effecting others. This Watcher is rarely a friend and often an enemy, and is, I feel, a justifiable homicide. It's worth the painful exhilaration of flying the rest of your life without a net to kill off the one thing that unfairly keeps you captive in a rusty cage of safety and self-conscious drudgery. Without The Watcher, we would live lives of such freedom and truth that we would hardly be aware of insecurity. There'd be no time for it. Now, I'm not talking about conscience, cuz that's pretty effin' necessary. I'm merely suggesting that the OTHER small voice inside- the one that checks even your righteous and true impulses for fear of judgment and ridicule- can afford to have his/her life cut short if it means your life can be more fulfilling.

I want to live now. Vitally, vividly, in the moment, without fear or restraint or judgment. So simple in theory. So devastatingly difficult in practice. Why? I suppose it's simply our nature as humans to care far too much about other peoples' perception of us. Call it vanity. Call it self-consciousness. Call it good old-fashioned arrogance. Whatever it is, it is crippling. And it's not nearly as necessary as we've convinced ourselves it is. No one gives nearly as much of a shit about what we're doing as we think they do. And while we are toiling away wondering who we have possibly offended, there are throngs upon throngs of opportunities passing us on the left-hand side in the fast lane without us even glancing over, because we're too busy checking our hair and make-up in the rear-view.

B

So, perhaps as an signpost that I'm truly heading in the right direction with my career, I received my very first death threat this weekend. It was in regards to an internet web series I am involved with entitled, "Douchebag Beach." The series pokes fun at many people, but the primary target of much of the vitriol is the "Guido" culture that inhabits much of New Jersey, a place, by the way, I am proud to say I grew up in.

Now, my mind boggles not so much at the fact that I was actually threatened, but more for the questionable reasons for it. I am an actor. I was hired to play a role. Play a role, meaning, this person is not a reflection of me or my personal beliefs necessarily. It is a portrayal of a fictional person created solely for the purpose of entertainment. For comedy. Comedy has earned the right to be irreverent and insensitive. A lot of times, the only way to diffuse all the bad shit is to be so openly, publicly aware of it. Not only aware of it, but aware of its laughable ignorance and charming closedmindedness. This kind of self-awareness is disarming and much needed.

This threat implied that I was racist against Italians. Completely ignoring the two outstanding arguments that, 1) I AGAIN am an actor playing a part I didn't write and 2) That I am primarily Italian and Swiss myself), I am the farthest thing from racist. When Ed Norton played a Neo-Nazi in American History X, I doubt he was then subject to severe backlash from the Black and Jewish community for his portrayal. It was a character, given life by a genius of an actor and translated from words on a page.

All that said, what can I expect? It's all about balance. For all the open-minded listening hard for the needs of a whispering world, there is an equal throng of sleeping citizens in a sleeping society careful not to wake itself.

Till next time...and there will be a next time...

B

I just had my first of hopefully many professional photo shoots this past weekend. It was a bit of a surreal experience, but the photog and his team were so top notch and so down to earth that it eased into comfort very easily. I suppose that's the mark of a great photographer. The work was done by Brian Friedman, and the pics will be appearing on my myspace and this website very soon. The great thing about Brian is his ability to capture the essence of a person rather than just paint some dime store glamor shot designed to emphasize the person's attractive qualities and airbrush the ever-loving shit out of it. He captures personality, zeal, and other beneath-the-skin subtleties that only a skilled eye like his could envision. I am grateful to have met him, and look forward to working with him again in the future.

I also have recently made a point of climbing out of my well-crafted comfort zone and have begun doing some solo acoustic shows around town. This is a daunting task for a musician who admits that he has not yet even approached the status of "great." I am not someone who has played out enough to call it second-nature, let alone someone who can sustain the attention of a low-attention-span public. But these gigs have forced me in front of the speeding train of insecurity, and I'm come out alive so far. It feels very naked out there, just you and your ability to tell your 3 and a half minute stories, but boy do you learn what your strengths and weaknesses are. It's like responding to a crime scene without calling for backup. I don't pretend to be a virtuoso, but I pretend to be a lot of other things, and these gigs are a way for me to ease slowly from pretense into genuine skill and gravity onstage. They are also, on a sidenote, a great missile-testing site for new material and old, forgotten ditties. I look forward to more of these shows, and hope to see some of your devastatingly lovely faces at them.

Seems I am looking forward to a lot of things right now. Now if only I could learn how to just be in the moment. To live now. To turn hindsight into sight. To turn foresight into something less cautionary and more anticipatory. Waiting for the good to fall into my lap rather than through my fingers. But hey, like Andy Dufresne once said, you either get busy livin'...or get busy dyin'. And me? I'm gonna get busy livin.'

B

Where do you draw the line between helping someone and hurting someone? Where do you draw the line between offering blunt but constructive objective observations and picking on someone, calling attention to their every flaw? Where is the line between being truly ready for something, and simply willing to try it? Between true serenity and forced peace? Between confidence and arrogance? Where do you differentiate between true love and true infatuation? Between a bad day and a hard day? Between being hurt because something said about you wasn't true, and being hurt because it was? Between being jealous and being cautious?

How about between being right for one another and being unable to be apart from one another? Between knowing something for sure, and inferring something based on past evidence? Between knowing something and assuming something? Between knowing something and simply making it up? Between friendship and relationship? Between bad grammar and poor grammar? Between childish defensiveness and necessary armor, forged from the metal of years of disappointment and abandonment? Where is the line between trying too hard and not trying hard enough? The line between lying to yourself or lying to someone else? The line between loving and needing? Between needing and wanting? Between contentment and happiness? Between blissful ignorance and educational negligence? How does one choose between seeing the world through rose colored glasses, and turning a blind eye to any and all things that cancel out your manufactured brand of plastic happiness?

There's a lot of damn lines. Draw enough of those and maybe I'd have a giant sketch of a question mark. I'm happy, but I wonder if I'll ever be satisfied?

B

I had the opportunity this past Saturday night to see Yellowcard put on an acoustic show at The Fillmore @ Irving Plaza. Now, I'm not someone who would necessarily define himself as a die-hard of the emo or pop/punk genre, though I am also one of the first to jump to its defense when it's shat upon. Yellowcard, however, just has that "it" that separates them from the rest of the greasy black-haired, often-weeping pack. Maybe it's that we are very close in age, so I relate to the material on a more visceral level due to the fact that we are on a similar growth curve. Also, I find inspiration in the successes of those in the music industry who grew up watching the same cartoons, you know? Even though bitter twinges of jealousy creep in at times, seeing shows by my peers serves as a real motivator for me.

I had never seen Yellowcard perform before, and Ryan Key was ill that night. Armed with that information going in, I was "hella" impressed by his ability to hold it together for a long set. It was also a treat to hear a lot of older songs that, being a newer fan, I was unfamiliar with. Strange how when you are a sophomore or junior fan, how old songs are actually new songs. Something in their music moves me on a chill-inducing level, and hearing them in that raw, intimate acoustic setting was pretty awe-inspiring. And to top it off, they closed with a song called "Ocean Avenue," a song that always made me think of a certain person who I currently owe a humble and now public apology to, for picking them apart instead of accepting them...you know who you are...

Thanks to everyone who helped us at the Bitter End to advance to the semi-finals of the Emergenza Music Festival. May 9, kids! It gonna be tight!

B

If life were a movie, this would be the montage. The part where I realize I've had it up to here with my old ways, and I walk out of whatever establishment I just had my epiphany in, and an inspirational song starts. Something not to 80's rock, not too self-aware hipster rock, just right down the middle.

During this piece, there will be shots of all the bold and drastic ways I am altering my lifestyle. There will be shots of me learning, paying laser-focused attention to everything, studying my craft and becoming a master at it. Shots of me keeping day-to-day progress reports in a journal of some kind, and as the dates move forward, the writing becomes clearer and more precise. I go into stores and make purchases I can't afford. I change my fashion, maybe my hair a little, maybe get a tattoo. I burn old love letters and photographs and I swim naked in some restricted-access body of water to symbolize my newfound, animalistic freedom. I meet new people, and disown old ones. You'll see more and more messages appearing on my answering machine (yes, I still have a land line in this montage), mostly from acquaintances who disapprove of my sudden disappearance and rededication to myself, but some are from true friends who wonder where I am, but fully support my peculiar and courageous step into new and uncharted territory.

By montage's end, I am new. I am confident. I am beautiful. I am humble. I am powerful. I am right. I am unusual and tragic and alive. But most of all, I am finally and irrevocably me. And I walk back into whatever place I left at the beginning of the song, and when heads turn (and yes, they all turn), I am barely recognizable to anyone who knew me before. And I smile.

B

I've got a beef with mediocrity. I'm feeling lately like I'm setting up camp on this awful sort of grey, nondescript middle ground where nothing sucks and absolutely nothing is spectacular. It's maddening. I once wrote a song (AGES ago, don't really play it anymore), about the state of my career vs. the accepted standard for success called "The Way Things Are," and in it, I penned the lyric, "I'd rather be blind than be ordinary." Nothing called attention to this very human battle more starkly than "American Beauty," but on a personal level, I am feeling very, very ordinary, and it's driving me to murder. I feel like I'm good at a lot of things, and yet great at nothing. And success comes a great deal slower, if at all, when your focus is split so many ways that you wouldn't know what to tell someone your job is on any given sunday.

There simply aren't enough hours in the day. And if there were 72 hours in a day, I'd be saying the same exact thing. Nothing will ever be done fully, and I accept that. I suppose my confusion stems from spreading myself so thin that I rip at the slightest touch. If I'm working on music, I feel like I should be working on acting. If I'm working on that, I should be writing. This goes on and on. Now, I know the trick is to accept and find a sort of zen place in myself, and believe that where I am is exactly where I should be and blah blah blah, all that other Oprah-sponsored soul cream. Don't get be wrong, I am actually a front line advocate of the unbound power of positive thought. My concern is that I can't even decide what to think positively about.

Now the other theory here is that there are no limits. Any subscriber to the aforementioned popular philosophy will agree that the universe has a bottomless bounty, and we can have EVERYTHING we want, no matter how unreasonably large. That may be true. But I'm not getting any younger, and I wonder sometimes if I should just streamline my focus rather than try to hold every piece of my future in my arms at once. I'm bound to drop something.

Anyway, I'm just being bitchy, because success runs a lot slower than I want it too. And I'm just feeling that itch of anxiety about being in my late 20's (or late teens if you're an agent or A&R Rep), and seeing myself a few rungs lower on the ladder than I'd like to be. And it makes me feel average, small, and powerless. In the deepest parts of me, I know none of this is true, but man, that rock hard surface can be tough to dig through at times.

B

I think I need an overhaul. Every once and a while, I hit sort of a saturation point in my life, and need to take somewhat drastic steps just to shake things up and feel alive again. Maybe not a saturation point as much as a stagnation point. A culmination of frustration when I need to remember why I'm alive.

I don't know what that thing/those things are yet. It seems like no matter how drastic the changes I make are, they're never big enough. It's the blessing and the curse of never being satisfied. It keeps me constantly striving for What's Next, but it also leads to me never being completely and totally happy or content. All I know is whatever I'm doing now isn't working.

I went to Church Sunday. I haven't bee in a long time, and there was a small part of me that was actually a bit nervous. The Mass was more progressive than what I'm used to, but I remember one of the snags of going to Church for me. While it reminds me how many good things I am inspired to do in my life, and while it motivates me to do them as soon as I get my ass back out on the street, it also serves as a reminder of how little I already do, and how small a person I can feel at times. I reminds me how weak the flesh is in comparison to the spirit, and that I cannot do this on my own. While this should feel like a welcome and comforting discovery, I can't help feeling like it's sometimes intrusive. Perhaps that's pride talking.

My wheels are spinning, and I need some traction. I'm not sure yet where to find it. So maybe I'll just make it. If there's one thing I refuse to be, it's a victim. . .

B

I will make it a short one today, as I just got in from LA, shooting "Season 2" of the inexplicably popular viral video sensation "Douchebag Beach" with the fellas from The Post Show. Lemme just say you won't meet a classier, funnier more awesome flock of dudes than those gents. And as far as the work I just did in LA reprising my role as Nunzio the Guido, I can't believe I have the privilege to get paid to have that much fun. It seems criminal, honestly. In the best way.

I think the reason it's gotten so popular is that it's a subculture that hasn't been made fun of a whole lot with the exception of countless cheap Sopranos spoofs. In fact, I'm not sure there's even an accurate definition of what a "douchebag" is, but you can't tell me you don't know one when you see one. It's like a "tool," but worse. And with a deeper tan. It was also an interesting experience, I should note, shooting Season 1 in Belmar, NJ, and shooting Season 2 in Los Angeles. In Season 1, we were surrounded by the exact group of people we were roasting, and we fit in unnervingly well. This time, we felt more out of place in California, but less self-conscious. It was peculiar. It's equally peculiar in the feedback we get online in people's comments, which seem to be split equally between critical praise and death threats. Such a strange thing, the Internet. I suppose the future really is now as far as what people are watching. It's less and less about TV and more and more about these viral shorts that spread by word of mouth to friends, co-workers, family, etc. Also, I'd like to think that the incredibly short episode length is not as much due to an obscenely decreasing attention span as it is to easy accessibility, as you can get away with watching it at work, before you go to be, whenever you have a free second. It's the constant need to be entertained. And we are more than happy to oblige.

Check em out at www.youtube.com/douchebagbeach, or at www.60frames.com. Lemme know what you think. They certainly are silly.

B

I wonder if people really have the ability to change. Like, once you are designed by The Great Designer, and you are molded a certain way, can you break free of that? Can you rewrite the blueprints and be a creature of your own design, or are you doomed to wallow in the same behaviors you've always known, simply because they're all you've known?

I personally wish to believe in change. I not only believe it exists, but I find it often times necessary. Reinvention is an excuse to start over, and even though celebrities take that concept to a nauseating extreme, they have the right idea. A new hair color, a new fashion, a new boyfriend/girlfriend, a new spiritual path...it's all a do-over. But then I wonder, are we forcing the appearance of change in hopes the soul will follow suit? Are we staying exactly the same, but simply entering a phase in a half-assed attempt to "find ourselves?"

Again, I do believe in the ability to change. But it's not an external thing. And it's not an internal thing. It's a complex combination of both. It's an overhaul. An Extreme Soul Makeover. It's shifting an entire mentality, then taking actions that follow it. My wise old roommate once said to me, "If you do what you've always done, you get what you've always gotten." So, change your mind all you want, but if you act the way you always have simply because it's comfortable and easy and pain-free, then your life will never evolve past its current incarnation.

Evolution. Maybe it happens when we're not even looking.

I'm giving everyone a homework assignment. I'd like EVERYONE who reads this blog (yes, EVERYONE) to write me an email, and tell me what you'd like to see a blog about. I realize what I'm inviting here, and I'm too tired to care. Email me at bryan@bryanfenkart.com, under the subject "Blog Suggestions", and I'll see what you have to say. Also, after the success of my good friend Derek's blog, if you'd like to be a guest blogger on the site, let me know at the same email address, and we'll see what happens....till next time...

B

I haven't had the flu in more years than I can recall. And you know what the worst part about being laid out with the flu is? It's not the body aches are the pain in my eyeballs or the dry burning cough or the cold sweats. It's the fact that I'm left alone to do nothing but sit with myself and think. And I don't know if it was the Tamiflu or just my own erratic nature, but I made miserable company.

I want to be able to let go of the past. More importantly, I want the past to loosen its grip on me. There is no ground to be gained by rolling around in past bullshit, whether it be yours or someone else's. Yes, it is how we became what we are. But getting hung up on it like a pants leg on a fence just leaves you dangling over what could have been a brilliant future had in not been for your own inability to jump high enough and not look down. Or back.

I also find myself growing sick at the sound of my own excuses. Like nails on a chalkboard now, the second they emerge from my mouth is the same second I realize their futility. Shit or get off the pot. Negativity breeds negativity, and the act of weaving careful safety nets for failure begs for long, long falls from grace.

Seems like the closer my outstretched fingers get to Heaven, the harder the devil pulls on my coattails. And I'm hoping the feeling of going backwards is just an optical illusion...

Fuck it. Always darkest before dawn, right?

In case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight.

B

This week, I have a very good friend of mine visiting from Reno, Mr. Derek Sonderfan. Knowing his penchant for blogging, I've decided to step aside and allow him this forum this week. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. Enjoy.

Ahoy minions of The Imperfect Nation. I know the many sides of Bryan Fenkart, the man, the myth... well no, he's a man. I know these sides having lived with him for a year; having been both a musical student and teacher of him; having collaborated with him on dozens of projects; and, because of poor foresight and an admittedly unusual game of Truth or Dare, having been briefly sewn to him. I, like you devout readers, have been awed by him, I've been surprised by him, but probably unlike you, I've also been injured by him on several occasions. I was even fortunate enough to score a *rare* online interview with Bryan that I proudly posted on my website, www.esoderek.com, and it can be found HERE!

What have I learned from Bryan Fenkart? I don't know that I can aptly put it into words, but since this is a blog and not my typical medium of inspirational semaphore, I will do my best.

I graduated college a year before Bryan, and we both resolved to change the world, whether it be by music, comedy, or, god forbid, even drama. After all, we had everything in common: we are self-taught pianists, we both have a knack for comedic timing, and we those charismatic superstar good looks, aside from me. Yet here were are, years later, and we're nowhere near each other. It is immediately evident why:

Bryan is a machine, simply put. While I was home wondering why the agents weren't busting down my door, Bryan was at an audition, using a voice that I can only describe as 'Phyllis Diller if she were mating with a shop-vac' to try to get a two-word bit part in a commercial. While I was thinking about recording a song that I had written part of one chorus and for which I had a truly inventive use of a D major chord, Bryan had contacted a producer and was putting the polishing touches on his breathtaking debut album. While I was perfecting the art of hitting home runs in All-Star Baseball 2005, he was wondering what the Yankees score was because he was at three auditions, two callbacks, at band practice, and then rehearsal for his off-Broadway show. (They lost, by the way. Jeter fell over.)

It's not that I'm complacent in my lack of artistic (and commercial) success, it's that it is his sustenance. When he is not working on a project, he doesn't have time to mope because he is lining up the next five. His drive is not only admirable, it's inspirational. People have told me that Bryan and I make a great team. That is flattering beyond comprehension. It's exactly why, not only did I strive to put up my musical The Unusual Suspects this last summer, I begged him to be the part of Glen, a role I can't fathom anyone else playing. Nobody could spread his genius all over that show like Bryan did. And believe me, he did it like a pro smearer. (Proof can be found HERE and in a review I apparently no longer have a link to - believe me, they all loved him.)

I once wrote: nice guys don't finish last. Because long after the race is done, the good guy is still out there, trying his damndest. Spoons, my friend, that is you. And I hope you don't ever finish the race, 'cause that means you are kicking ass and taking names (hint: they're all Stu.) Finally, I'd just like to say, Bryan: "Your heart is true; you're a pal and a confidant, and if you threw a party, invited everyone you ever knew, you would see the biggest gift would be from me... and the card attached would say 'thank you for being a friend.'

B

It's truly remarkable to me how crippling insecurity is. I don't know if there's any character flaw I can think of more damaging. It is the root of all jealousy, childish behavior, lack of forward motion, etc. It all stems from insecurity, which comes from the womb of it's mother, Fear. And that is the place where all our monsters live.

I am a firm believer that what we put out is what we get in return. The wheel, Karma, The Secret, whatever you wanna call it, I believe in its existence. If people don't love you or see you the way you wish to be loved or seen, it is because you don't love or see yourself or others the way you wish to be loved or seen. If you do not trust, it could because you can't be trusted. Perhaps your trust has been hurt in the past by someone or something, so I'm certainly not ruling that out. Just suggesting that other factors are at play. If you wish to be treated a certain way, you must treat others that way. If you wish to have your needs met, you have to work to meet others' needs. Again, not suggesting that you shouldn't look out for #1, because you do. In fact, taking time for myself is often the only way I can stay sane and collected enough to be any good to anyone else anyway. Once I am refueled though, I feel it is only right to work to aid others in the ways I feel I need to be aided.

This sounds awfully pedantic in retrospect, so I'll quit with the teachin'. I'm simply writing this because it helps me to work it out in my own head to write it down. I'm not saying anything I have not myself experienced, and I'm not accusing anyone else of crimes I have not, at one time or another, committed. I fall victim to the seduction of insecurity far more often than I am comfortable admitting, and it has led to more arguments, more failures and more personally and professional stagnancy than anything else I've faced. My own inability to let go of the past, to believe that I am a person of great worth and potential, has been a thorn in my side for as long as I can recall, and that kind of would gets very easily infected. So, here I am, finally fighting the good fight by recognizing my enemy and consciously seeking its weaknesses and vulnerabilities. I refuse to be held captive by my own bullshit. Just took this long to realize I even was.

B

I booked a last minute gig as part of the International Emergenza Music Festival (www.emergenza.net). It will be Thursday Jan 24, at 9:00pm PROMPTLY at Fontana's (105 Eldridge St. between Broome and Grand). Please promote this, as it is a competition, and could be amazing exposure. Tickets are $15 at the door, $10 in advance. The more heads we bring, the more votes we get to move on to the next round! Come out and bring all your friends!!!

Thursday January 24
9pm
Fontana's
105 Eldridge St. (btw. Broome and Grand)
$15 at door, $10 in advance
Part of Emergenza International Music Festival
www.emergenza.net

B

I was just relaxing on my couch watching "Stranger than Fiction," and wondering how much of my life is decided for me. What was written before I even got here? Growing up Catholic, there's a certain amount of stock put into the idea of God's Plan for each person, the injection of Free Will into the increasingly-complicated human equation, and so on. Just makes you wonder how much of the story has already been decided. Is someone up there right now, watching me typing this right now, sighing a heavy sigh, because they know precisely how and when I'm going to die? Are these very words written for me before I type them? Is the level of impact I can make predetermined, or is it up to me the persistently strengthen my spirit until I can do it myself?

I choose the believe that the actions I take are guided, but they are mine. The decisions, the choices, the mistakes, those are credited to me. The ideas to do/create these things, the motivation, the purpose...that comes from Management. I have always been a person who relies heavily on Faith, which can be a tricky thing. It is often a crutch for the lost, but it is also just as much a keystone to the prosperous. I have been both of these things in probably equal parts, and I believe most people have. Sometimes it's all we have. And sometimes it's hard to have faith in guidance that is difficult to see and hear, that is uncertain and counterintuitive. That's why they call it Faith.

I think there is a plan of sorts. I think we bend it, break it, mold it and obstruct it at times, but that's all part of the game. It's expected. We are flawed by our nature, and will continue to screw up. But we will, I feel, always be nudged back in the right direction by that little voice that tugs on our ears in our most quiet moments. The trick is allowing ourselves those quiet moments. Those moments of serenity can be terrifying, because if we allow ourselves to slow down, even for just a moment, we will have to face ourselves in a more honest way than we are comfortable with, and that is a terrifying confrontation. But it is a necessary one. And once we can tune in to that hard-to-find frequency, the only thing standing between us and the large life we are meant to have is our own fear and insecurity.

Yeah, that cloud cover of fear looms over, and there's a 75% chance of fucking up, but that certainly doesn't mean that we shouldn't try. If our intuition kicks in, and we hear that voice, it is an obligation to follow it. So is it all written for us? Not necessarily. But we all have that little Emma Thompson voice in the back of our heads gently telling us what's next. Then it's our call whether or not we listen. Or more importantly, whether or not we act.

B

Man, that New Year's Motivation is hard to retain. It's so strong every year, that hungry New Beginning, that ear-splitting shot from the starter pistol on January 1 that sends a new You screeching from the starting blocks into a new and inspired revolution. You'd think, then, it would last more than a few food and dessert-gorged days to dissipate into the blase doldrum that defines and waters down most of our "real lives" until we find another excuse for the next fresh start, maybe a birthday, or Arbor Day. What?

So, this year, I'm making a monumental personal effort to maintain that spark. That New Year's grace that makes everything a little more crisply focused, makes gravity a little less strong, makes breathing just a little easier. After all, we impose this magical power on New Year's Day ourselves. We invented it. Sure, it is the start of a new sey of days, but why not celebrate a new set of hours? Why can't every morning carry that same blind, reckless hope? I've never succeeded in it before, but I refuse to believe that means it isn't possible. It's a simple recipe. One part inspiration, a few heaping teaspoons of perspiration , a dash of faith, maybe some luck if you believe in it. The tricky ingredient to find?

Grace.

That is the one large 1,000 pound gorilla in the room standing between me and a clean exit into a better, more enlightened life. It is that Grace that allows us to weather the blood-drawing blows dealt by days, wearing you down with no regard for purpose. Like machines, it is simply what they do. But it is that Grace that heals the fierce barbs of criticism, cruelty, insecurity, rejection, squashed expectations, pain, heartbreak, sorrow, and loss. These things will march on us, and will hurt us. They will scar us. But it is our choice whether or not they defeat us. And I would like, this year, to make the choice to win.

Will this resolve dissolve? Maybe. Maybe not. Is Grace gone? I don't think so. But if it is? Well, as DMB would say, "One more drink and I'll move on..."

27? 27 was a mirage. 28? Who the hell knows?

B

The indie film I shot years ago, "You Tell Me," is finally available on NetFlix, as well as Amazon.com, and your local Hollywood Video stores! I'm starring in it, and it also features my song "Imperfect Man." Rent it today! Or tomorrow! Or never! Whatever you like!

PS Also, keep an eye out for my American Airlines commercial, called "Right Person" on TV stations everywhere, or visit WhyYouFly.com. It's silly. Silly silly.

B

So here it is. A New Year. A New Beginning. I spent the last 3 years working as a doorman in the heart of Times Square on New Year's. It was a madhouse, but a treat nonetheless. This year, I kept it low key, so I could just reflect. Reflect, and look forward. I had thought 27 was going to be a turning point year for me. I was told this by a spiritualist in London when I was 21. I put a great deal of stock in that age, for really no particular reason other than a strange man and a lot of unfounded hope. Hope for something. Something major. Some light to go on to illuminate the Right Path at long last, some door to open that I hadn't seen there before...I don't know. What did happen?

It was a normal year. Like any other year. Productive? Sure. Successful? Yeah. Life changing? As much as any 365 day period will change any life. What the hell was I waiting for? The skies to open up and angels to tumble out of it and tell me I had been chosen for something? Some other instantaneous gratification or affirmation that I had traveled all this way with nothing but the shirt on my back and the passion in my bag, and I had survived the treachery to find the triumph.

None of this happened. Am I disappointed? Not sure if that's what I'd call it.Disillusioned, perhaps, but no more than my head normally allows me to be any given week. I guess I'm just....ready to move on.

27? 27 was a mirage. 28? Who the hell knows?

B

So, here it is. The final straightaway on the rat race that was 2007. The part of the race where even the most experienced runners hit "the Wall." Where your mind and body, suddenly and without any chance of recovery, begin to break down and give out during that final push. A time, finally, to rest. See, great thing about those first few sentences is that they are a metaphor, which I can now abandon. Were this an actual race, I'd have to give the never-say-die, you-can-make-it-those-last-few-meters speech. But it's not a race, so for God's sake, sit down, stop running and relax.

To some who know me this all may sound hypocritical. I'm not a person who was known for his staggering ability to wind down and chill out at the end of the day. I was, until surprisingly recently, wholly unwilling to slow down or even acknowledge it as a possibility. Slowing down meant thinking about my life, and that, of course, was certain death. But in my old age (I turned 28 last week...mercy help me), the lactic acid had built up in these busy legs, and it has forced me to ease my pace, force a few labored breaths and take inventory. What I'm seeing is how these moments of quiet are simply vital. How serenity is a cornerstone of productivity in any life, particularly the uncertain and angst-fueled life of an artist. These are the moments when you have just one bar left, and just barely remember to recharge before you shut down. I have begun to realize now just how important it is to regroup, if only just to get a fresh order of ideas an emotions delivered in time for the next big flurry of creative activity. For a person who so firmly believes in the power of balance, I had a bit of trouble remembering there was another side to the fence, because I was frankly too busy to notice. But no one is too busy to notice. You just choose to stay ignorant to it, because then you never have to look inward. But look inward. God forbid, you might realize you have a bit of maintenance to do...or worse yet, you might like what you see.

I'm grateful for this time. I'm grateful for a family that makes Christmas remain a magical time of year. I'm grateful for a Muppet that reminds me that there is a life going on while I'm making other plans. And I'm grateful for a spirit that refuses to die, even when it wants to.

Thank you to everyone who tunes in to watch out feature on the CW Morning News (if you missed it you can still catch it on www.cw11.com, in the "Spotlight On..." section). It was an exciting moment for me. Also, if you can, come out tomorrow and catch our first full band show in half a year at the newly redone Lion's Den in NYC. We are excited to be back at it, and debuting a new musician, so come out and share that with us.

The morning of my birthday, I found 4-5 grey hairs on my head. Tell me that this isn't a harbinger of things to come...Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...