Bearing a Gift Beyond Price (Part 4 of Radio Daze)

I had been applying regularly at WXRT, Chicago’s Fine Rock Station (still a radio icon to this day after forty years on the air) and was down to one of the finalists for new openings on two occasions—but it just wasn’t to be. So, with funds so thin from being woefully underpaid so, I decided to take a job as the Marketing Director for a cool music chain in the northern ‘burbs of Chicago, Dog Ear Records.  But WJKL, “The Fox,” broadcasting from the western edge of Chicagoland, did offer me another weekend gig: the graveyard shift of midnight to six AM on Fridays and Saturdays. 

This was a progressive format as well, and many of the jocks who worked there ended up at some of the other top rockers in Chicago.  So, I felt if I kept my foot in the proverbial door that perhaps something might happen at XRT eventually.

No real snafus to speak of during those long, lonely shifts—other than the misfortune of choosing to utilize the “water closet” while playing The Outlaws’ twenty minute epic “Green Grass and High Tides.” It was common practice in those days to void one’s bowels while playing a long cut so as to not feel overly rushed.  As fate would have it, however, the record started to skip on the line “high tides for-ever-er-er.”  It repeated a good fifty times before I could hastily clean my bum, flush, and race back down the hall trying to pull my pants up as I galloped. Careening into the studio I then gently nudged the needle forward to get past the bump and finish out the guitar army anthem.  Without another soul in the building, there was no embarrassment in my unkempt cavorting.

In fact, that was one of the benefits to working the all-nighter—freedom to jump around when I would get groggy, run the stairs, do push-ups—anything to keep the blood and adrenaline coursing (I don’t do caffeine because it gives me migraines).  I would end up having long chats while songs were playing with callers who wanted to talk about music or sports or comedy.  I got to know some of them fairly well.  Many were folks who worked third shift at area warehouses and factories.  Some were cops.  Some were students cramming for exams. A few were just night owls who dug the great variety of music we offered.

I was tuning in the shine on the light night dial
doing anything my radio advised
with every one of those late night stations
playing songs bringing tears to me eyes

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model , 1979)

I had always enjoyed listening to “The Fox” because it was a slightly harder-edged version of WXRT.  There was an abundance of rock you wouldn’t hear elsewhere (they were the first station in Chicago to play Rush for instance), and the jocks were encouraged to push the envelope with creative blends of music and commentary.  The overnight shift was a truly fun place to get my ya-ya’s out.

We had a Music Director there, Frankie, who was really enamored with the punk movement (this was the late 70s).  She was also becoming frustrated with other forms of rock, and hence there was some definite disagreements brewing between her and the rest of the air staff about how much of the “new wave” to be playing.  If she had her druthers, it would’ve been “All Sex Pistols All the Time.”  The rest of us thought it had its place, but certainly didn’t want to see it overrun the format.

On each album that was in the library there was a tracking sheet taped to the cover.  That way we would know the last time/jock who played a particular cut so as not to repeat anything that day, and to be careful not to play anything from that album in the same hour anytime within a week (boy, would that frustrate the heck out of all these tightly-wound programmers and their infinitesimally controlled rotations now).  There was also room on the tracking sheet for us to write comments about the artist, album, etc. that might be of interest to other jocks.

Frankie felt it was her duty on these little editorial sections to trash every album she thought was bad (but somehow still worthy of being on our play list).  She also heaped unadulterated praise on lousy “artists” like The Buzzcocks, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, Nina Hagen, Destroy All Monsters, etc.  Some friendly jibes would go back and forth. But, as it turned out, she didn’t appreciate being disagreed with—especially by a weekend overnight jock like me.  It didn’t stop me however—I was part of the team, and my opinion counted too.  I think she just couldn’t stand it that I was a lot funnier in my banter about the musical skill (or lack thereof) demonstrated by The Stranglers, The Vibraters, The Undertones, The Saints, The Slits, The Damned, The Flying Lizards, and The Cramps (what was the deal that seemingly every punk outfit needed that definite article to mark a proper noun?  I remember a post-punk band in the early 80s known as The The, which was pretty funny). 

Most of these acts had little musical training, let alone talent.  They relied on anger, rage, self-mutilation, and copious displays of disrespect for anyone and everything.  Their medium was their message, and it was none-too-pleasant for most people to tolerate, and few that I knew of gained any sense of enjoyment from them.  Bands like Suicide, The Dead Kennedy’s, Gang of Four, Throbbing Gristle, Stiff Little Fingers, Sham 69, and Siouxsie and the Banshees were just downright grating to the ears, and are all rightfully forgotten all these years later for musical contributions any of them made.  They were just pissed (or at least acting that way to get attention). 

Take The Dead Boys, for instance. What a bunch of losers.  Towards the end of each concert, lead singer Stiv Bators would challenge any girl from the crowd to come on stage and give him a blow-job as they “performed.”  Unfortunately, some skanky git would nearly always take him up on it.  This, I would contend, had very little to do with rock‘n’roll, and everything to do with sensationalism and appealing to the most base of instincts.  Frankie heartily argued with me on these topics.

Invisible airwaves
Crackle with life
Bright antennae bristle
With the energy
Emotional feedback
On a timeless wavelength
Bearing a gift beyond price ---
Almost free...

(“The Spirit of Radio” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

One frigid early Sunday AM in December, I was feeling particularly playful.  I had just heard the new Cheech and Chong piece about a slick manager trying to get a punk band signed at a label because of their unique take on “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.”  By the end of the skit, the poor A&R representative was cowering under his desk.  I thought it as the time of year for a yuletide set, so I dove in:

“The season is upon us where we all enjoy hearing those Christmas classics that warm the cockles of our hearts—whatever those are exactly.  I’ve been humming some of those familiar strains over the past few days, and it made me wonder why we don’t hear more contemporary versions for the young people of this generation to better relate.  So, with that in mind…”

I then played the aforementioned comedy piece, and as it faded with the record executive fretting in a catatonic stupor, I then segued into The Dickies’ incredibly tasteless rendition of “Silent Night.”  After about forty-five seconds of that ear-bleeding wank splash, I then faded over to the beginning of a Monty Python album where Michael Jones starts screaming at the top of his lungs, “Not this record! Not THIS record!  NOT THIS RECORRRRD!” and then there is the sudden horrific screech of a stylus being dragged diagonally across the vinyl for about five seconds.  That unceremonious dismissal of those Richards then segued tightly into Pat Travers’ feisty “Life In London” which lamented the decay of the British music scene—especially the posing of the punk underground--in syncopated rifle-rock mastery.  Upon its climactic power chord ending I cued-up the crunching, frenetic “Let There Be Rock” from AC/DC’s sweaty If You Want Blood You Got It: Live, where Bon Scott and Angus Young shredded their voice and guitar respectively. The same simplicity of the punks, but with so much more actual rhythm, back beat, and ability.

If I do say so myself, the set rocked like a freakin’ big dawg.  Even though it was 2:55 in the morning, the phone lines lit up.  “Now this is rock’n’roll!” was the basic sentiment of most calls.  “I’m sick of hearing that pathetic punk shit!  Keep it up, buddy!”

My shift continued with the renewed vigor of an involved listenership.  I played many of our progressive staples ranging from Tom Waits to Yes, from Graham Parker to Bob Marley, from Crack the Sky to Wishbone Ash, from Queen to B.B. King.  The fun mixes were flowing, and the synergy of vital rock radio was palpable.

As I drove the hour back to my home into the sunrise at the end of my shift, I was reminded once again of how great it was to help people along with their lives by blending music that invigorated and even surprised them.

I slept soundly that morning, but was awakened just after noon by a call from Tom, the Program Director.

They say you better listen to the voice of reason
But they don't give you any choice
'cause they think that it's treason.
So you had better do as you are told.
You better listen to the radio.

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model, 1979)

Apparently Frankie had been listening to my shift (obviously she had very little in the way of a life), and was incensed that I had dissed her beloved genre.  Tom asked for me to explain my side, and I told him what tunes were in that particular set, what I had said, and the kind of response it got on the phones. He actually chuckled, and thought it was creative and fun.  “But,” he paused, “Frankie is livid and feels you should be dismissed for trashing a core element of our format.”

All this machinery
Making modern music
Can still be open-hearted
Not so coldly charted
Its really just a question
Of your honesty

(“The Spirit of Radio” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

“Tom,” I reasoned, “do you really think having a little fun at the expense of a savage rendition of a Christmas carol by talentless hacks like The Dickies is worth this kind of rage on her part?” 

“I’m with you, Mark, but I think if I don’t make an example of you, she will feel threatened in her ability to guide the musical integrity of the station.” Tom then proffered,  “Maybe if you were to call her and apologize, she would look at things differently.”

“It appears that maybe she’s wearing the pants there, Tom.  Aren’t you the one in charge?” I responded.  He chuckled nervously.  I continued, “Listen, I’m not about to atone for something which was clearly intended to be funny.  She’s just threatened because someone on the staff demonstrated how flawed so much of the punk trend is in comparison to where many of your listeners are.”

“So, you’re not going say you’re sorry to her?” he queried. 

“I see no reason to.  You hired me for my knowledge of music, and my wit on the air.  You admitted you don’t see anything wrong in what I did…”

“You’re right,” he interrupted. “In fact, it sounds like it was good progressive radio to me.  But, I’m gonna have to let you go in order to keep the peace here.”

You either shut up or get cut out;
they don't wanna hear about it.
It's only inches on the reel-to-reel.
And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools
tryin' to anaesthetize the way that you feel

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model, 1979)

Tom went on to explain that he hoped he could work with me again somewhere down the road.  We brought it to closure on good terms I suppose, and Tom was always kind to me when we’d see each other as the years went by. 

Isn’t it odd that I got fired for casting comic aspersions on a movement that prided itself on taunting the status quo…that I was released because I ruffled the feathers of someone who wanted to rattle the cage of the boring radio industry?  That frigid evening that I tinkled on the punk movement was the last time I slaved over some hot turntables and a sizzling mic.

One likes to believe
In the freedom of music
But glittering prizes
And endless compromises
Shatter the illusion
Of integrity

(“The Spirit of Radio,” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

Neil Peart ponders Rush's induction into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame

As many of  you know, I am a big Neil Peart fan.  The drummer for Rush has not only redefined percussion in the rock realm over the past 39 years of touring with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson, but is also a noteworthy lyricist of all their songs, and an award-winning author of six books.  His blog is always a good read as well.  Entitled “News, Weather and Sports,” he gives a running commentary on his thoughts during global travel, much on his BMW R1100 GS motorcycle between concerts. Here are excerpts from his latest entry where he ponders the whirlwind of Rush finally being elected into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, and many resultant behind-the-scenes escapades…

This first leg of the second part of the Clockwork Angels Tour, in spring, 2013, had been designed to be an East-Coast run. However, late last year the band was informed that our presence might be required at some little awards show on the West Coast, in mid-April.

At the time,the odds of us being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame seemed unlikely-to-absurd, after something like fourteen years of rejection, but apparently we were “on the ballot.” So manager Ray insisted we had to factor it into our plans, and adjustments had to be made.

One change that suited me was that instead of band rehearsals taking place in Toronto, as usual, they would be in Los Angeles. So I would have a few extra weeks at home. In December I got a message from Ray asking me to call him. Fearing bad news (we get our share of that, like anyone else), I called him with a little trepidation. When Ray told me we were “in,” it took a while to process the mix of feelings: disbelief, delight, and a little more trepidation. There would be. . . challenges . . .

Following my own pre-tour preparations at the local Y, and at Drum Channel’s studio (two-and-a-half weeks of playing along with the recorded versions of the show, tuning up my technique and stamina), I joined the Guys at Work (Alex, Geddy, and our crew) at a warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. That was when things started to become surreal.

On our last day in the warehouse, we were joined by Dave Grohl and Taylor Hawkins from the Foo Fighters, and our mutual coproducer Nick “Booujzhe” Raskulinecz. They wanted to rehearse their spoof of us from  . . . thirty-six years ago.

By now, the televised show in all its glory (I have faith it will retain the essence of what it was like to experience the real-time event — truly larger than life) will be widely shared. The performances, the speeches, the humor, and the overwhelming gathering of the Great and the Good are part of some kind of history now. However, the inner experience of living all that was something else again. Not larger than life, but exactly life-size.

The only way to portray even the ghost of what that few days felt like from the inside might be to jump ahead to when it was over — to a “reflective” moment.

The day following the event, I was able to bring my family with me to Austin, Texas, for a few days, for two production rehearsals and a day off before the first show there. Late on the night of the travel day, I found a moment of peace and reflection, and the next day I started writing a report to a group of friends called the “Breakfast Club for Cuties.” Brutus came up with that name for an informal email circle of four scattered Canadians (Icechuckers) — Brutus in Cowfart, Alberta, me in Westside L.A., friend Craiggie in Pasadena, and brother Danny in Vancouver, British Columbia.

All early risers, and in similar time zones, we gradually fell into the habit of exchanging notes early in the day — jokes, comments, thoughts, insults — almost daily for a while. They tapered off when one of the members had to go away on tour, but we still continued to communicate from time to time, as touring life allowed (for me, more likely late at night on the bus after a show than early in the morning).

After that night’s solitary reflections, I played the entire show the following night, and arrived home on my motorcycle feeling stimulated by both the performance and the dark ride home.

(I rarely choose to ride at night, especially in a region with so many deer, but it is certainly exciting. A milder version of Sir Winston Churchill’s great quote,  “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”)

So, tired and sore and yet all abuzz, I lounged outside on the balcony of the family condo with a large glass of the Macallan, and continued trying to put down some reflections to share with the Q-Tees™.

Subject: Aftermath

Austin, TX

Gentlemen:

Some story notes I will share with my fellow Cuties. 

Last night, I was sitting out late on the balcony of our family condo on the shore of Lake Travis, near Austin. B [Brutus] will remember it as a dam-widened stretch ofthe Colorado River (the Texas one, not the Grand Canyon one) near where the Pedernales (much more “Tex-Mex” kind of name) flows in.

For the flight here with the Guys at Work on their Falcon (nice — like the one B ’n’ me shared with them in Germany one time), with Carrie and Olivia, I dressed in Cowgirl Olivia’s honor — my “cowboy clothes.” Hat, shirt, and the boots I bought here in Austin last December (my first cowboy boots EVER!).

So, settlin’ back on the comfy outdoor sofa, I had my boots up on the table. The night was a little chilly, so I had a blanket around my shoulders.

From what must have been a bar at the marina across the water, a pretty good blues-rock band was playing (Friday night).

So, I was settin’ there, looking out at the dark water dotted with pretty colored lights, digging the band’s groove, and treating myself to a little extra rations of The Macallan. It was then I finally had a chance to reflect a little on the past night.

That thought flashed into my head, thinking — that was only LAST NIGHT!

The contrast between that frenetic state of mind and my present peaceful equilibrium was a complete polarity.

It’s going to take a week or so of reflection to sift through that entire overwhelming experience —just processing the data, as it were, slowing down the replay to remember moments in isolation and string them together into some kind of . . .narrative. Even my own interior narrative.

However, for me, the all-important part of last night’s reflections was the mood that colored all of my scattered memories — bathed in a glow of satisfaction.

Not for the honor and glory — but basically just because I had “done my job” properly. The key elements of that satisfaction were simple: I had spoken and played well.

Not only on our songs and the “Crossroads” jam, but even laying down a (hopefully) funky groove behind a pair of full-on master rappers. (Michael witnessed the “rehearsal” for that, just an hour before showtime, and he wished he could have filmed it. Geddy and I met in a backstage room with Chuck D from Public Enemy (“911 is a Joke in Your Town”) and the “DMC” of Run-DMC. They described the rhythmic feel, and where we should come in, and on what line we should stop. We nodded.)

There was also the star-(guitar-) studded “Crossroads” jam, for which I was also responsible for laying down the foundation of tempo and feel. So . . . my state of mind leading up to “all that” might best be expressed by “yikes!”

Just moments after it was over, as Geddy and I met in the quick-change tent at stage left (just like Madonna!), he said, “We laid it DOWN.”

And, shockingly, we did.

During the previous night’s rehearsal (our hip-hop brethren did not attend), after the “Crossroads” jam (do you believe that lineup of guitarists? Whoa!), one of the “presiding geniuses,” some rumpled-looking guy in a suit and tie, came up to me onstage and suggested that the tempo should be slower. I knew I was playing it the way we had recorded it, modeled on Cream’s version, but — I am a professional.

So I pulled it back anotch, and we played it again. It felt fine to me either way, but the boge[our slang for “square”] said it felt heavier and better for the soloists to breathe. I could see that. Then he suggested even a notch slower yet, and I said, “Okay.” There was no time to rehearse that, but I fingered out [how Brutus always says“figured”] a proper “feel” for a slightly slower tempo in my brain (’cause it ain’t just math, eh?). I also asked the geniuses to pass around to all the other players that I would be playing it slower.

(If nothing else, I wanted them to know it was on purpose!)

Well . . . Geddy wrote back in response to that report with, “That boge was Jann Wenner!”[Founder of Rolling Stone, and co-director of the Hall of Fame.]

Ha ha! — Perfect!

The world’s most powerful Rush-hater, rumored to have personally kept us out of the HOF all these years!

[Taylor Hawkins told me later that at that moment he had to walk away so he wouldn’t hit him­ — and when I wrote about it to another mutual friend and fellow drummer, Stewart Copeland, he wrote back that he wished he had been there, so he could head-butt the guy! Nice to have the support of my drum-brothers, but I didn’t see it as an insult, but a challenge. I am Canadian, and “We aim to please.”

The only problem was . .. doing it.]

But on the night, once again, I delivered just what I had wanted to, nailing exactly the tempo I imagined and holding it there — playing by the K.I.S.S. technique [“Keep It Simple Stupid”] — with what felt to me like a good solid groove.

The speech thing also got complicated. We had planned to be brief and improvised, with some remarks about family, business people, and fans — but then were told “Rash” needed time between the induction and their performance to change into their . . . kimonos . . .

They needed at least five minutes — yikes again!  

  

So . . . I made some “point form” notes. Then heard that we couldn’t use the teleprompter for OUR speeches. (I loves me some teleprompter.) All the presenters used it, and even the rappers, but I guess the geniuses had some idea about keeping those of the inductees “natural.”

(And oh — wait until you guys up Nord see the Flavor Flav show. Oh my, eh Craiggie?)

So I wrote out my speech in full, and printed it out LARGE — hoping I wouldn’t have to use my glasses.

Then midway through the show, we heard that our speeches would be on the teleprompter. So . . .good.

That worked!

[I began my speech with an improvised remark about how for years we had been saying this was no big deal — then followed with a turn-of-phrase typical of my friend Matt Scannell, “Turns out, it kind of IS!”]

Now — back to business-as-usual for us Rushians. First full-production rehearsal tonight, then again tomorrow night, then a day off, then the first show.

Then some more shows . . .

For our Hall of Fame speeches, the three of us chose “themes” that each of us would focus on — families for me, fans for Geddy, and for Alex, well . . . blah-blah-blah. (What a moment that was, when he hadn’t warned us what he was going to do. Geddy and I couldn’t see him “acting,” and thought he was going all Flavor Flav [no doubt that poor soul’srambling, embarrassing, endless blather, under Chuck D’s stern, arms-folded scowl, will be trimmed for the broadcast]. Geddy muttered to me, “How can we make him stop?”, and I raised my heavy “trophy” behind Alex’s head as if to brain him. The two of us have long declared Our Lerxst to be “The Funniest Man Alive,” and of course his performance was a huge comedic success. But he should have warned us.)

Another special facet of the event (perfect jewel analogy) was to meet some artists I had long admired, and just knowing them, right away. Taylor Hawkins had been a friend for a few years (my band mates appeared onstage with the Foo Fighters in Toronto, playing one of our songs with Taylor), but I had never met Dave Grohl, Tom Morello, or Chris Cornell.

When I traveled in China many years ago on a bicycle tour, I met another cyclist who had visited Tibet, and he told me about the greeting namaste. He defined it as, “I recognize the spirit within you.” It was like that with Dave, Tom, and Chris, appreciating and respecting their work, and them as artists of integrity. Meeting face to face for the first time, I felt I knew them — felt openness and trust, and saw it in their faces.

Perhaps less expectedly, I felt the same communion with Chuck D. Our music couldn’t be more different, but it seemed the spirit of it was the same. After the show, the three of us stood in a back hallway with him for a few minutes, and he told us a story.

“I grew up in Roosevelt, Long Island, near Nassau Coliseum. I had a friend who worked there, and one time I went to visit him, and you guys happened to be playing. I looked out through the doors at the audience, and saw like twenty thousand people completely focused on what you were doing. You were playing something quiet, and I said something about that dedication to my friend — and people in your audience ‘shushed’ me. That’s when I thought, I want to be part of something like that.”  

Again, it comes back to appreciation not of us, but of our fans. (Whether we earn that or not is something else —but I know we try.) One reality that impressed me greatly that night was that not only had our fans clamored for years to get us inducted into that Hall of Fame (one of the directors joked that he didn’t know what he was going to do with all his free time now that he didn’t have to field the constant protests from Rush fans), but they took the time, trouble, and expense to be there. Right from the beginning of the show, everybody in the house knew that our fans ruled that place. That was pretty sweet. They were proud of us, and we were proud of them.

But, in“normal” life (there’s that word again), people can always keep you grounded, too.

In my pre-tour preparations in February and March, going to the Y three times a week for my fitness regime, one day I was on the cross-trainer, pumping through the endless cardio routine with grim determination. Exercise, for me, is an exercise of will. It may be science, but it is not sweet.

On the neighboring machine was a middle-aged lady, maybe a few years younger than me, with ear-buds in. At one point she pulled out one of her ear-buds and leaned over to say, “I’ve got a couple of male friends who are, like, total groupies for you!”

As usual, I was a little embarrassed to be suddenly “public,” jolted out of a far-off state of mind, so I just looked over, gave her a little smile and a nod, and kept pumping.

Then she said, confidingly, “But I won’t tell them!”

I nodded and smiled again, and said, “Thank you.”

A few more minutes passed, my arms and legs working in a rhythmic cycle, breathing deep and measured, mind wandering off on its own. I concentrated on my pace and heart rate, and watched the crawling timer.

Then shepopped her ear-bud out again, and said,

“So — do you still drum at all?”

For the entire piece, including photos, go here:

http://www.neilpeart.net/index.php?cID=242

Here I am after interviewing Neil for the first time in 1976 in Chicago:

Photo by Sam Smith

Five Star Reviews of "Embracing the Gray" continue

The kind and insightful reviews of my book, Embracing the Gray: A Wing, A Prayer, and a Doubter’s Resolve (Wheatmark Press), continue to come in via Amazon.com. To this point, of over eighty reviews that have come in, 97% of the reviews have been “Five Stars” (with the other 3% being” Four Stars”). Here are four more recent entries:

The glorious paradox of no-nonsense faith. Anyone who has spent a few hours around Mark Hollingsworth knows his conversational references to culture, politics, the Good Book and the good fight span a really broad horizon. He has also led a truly fascinating life, and has the wit and word-smithing at his disposal to make his journey into a really entertaining read. Embracing the Gray is a delightful, sometimes dizzying account of Mark's adventures that demonstrates his gifts as a cultural commentator and a writer worth reading. Hollingsworth pulls no punches as he rolls through episodes of his life in the music industry and ministry to the poor, rubbing shoulders with rock royalty and desperately at-risk children, and coming of age between Vietnam and Van Halen. Having said all that, I've barely scratched the surface of the remarkable range of subjects he addresses with unflinching honesty-- and then draws a beeline to his faith, and how all that experience helped develop him into a truly authentic, thoughtful Jesus-follower.

As pastor of a rowdy bunch of mostly Millennials (roughly 18-30 years of age), I am highly recommending Embracing the Gray to them because it provides them a wonderful tool: an example of how to think about faith, as opposed to simply what to think about faith. And to my Boomer contemporaries? Buy it for yourself. If you're a fan of Jesus, contemporary music, social action, Petra, Rush (the group; maybe not Limbaugh for this book), or needing to know that someone else has been through the pain of helping their parents shed the mortal coil with love and dignity, read this book. Then do your grown kids a favor and give it to them to read. (If you're sensitive to salty language, be warned that it makes an occasional appearance in this book. Thus the encouragement to make it available to your "grown children." But please, put some U2 on in the background and read it anyway. You really won't regret it.) -S.W.

Honest, thoughtful, and inspiring. I am usually a fiction girl myself, so sitting down to read this type of book is a little out of my element, but, as I began to turn the pages I became thoroughly involved in the words. This book is an ever-changing story reminiscent of The Wonder Years and written in a style that brings to mind Douglas Adams and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Both witty and insightful, melancholy and uplifting, this journey for truth gives you an honest look into the author's fascinating life. Wherever you are in your life, good, bad or indifferent, this book has something to tell you. -B.T.

Deep waters but not without hope. I just read this book from Mark H. Really touching book. But not just sentimental way: Mark is writing with very strong foundation. If you have been in deep waters without hope then his book is for you. Life is not fair. Not after the Fall. But what are the alternatives if not Jesus. -J.S.

I met Mark on a recent trip to Central America. He struck me as an ordinary guy with a wonderful, fun loving heart. Read his book after returning to the States and realized he is a gifted guy with an extraordinary story as well. I benefitted from his honesty in struggling with a mysterious God and thoroughly enjoyed the "vignettes" of his life that he poignantly shares with us. His writing style kept me coming back for more like a kid unwrapping presents at Christmas, surprised by what each box held. -T.D.

I continue to be humbled by these thoughtful words. And equally excited that the book is connecting with so many others. If you would like to read more reviews, or write one of your own, or order a copy (now available in Kindle format as well) go to:

http://www.amazon.com/Embracing-Gray-Prayer-Doubters-Resolve/dp/160494417X/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

-or-

http://www.wheatmark.com/merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Product_Code=9781604944174&Category_Code=

-or-

Contact me directly if you would like to purchase a signed copy. : )