Everything is getting a shower today; the lilac tree, flowers and grass, bird houses and driveways drip nutritious drops of H2O.

Light showers of rain are splashing on deck puddles like a million water bugs on a lake-top. It’s not a constant shower, it rains heavier for a bit, quiets the birds then lightens up to tease them into venturing forth for food again. But after a few highs and lows, my feathered friends have measured its pace and are only slightly quieted by an increase in the shower’s intensity.

One of these days,
I’m gonna sit down
and write a long letter
To all the good friends I’ve known
And I’m gonna try
And thank them all
for the good times together.
Though so apart we’ve grown.

The gutters spill onto an aluminum awning outside my window with a waterfall cadence and sound. The cats sleep, lulled by the natural music as I am. They do what they do, as do I, because our souls beckon sleep and writing alike.

Yesterday, I exchanged pleasantries and hopes for “a good weekend of weather” with numerous colleagues on elevators and as we passed in hallways. We smile at each other for encouragement and hope together in these difficult times — surely sunshine, warmth and blue skies are the preferred combination in the atmospheric concoction abrewin’ . For an instant, tasks to be completed in the golden sunshine slotted themselves in our heads in perfect order to be retrieved later.

Instead, we are blessed with spring showers to slow us down, to make us listen and to help us look inward while nature orchestrates sounds so perfect musicians strive to echo them. We might have gotten the stormy brew that’s passed north of us for now, but we got what we needed.

I am alone, left to write for awhile. It is my way of harmonizing with the vibe as we all orbit the sun together at 18.5 miles per second. We travel in locations that differ in climate, topography and relative distance. But viewed from across the galaxy, we are near to each other than our human perception of molecules in a rain drop.

From down in L.A.
All the way to Nashville,
From New York City
To my Canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.

Last week, my 81-year old father and I were sitting in his home office discussing current and personal events alike. 

“I’ve always said what this generation needed is a good depression to make people realize what’s really important.” he said. And then he told me about how his family had so much love with so little money. And, once again, he was right.

And I’m gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock ‘n’ roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.

So much of what we “have” is only in ourselves and others. So much of what is really important gets lost too easily in the daily struggle to survive our human conditions whatever they may be. Facebook and other social networking technologies have given my generation a new way to reconnect and learn how each other is doing on a deeper level that we had in the past. And, in turn, we receonnect with our childhood muses, our formative friends’ muses and channel joy and creativity we might have otherwise hurdled in the high-jump of activity.

We are so much alike that we can connect in a community and encourage, learn and share together in a relative instant and it’s a new muscle working the strength of our spirits. Friends, relatives, causes all need support and we can provide it for each other.

So on it goes, this Saturday VIBe. The afternoon arrives, someone somewhere comforts somebody and another changes a diaper. On we move, together around the Sun. Another hour, another 66,000 miles through space and the miracle of loving each other. And Neil Young’s lyrics and music run through my head as my soul alights.

That’s all I know  — or need to — right now. Except that, one of these days………

– 30 –

Final Four Visitors: Move Along, There’s Nothing to See Here!

So, here we are in Detroit busy welcoming fanatical basketball friends from Connecticut, North Carolina, Philly (Villanova) and our own Sparty fans from around Michigan.

Yesterday, the Detroit Free Press set up a camera in the corner of the court inside Ford Field and streamed a great video of MSU’s practice. There were 30,000 people in attendance after waiting in a snaking entrance line in the rain on a 50-MPH day.

Amazing.

I watched the practice on the web on my lunch time. Today, I realize I should have done something else.

Instead of chewing contentedly on a hammy sammy in the comfortable confines of my downtown office, I should have been concerned for the masses. I should have had about 100,000 little cards printed up with the following message:

“If you see anything about the Detroit City Council on freep.com or detnews.com or any local television broadcast or hear about their shennanigans on radio, ignore it. It’s merely an extension of our own little April Fool’s joke that we in the media like to play. Surely you know no no real governing body could be so ridiculous — Please come back in five years.”

Then, I should have set out on the task of distributing the cards throughout the weekend.

Not in on the joke? Check it out here

Seriously, folks, this cannot be real!

And Now, for the Main Event: Nothing!!

Photo, Vince Kern -- All Copyrights Reserved 2009

(Pinckney — MI) Every morning Google Calendar sends me a blank email at about 4:36 a.m. while I cling to my last hour of sleep.

“You have no events scheduled today,” the subject line informs my ever-alert Blackberry.

I sleep on, unaware.

Usually, around 5:38 a.m. , I see the memo and say “Thank you!” as I’m waiting for my first cup of Kuerig coffee.

“No events”  is a wonderful proposition, indeed.

I set up my Google Calendar to track personal items such as dentist appointments, work out days, pay days to look forward to, birthdays and other such things that relate to the more important and familial parts of  life. Work is excluded. It has its own inescapable nagging Outlook reminders.

 I love reading that Google email first thing in the morning. Today, I didn’t see it until noon.

It’s been a grueling last two weeks of transforming the Detroit Free Press, Detroit News and Detroit Media Partnership for all of us. Last night I had to hit the sack at 8:30. It took all the energy I had left to make it up the stairs. And I clocked an adult-record 14.5 hours of sleep. Aside from the mandatory trip to the dry cleaner before closing time at 3 p.m.to retrieve my clean and snappy business duds, nothing is going to get me off my property today.

About 1 p.m., I tweeted to the 28 folks who follow me on Twitter :“Daring anyone from work to call or email me today! Go ahead, but this will be my blanket response “zzzzzzzzzzzz” — & crickets chirping.”

It’s now 4:12 p.m. and I haven’t done too bad with that challenge. One email from an Advertising person returned accidentaly (I forgot) and one incoming phone call from a colleague. Scratch the phone call off the list because it was his butt that dialed and I’m back to one email returned for now.

Michigan State in the Final Four tonight means if they win I’ll be up till 1 a.m. or later Tuesday directing production for the Championship game. “Go Spartans!!” I say, but I’m going back to my Google Calendar to schedule an event for tomorrow.

Google. Calendar. Open Sunday, April 4, 2009. New Event. Time? All Day Event.

Subject?

Take Another Day Off On Me, The Vinman.

–30–

Are there any real Bozos left?

The death of the best and brightest Bozo, Larry Harmon, at the age of 83 came as a surprise last night when the news broke and I was watching a ballgame. He was not the original, but he became the franchise.

A true entertainer of children and adults alike, Harmon trained hundreds of other Bozos (and made millions in trademarking the clown and its characture) in the fine art of clowning for kids who mostly believed there was only one Bozo. Each one was carefully selected by Harmon for energy, and a “gleam in their eye,” according to Harmon. They all portrayed Bozo within Harmon’s high standards of performance in their local Bozodoms.

I learned last night there was a 10-year waiting list for the Chicago live Bozo show in the 80’s (portrayed by Bob Bell) and in 1990 when they opened up the reservation list again it took only five hours to book the show for five more years.

I recalled and learned a lot about Harmon last night as I read about his mission. And this morning, while pondering life on a beatiful holiday morning on my deck with coffee I asked myself; “Why is it that there are no longer several significant human icons of quality entertainment and education for children?

It seems all the role-model characters for children these days are people hiding inside animal costumes (of weird colorful concoctions or are of some techno-gadget cartoon/video) with more adult qualities than an entertainer of children should have.

I have a theory on that.

My theory is that as parents became lazier and lazier they allowed televison and video games to supplant human follicking and sharing of the their own inner muse to pass the time. That’s not rocket science, but if you think further about what the children are missing by the type of direct human interaction from say a Bozo or Mr. Rodgers, or even Captain Kangaroo, it seems that we’re behaving as if it’s just not cool to frolic with your children. Give em the easy substitute and they’ll be fine.

Except that as generations pass, the inner muse of children and adults alike becomes muted and eventually goes away. And then it’s really not cool to frolick, you might be outcast or labelled as a pervert of sorts.

But all hope is not lost.

I know there are still people willing to let their inner-Bozo shine, I’ve met one personally in the form of Biffo-T-Clown. He (otherwise known as Steve Dolan) once embedded himself in the Ringling Circus as a reporter for the Daily Californian to write a story about a clowns.

Dolan loved making the children smile so much he made it an annual event for some time. One year, he even got me to serve as the Ringmaster for one night’s show. Later, I watched as a the master Ringling Bros. clown invited Biffo into his trailer to remove their makeup together. That’s the highest honor one clown can bestow upon antoher.

So let’s all remember that clowns are priceless at any age and still a requirement to spread the joy of the human spirit in our world today.

And the next time I call you “Bozo,” or someone refers to you as “a clown” take it as a compliment.

– 30 –