be_on_key

I have come to believe that the saying, “the only bad publicity is NO publicity” is not entirely true. Sometimes bad publicity is just plain ol’ bad publicity. Kind of like when children who feel that not enough attention is being paid to them act up in an effort to have SOME attention thrown their way, even if it is negative. Yeah, it’s attention all right, but is it really the kind they desired? Is it really better than nothing? In the end, I don’t think so. I would much rather fly below the radar than be seen for the wrong reasons.

For the second time in my life, my last name is back in the headlines, getting bad publicity because of a bad egg. Diana “the new Long Island Lolita” Bianchi just broke up Christy Brinkley’s fourth marriage.

Her parents must be so proud.

Clearly there are other factors playing into the end of yet another celebrity marriage. Another celebrity marriage #4. Like the wandering husband who can’t keep the mouse in the house. And Christy Brinkley’s suspect taste in men. But in the end, Diana Bianchi has sullied the family name.

Consequently, the questions have already begun. “Are you related to that girl who slept with that model’s husband? Like a cousin or something?” I smile politely and say, “no, no…” What I want to say is, “ yes, that silly Diana. The family reunion will be abuzz THIS year, I can tell you that! We weren’t surprised, really. Always been a bit of a trollop, that one. But you know kids these days…”

Of course her transgressions do not compare to the most infamous of Bianchis – Kenneth. I have personally been asked if I was the Hillside Strangler on more than one occasion when presenting ID at the supermarket. When I answer, “why yes, yes I am. Thank you for noticing,” it’s only on the inside.

Instead, I smile politely and chuckle and say, “no, no. You’re the first one to ask me that. I hadn’t made the connection before!”

I mean, COME ON. Am I the Hillside Strangler? What if? What if I AM the Hillside Strangler and the bad voices in my head told me to come into YOUR store to buy diapers and super effective deodorant? Do you really think I would admit it? And do you really think I would look this young after being born in the 1950s and spending decades in prison keeping a firm grip on my soap?

I thought it would be good to show everyone some of the people who have done the Bianchi name proud. Take Luigi Bianchi for example. He was born in the mid 1800’s in Pisa, Italy and made important contributions to differential geometry. He discovered all the geometries of Riemann that allow a continuous group of transformations. His work on non-euclidean geometries was used by Einstein in his general theory of relativity. I have no idea what that means but Einstein did and that impressed me.

I do have people ask me if I am related to the Bianchi bike family, which I can’t complain about. It’s kind of a cool connection, yet a tad depressing that I am not, in fact, related to the Bianchi bike family at all. If I were related to them though, my great-something would have been Edoardo Bianchi. He opened his first shop in 1885 on Via Nirone in Milan more than a century ago, and his creative mind and entrepreneurial skills filled the little shop with inventions, innovations, new products and of course, bicycles.

Father and son team Joseph and Glenn Bianchi make some great wine in Paso Robles, California. It seems like I could be related to them since they began their involvement in the wine industry in 1974, when they invested in a winery and vineyard on the banks of the San Joaquin River in the Central Valley of California, very near where I grew up. I remember my Italian grandfather Lorenzo Bianchi showing off a wine bottle that had the name Bianchi on the label, but I don’t ever remember hearing anything more about them.

John Bianchi is a very successful children’s book illustrator and author who lives near Tucson, Arizona.

Tom Bianchi is a professional photographer. His subjects are mostly naked men in varying degrees of arousal and subsequent interaction with each other. Might not be your cup o’ tea, but hey. Sales of his best-selling artwork helps raise money for AIDS research and therapy. So I’ll claim him.

Actress Daniela Bianchi was a former Miss Rome and runner up for Miss World 1960. She made approximately fifteen film appearances, the best known was playing Soviet clerk Tatiana Romanova in the James Bond film From Russia with Love in 1963.

Priscilla Bianchi specializes in original, one-of-a-kind art quilts constructed from hand-woven Guatemalan textiles. Why? Because she can.

Simone Bianchi was born in Lucca, Italy, where my Bianchis came from, where he still lives and works. At the age of fifteen, he published humorous comic strips in the daily newspaper “Il Tirreno”, and went on to work as a cartoonist and vignettist for several regional and national publications. He is now under exclusive contract to Marvel Comics.

Sarah Bianchi currently serves as National Policy Director for the Kerry-Edwards Presidential Campaign. She was Deputy Issues Director on the Gore 2000 Presidential campaign, where she traveled with the Vice President full time during the general election. Before that, she worked on President Clinton’s White House Staff for nearly five years, serving as an Associate Director for Health Policy at the Domestic Policy Council, Senior Health Care Policy Advisor to the Vice President, and a Senior Policy Advisor at the National Economic Council. Not too shabby.

Mike Bianchi is a sports writer for Orlando Sentinel. I have been asked once or twice if I am he. It’s valid question, especially in the South, I’ll give you that.

So as you can see, there are, and have been, many Bianchis who have done more with their lives than murder and wreck marriages. We are artists, writers, photographers, politicians, winemakers, inventors, mathematicians, quilters, thespians, and more. We’re a contributing bunch. I guess we just tend to be a quiet bunch.

We just need better publicity.

What is it about online check in for air travel that brings out the competitor in me, especially for Southwest Airlines? It is simply not enough for me to be assigned an “A” boarding pass. What I really want is to be one of the first TEN people to have an “A” boarding pass. One can tell where one ranks within the broader classifications of A, B and C. I always look at the bottom left hand corner of my boarding pass to see just how many people logged in before me. In the real world I know it doesn’t matter a bit. The first person to get an A is in line with the last one to get an A. It’s not like they line you up according to when you got your boarding pass. If you get there first, you are in line first. And the funny thing is, I don’t really care to be first in line. As long as I am at my gate before the A line begins to board I’m fine. I just like to know that I actually RECEIVED my A status before everyone else. Silent victory.

On a business trip I had a connecting flight in Las Vegas on my way home from Los Angeles. Las Vegas fascinates me. Mostly in the same way that videos of people breaking ankles while skateboarding or falling down manholes fascinate me. The drama that Las Vegas breeds is like watching a runaway train careening over the side of a compromised trestle. And the drama unfolds against a gaudy backdrop of neon, glitter, cheap cigars and gold lamee.

The A line at the gate queued right past a television monitor. I was standing right in front of the television, “A” boarding pass in hand (#6 thank you very much). I noticed a soap opera was airing. I don’t know which one but I am almost positive that it wasn’t All My Children because my friend’s sister is a lead actress on that soap and I didn’t see her clinging to life in the hospital, body broken but makeup perfect. Or drowning in a sinking car that was just driven into a lake filled with electric eels. Or even walking in on her stepmother/aunt playing Mrs. Robinson with the pool boy/lover/ex-con/evil twin. Ordinarily I find these and most other scenarios on soap operas rather unrealistic. But, I was in the Las Vegas airport, which is the next best thing to actually being IN Las Vegas. Somehow the current scene involving a TV doctor who was struggling with the decision to save the life of his ex-wife (whom he still loved) injured in a suspicious rickshaw accident, or the life of his (nearly illegally young) fiancée who was the victim of a stampede during a late-night fire in the bar owned by her ex-boyfriend, did not strike me as far-fetched.

The AARP card-carrying couple in line in front of me scowled at the television and then at each other.

“Ah cain’t stand the soap operas,” the woman spat to no one in particular.

Her husband looked out the window, across the tarmac to the gaudy casinos beyond.

“And this TEE-vee is so loud!” she remarked with disdain.

“Mmhmm,” her husband responded.

For the next few minutes everyone waiting to board flight #1107 was a captive audience to the disgruntled woman offering her Southern-fried commentary of the events unfolding on the screen.

“Ah don’t think anyone’s watchin’ this mess! Why cain’t they just turn it OFF?”

Why don’t we just turn YOU off?

“Ah cain’t stand the way that girl talks. That VOICE!”

Really? How ironic.

“He idn’t even that cute. How’d he get on this show ANYWAY?”

Everyone’s a casting director…

“Why does it have to be so LOUD???”

Again, the irony.

“Ah’m gon’ git someone to turn this thang OFF!”

Don’t be gone long…

With that, she stormed over to the gate counter, her fuchsia nylon sweat suit loudly swishing like sandpaper on an old two-by-four. She returned far too soon for my liking, the vibrations of her angry stomping preceding her.

“They said they cain’t do a thang about it! Now do you believe THAT?”

“Mmhmm…” grunted the man, still lost somewhere outside the gate window, longing for one more try at the slots.

After a few more minutes of huffing and puffing, something happened that was highly entertaining for all the wrong reasons. The woman exploded in a fit of rage, attacking the Formica case housing the television. Screeching and clawing, she managed to pry open the frame around the monitor and turned off the set altogether. The screen went black, casing frame dangling by a piece of Velcro.

Um, I was watching that.

“There, now there’s some peace and quiet for everyone.”

We should be so lucky.

The woman’s cell phone rang. “Hey, Dorothy…yeah, we’re just waiting to git on the plane…we’re still in Las Vegas…mmhmm…Oh you know your daddy…he only won enough to buy us TWO tickets to the BUF-fet…Ah told him that but he don’t listen…Well the rolls was dry an’ the meat was so bloody Ah could barely look at it…mmhmm…Janice told you what? Ah tell you what, Dot, that little sister of yours is gon’ drive me mad…Ah know…mmhmm…Ah know…mmhmm…AH KNOW! It’s that lazy husband of hers tellin’ her thangs like that…Ain’t you glad you didn’t marry him when he asked you? He’s so stupid sometimes Ah think he couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the directions was on the heel! What? His mama said what about you? Well why was you over there to begin with? Figures they’d need a ride home…he said he was gon’ fix up that van if your daddy and Ah loaned him some money…Ah KNOW! Ah told your daddy he wasn’t bright enough to fix up a van but did he listen to me? That’s right…you’d think he’d learn his lesson bah now…mmhmm…how’s mah grandbabies? What about Brittney’s prom dress? She what? She cain’ go strapless Dot…that boyfriend of hers has some restless hands on him…Ah can see it in his eyes…besides, any grandson of Donita Thompson’s ain’t good enough for mah Brittney…’fore we know it he’d git her knocked up jus’ like what happened to your sister on her prom…did Ah tell you what Donita said to your Daddy and me at the fish fry last weekend? Ah did? That’s right…that’s just what she said…and did Ah tell you what Ah said? Ah did? That’s right…Ah told her how Ah could see right through that dress of hers and she should only wear it on the street corner on Friday nights…Lord…ain’t she ever heard of a slip?”

The dramatic monologue continued to unfold to a captive audience.

“Your sister told you what? There ain’t no way your daddy and me is gonna sell her our house for any less than we would to anyone else…well sure we’d do it for you, baby, but not your sister…Lord, her and that husband of hers…the thought of them living in our house…Ah don’t care if they don’t like the trailer park any more…Ah am gon’ tell her and that husband of hers a thang or two when we git home…Ah KNOW! That’s what AH think!”

Unlike her husband, I did not have the pleasure of experiencing her recounting of the conversation as we took off. Or when we reached cruising altitude. Or during our descent. I did, however, witness her complain to the flight attendant that the plane was too cold. That the blankets were all gone and why didn’t they have more on a plane this big? That her can of Coke was too warm and would melt the ice in the cup and make it all flat.

“When is that baby gon’ stop cryin’?”

“Why cain’t I just stand in line for the bathroom? Do they think AH’M a terrorist?”

“Why is these seats so close together? Lord, mah knee’s gittin’ STIFF.”

At that moment, I longed to know whose life the TV doctor decided to save, his stepmother/mother-in-law, sister/cousin and transvestite nurse/long lost twin brother staring at him with as much melodrama as they could muster, glycerin tears streaming down perfectly tanned cheeks. I realized how lucky they all were, play-pretending on that soap opera. Life and death decisions to be made. Relationships to destroy. Fortunes to lose. And gain by marriage. And lose again by divorce. And gain once more. Rare life-threatening illnesses and injuries from which to recover. Just to relapse on their wedding day.

And then I realized how unlucky we were. Trapped in an aluminum tube at 35,000 feet with a living, breathing soap opera sitting (uncomfortably, of course) in seat 11F.

Okay, WE got a new camera. The whole family. Not just me. And I – I mean WE – LOVE it! Our friend bananie showed us her camera and I – I mean WE – fell in love. WIth her camera and with her schmelen. Check out some of my – I mean OUR – new pix here.I will be posting new photos from our California every day so check back!And I will be writing some new entries soon. VERY soon. It’s been a long time and I’ve missed you…

If you were unable to visit the interactive exhibit The AIDS Experience in New York or Nashville this year you can now walk through one of the four featured stories online. Take 20 minutes today to spend some time on the site. You won’t be sorry…

For nearly nine years I worked in the marketing department of a record label. During my tenure there I came to understand the value of imaging and the visual element that accompanies the recorded product. In fact, most people may have only heard one song before purchasing a record and so the only other experience they have before shelling out hard-earned money for eleven songs is the album cover.

Cover art should say a lot about a record. It is the silent salesperson in a way. The old adage about never judging a book by its cover does not apply in the music marketing world. We WANT you to judge a piece of product by its cover. We spend a lot of time and money to ensure that the artist is visually communicating with the consumer in an accurate, compelling way.

I thought I would try a simple little experiment. Like those ink blots, but perhaps a bit less scientific. Following are a series of album covers. I have written a few words about what they say to me when I see them. I’d love to hear what they say to you as well.

I have a request for Ken: Stay 100 yards from me and my loved ones at all times…

I think Al Davis needs to move the Christian Crusade OUT of the Krispy Kreme store…

Look at us, looking at him, looking at…uh…us?

I can’t look at or think about this one for too long. Way too disturbing. Next…

Is that really Dustin Hoffman in drag? Is this the Tootsie 2 soundtrack?

For some reason, I don’t think John’s daughter-wife Julie is happy about turning sixteen. Perhaps because Julie is John Bult’s daughter-wife?

You. May. Not. Touch. Me. Anywhere. Ever.

Mama McKeithen was the woman whose hair spawned the urban legend about the lady with the beehive hairdo that she never took down and a fly built a nest in it and its maggot babies ate through her scalp without her knowing. Until she went to the beauty salon to have her hair washed and set. And her hair and scalp came right off. In the sink. That is what effectively ended the family’s singing career. Nobody wants to watch a hairless, scalpless woman sing about anything.

Three letters. E.W.W.

This reminds me of the band I was in with all of my hairiest friends. We’d get together and jam, shirtless, so happy to be with each other. Until at one of our photo shoots the bass player, Scratch, reached around and touched my left areola. From then on things were just awkward…

No mas, por favor…

I’m pretty sure they wrote and recorded “Swing That Gospel Axe” just outside Waco, TX. And I don’t know that “swinging that gospel axe” is the most Christ-like attitude. WWJD, Butch? WWJD?

Wow, they make Hell seem not too bad. Lots of singing, and judging from the nice white suits, apparently KFC has opened a store or two down there. Could be worse…

Do you think Crain is his real name or the name his sensei gave him to better reflect his impressive wingspan or his amazing ability to deliver babies?

Freddie, there’s a theme forming here. A pattern. You seem to be the common denominator. I’m not sure I want to be your friend…

DO you love your life, Jim? I mean really. You are frolicking in a waterfall, fresh spring water running through your Yosemite Sam mustache, telling us you love your life. But man, you ain’t tellin’ us with your body language. Maybe if you went on tour with this other band I know of, Orleans, you could all frolic in the waterfall together. Shirtless. THEN you might love your life just a little bit more…

There is something about the grease paint façade of a clown that makes me uneasy. In fact, uneasy is an understatement. Clowns are incredibly creepy to me. Ubercreepy. Some might say I have missed out on some of life’s little pleasures because of my clown aversion. The circus – no thanks. A street fair with clowns painting the faces of innocent little ones, indoctrinating them into their life of red-nosed, tiny tricycled terrorism – nope. Shopping at the Shoe Carnival – I avoid it like the plague.

I think I may have traced my coulrophobia back to my early childhood years. We lived about an hour from San Francisco and we would visit the city often. In Union Square there were a myriad of street performers. There was the human robot man who covered himself from head to toe in metallic body paint and for a quarter would move around like a wind up toy, making whirling gear sounds with a whistle in his mouth. And the puppeteers dressed in black, breathing life into their little wood and cloth companions, acting out melodrama and Shakespeare. There were street musicians.

And then there was the mime.

How I dreaded the mime. He would follow little children around the square, mimicking their every movement with exaggerated bravado. It was rather like having my own personal stalker every time I went with my family to enjoy the energy of the city. We would round the corner of the St. Francis Hotel after lunch at Lefty O’Doul’s.

And.

There.

He.

Was.

His bony frame was covered in a tight black leotard, wiry appendages warming up to torture me with his mocking gesticulations. His face was made anonymous by the white makeup and black eyeliner, a little perfect pair of lips meticulously drawn over his naturally thin ones. His beret, motheaten and pilled from extended wear, was tilted just so over his curly black hair. He would be there, trapped in his imaginary cube, pretending to be imprisoned in an invisible prison. It was just a ploy however. Once I was within harassment range we would conveniently burst out of his box and begin contorting his white face into disturbing expressions, clearly mocking my discomfort with the whole situation. He was relentless and for some reason my parents did not seem to notice.

I have never been comfortable with a mime or a clown since.

You can imagine my surprise when my co-workers and I were sent to Las Vegas for an event and our company booked us in the Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. “Ah, it’s Vegas,” I tried to tell myself. “Vegas is for adults. They won’t have a bunch of clowns running around a casino…”

As we pulled up to Circus Circus the twenty-foot tall neon clown face greeted us from atop the aging hotel entrance, grinning his evil grin, as if there to taunt me and me alone. Needless to say, that between the harlequin paintings in the lobby and in my room and the hotel channel featuring clowny newscasters and reporters, I did not get a lot of sleep in Vegas. And for all the wrong reasons.

What kinds of quirky fears do you have? Afraid of midgets? The frozen foods aisle?

Do tell…

May I be frank? My shins hurt like hell. But they hurt in a good way. Like when you exercise really hard and feel sore afterwards. The pain is an invisible, yet very real badge of honor. Tomorrow marks the end of six weeks of boot camp at the YMCA. Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday for the last month and a half I’ve been dragging myself to the Y at 500AM in time for an intense one-hour, kick my butt, sweat like I have never sweat before, run like the wind training session with three other people.

I will not lie. Day one was daunting. When I saw the obstacle course set up I knew I would end up with stitches or a cast or sling or maybe even a prosthetic limb. I am not exactly graceful. I am not very clumsy either, but I do have a way of falling for no reason. Daily. Sometimes I am simply standing still, having a deep conversation and just as I am ramping up to make my point, building up to my conversational crescendo, I crumple to the ground as if somebody has opened a trap door beneath my size 11 feet. I think this phenomenon is due to the fact that I fidget with my legs and feet constantly. Even when standing I am rolling my feet to the outside, back and forth. Sometimes the roll goes a bit too far and my ankles buckle, bringing down the rest of me like the perfectly planned demolition of a skyscraper.

Thankfully, day one ended with no medical attention required.

The first couple of weeks were difficult but manageable. Then came week three, when our trainer decided to take things up a notch. I am the kind of person who, when put in stressful or unpleasant situations, escapes reality and enters into an imaginary realm of Zen-like peacefulness. Unfortunately this coping mechanism did not work during week three. I realized I was losing my grip on my brand of manufactured serenity when, half way across the rock climbing wall I uttered a word under my breath that I never say. I do not think I have ever typed it, nor will I start now. I will just say that it began with “mother” and ended with “ucker.” I know! I surprised even myself! I was not even sure I was the one who said it. Clearly another technique had to be implemented – FAST.

The next time through the course I decided that I could only complete it by pretending I was being chased by someone threatening my life. I enjoyed much more success employing this practice. And I maintained my family-friendly sensibility as well. Somewhere between the belly crawl and the rock-climbing wall I became a member of the Von Trapp family, fleeing Austria via a treacherous Alpine pass, scaling a sheer cliff with my Nazi predators just behind me. The sharp winter air did its best to whip me from the face of the mountain but my steely grip and Spidey-like climbing prowess saved my life. The Von Trapp scenario worked well for the next couple of weeks, and then over the coming days I became a Navy Seal, a hobbit and a cat burglar with Robin Hood motivations.

And so tomorrow my life-threatening superhero mornings before dawn will come to an end. But it will not have been in vain. I have proven to myself that I can survive boot camp. More than survive. Persevere. Thrive. I have to admit there is a sense of accomplishment present as well. Sore shins or not. I even plan to sign up for the next session. No telling who I will become then…

Hello!

I apologize for not posting anything recently. It has been a BUSY couple of months!

I thought I would give you a glimpse into what I have been doing with all of my time. While I have my job with World Vision, I have been scouting new talent on the side. I think I may have found a new act that will set me up for life. In fact, I may just suggest that the title of the new recording be “Cash Cow.”

Enjoy…

Funny how when we’re young we can’t wait to lose our teeth and as we get older we do everything we can to keep them…