As my Millburn High contemporaries may remember, on September 27, 1980, Steve Cahn died in a motorcycle accident. Some of us lost a best friend; our soccer team lost a teammate; our junior year lost a classmate. For me, the effect of Steven's death could not be overstated. While I'd had a grandfather and an uncle pass a year or so earlier, Steven's death was a seminal moment. From that day forward, I would understand all-too-personally that life was arbitrarily unfair. That young people--kids my age--sometimes die. That my parents would not always be able to shield me from tragedy. They were painful lessons for a fifteen year old. Today, thirty-nine years later, I wonder how so much time could have passed. Those were halcyon days of my youth and, damn, did we and our friends have a good time. Steven was at the center of that. He was a special person, a loyal friend, fun-loving, physically strong, and, unfortunately, at times too much of a risk-taker. I have thought about the life he missed out on. I sometimes wonder what might have happened to our friendship (to all of our friendships) had he lived. However, grasping for answers is futile. Instead, he remains in my heart. He lives on in my memories. Surrounded by our friends, working on his moped, tools strewn about the driveway, The Cars' "My Best Friend's Girl" blaring from a cassette player. I miss you, Steven. You remain thought of, and loved, by me and others. I trust you are at peace.

Most of us, of a certain age, grew up listening to all the great music of the sixties, seventies and early eighties, yet had that one band that was "yours" -- the one whose music you'd play until the vinyl became scratched or the cassette tape tangled, whose lyrics captured every bit of the teen angst and confusion you were enduring, whose band members had the inimitable rock & roll personas that you coveted and envied. For me, that band was The Cars. In the glorious summer of '79, between ninth and tenth grade, me, Steven Cahn, Chuck, Kenny, Preston, and others worked on mopeds in Steven's driveway, living for the moment and in the moment, blithely ensconced in that teenage bubble where every issue's importance was outsized, monumental, and all-encompassing -- especially if it had anything to do with who-liked-whom among the girls we hung out with. And we listened to The Cars first album endlessly. Until I wanted to be either lead singer Benjamin Orr or Ric Ocasek, burn guitar licks like Elliott Easton, be as oddly memorable a keyboardist as Greg Hawkes, or drum as well as David Robinson. Some fifteen years later, after I had finished grad school in Los Angeles, my mother came to visit. I thought it would be a treat to take her to Spago's, a restaurant owned by Wolfgang Puck, which sat on the Sunset Strip and was as famous for its chef as it was for its celebrity guests. That evening, Puck came out from the kitchen to greet every table, engaging in a brief but wonderful conversation with my mother, which sent her over the moon. A little later, I had my own celebrity sighting that still puts a smile on my face. At one point, Ric Ocasek and his super model wife Paulina Porizkova entered Spago's. Ric, at six-foot-four and as thin and uniquely-configured as you'd imagine, and Paulina, just short of six-foot and impossibly gorgeous, were easily the most unusual couple I've ever seen. They were promptly escorted towards the far side of the room by the maître d'. In LA's most famous restaurant, where celebrity sightings were ubiquitous and where most dinner guests themselves were either wealthy, famous, or in the entertainment industry, a hush came over the room and EVERY person stopped eating and talking to simply watch Ric and Paulina as they wound their way among the tables to their seats. Afterward, I tried to explain to my mother who they were, but she was still beaming from meeting Wolfgang Puck. For me, it was a moment I'll never forget. RIP Ric Ocasek & Benjamin Orr.

​I feel like a victim on that tv show, Monsters Inside Me. I'd call you a parasite, but that's so unkind. At least parasites, don't try to rob you blind. Itchy skin, scatchin' my skin, you kiss my cheek, but I don't know where your lips been. You give me a whisper and a hug, my skin starts to crawl, like I've contracted some kinda bug. You flit and flutter around, like some kinda insect. Spreading your pollen, leavin' my life wrecked. Can't ever shake you, you're a permanent flu. Seems the only answer. Is to start my life new. God, I'm tryin' to shake you. Time to do what I gotta do.

Whispering, on my cheek,
You give me a kiss.
I claw at my skin.
'cause of your wandering lips.

While is it I'm always staring out a window? Why don't a feel the rush of a breeze? Why are sounds always muffled. Why is the glass getting harder to look through?

Quaking of the battlefield,
A rumble in the distance.
Spitting a piercing shell,
Gun recoils in an instant.

Conceived of in Hell,
To bring forth depair.
Stench of burning fuel,
Smoke sears the air.

Rumble in the distance,
Shakes the battlefield.
Soldiers drop weapons,
The rest will surely yield.

Satan's chariot of steel,
With armor of the gods.
Turrets turns, canon preens,
Tractor rips blood sod.

Perched upon a berm,
Turret turns, canon preens,
Enemy in the distance bow,
Their demise now foreseen.

Gun recoils in an instant,
Spits a piercing shell.
Soldiers in its range cry,
Behemoth comes from hell.

Made its bones at the Somme, carved out victories along the Rhone. Tiger, Panzer and Panther, Sherman, Matilda, Churchill, Vickers, Pershing, and Grant.

Drop!
Drop!
Drop!
Beg and pray!
Drop!
Drop!
Drop!
Beg and pray!
Drop!
Drop!
Drop!
Beg and pray!


[at 1:00]
Sinister rumble,
Of thunder.
Ground shakes,
As it plunders.


[at 1:17]
Hell spawns the machine,
Armored chariot, a beast.
Carving scars in the earth,
To deliver a hellion feast.


Soldiers crumble in fear,
Drop all weapons to yield.
Turret turns, tractor groans.
Mounting bodies in the field.


[at 2:00]
Run now, don't look back!
Run now, don't look back!
Run now, don't look back!
Run now, don't look back!


[at 2:20]
Nothing calm, the Western front.
Red smoke burns, northern sky.
Spitting artillery venom.
50mm shells squeal delight.


Death, misery have their fill.
Hell on earth, they’ll say.
Eighty million to be buried.
Dawning of a prophetic day.

Enemy in the distance.
Steel behemoth churns the ground,
Turret swings in its direction.
Gun recoil in an instant.
Blinding flash.
Target is no more!

Bow down or die! Bow down or die! From Hell rumbles Satan's beast. A armored chariot, knows not defeat. Preparing to serve a hellion feast. Run now, don't look back! Run now, don't look back! Ground shaking, fuel in the air choking, black lungs baking. Carving tracks into the warfare field. Mere soldiers drop their weapons to yield. Men stare into the unknown. Turret screeches, tractor groans. The dawning of a sinister day. Nothing's quiet on the Western front. Red skies burn from the East. Let loose its venom. Shells squeal delight. There's Hell on earth. Explosions a light the night. Unleash a thousand bolts of lightning.

A menacing, statanic rumble approaches, its stench of burning oil and hot metal fills my nostrils, burning up into my brain. The ground shakes, as the steel behemoth churns the ground like a dull scapel, ripping parallel scars into the earth. Turet turns, gun recoils in an instant, a flash. The sound wave of the boom knocking men backwards. Its missled warhead piercing the air until its finds its target, so many miles away that all that is seen is a puff of smoke and another boom that lags behind.