The Swagger News

Amy Winehouse 1983 - 2011.

"Alcohol and pills, it's a crying shame. You think they would have been happy with the glory and the fame. But fame don't take away the pain, it just pays the pills. And you wind up on alcohol and pills." Todd Snider.

 

I first saw Amy Winehouse on the BBC's show Never Mind the Buzzcocks. As a guest she was sassy, overtly flirtatious, and slightly drunk. Her self-deprecating sense of humor won me over immediately. I was smitten and I hadn't even heard her sing. 

A short while later I heard her album, Back to Black. Her searing lyrics, her impeccable timing, the sheer haunting beauty of her voice blew me away. "This woman is 23 years old?!" I thought. Outrageous. Where does that wisdom come from? 

Seemingly overnight, Amy was a public train wreck. We all rubber necked at the crash. How could we not? Amy was making it too easy. Fucking absolutely out of her mind wasted. Forgetting words. Falling down. It was not funny, at all. It's been downhill ever since. When I saw the recent footage of her 'comeback' show in Serbia, I knew immediately: she is not long for this world. I even tweeted those exact words that night. Turned out I was right. 

Tonight, at the news of her death, I am sad. Sad because she was so young. Sad because she was so good. Sad, most of all, because it didn't have to be this way.

"Really, Dave? She was a hopeless junkie. One foot in the grave for years" they'll say. 

I disagree. My own drug and alcohol addiction, and recovery, have shown me that nobody, NO ONE, is hopeless. Nobody. Ever.

Until they are gone. 

Why couldn't we get through to her? Where did it all go wrong? Couldn't she just have stopped? Many furious questions. Very few precious answers. 

This I know for sure: Amy decided a long time ago, that she was, in her own prophetic words, "no damn good." It's really that simple. Take it from me, junkies believe above all else, the following to be true:

"I'm not worthy."

Not worthy of love. Not worthy of peace. Not worthy of admiration. Not worthy of health and well being. Not worthy. 

As I type this I'm listening to Back to Black. It's all over the lyrics. Go put the album on. Listen to her words. You'll hear it. She didn't give herself much of a chance. When you can't feel worthiness, or give and experience love, why go on living? 

After hearing the news, we took our little boys up to bed. We talked about Amy Winehouse. What do you say to a child about addiction without sounding trite, or trivial, or judgmental. Turns out we don't have to tell the kids anything. They tell us. My youngest, the ever wise Timo, summed it up beautifully:

"She must have been very sad, Papa." 

That's right my son. Very sad. What I wouldn't give to protect my boys, protect them forever, from the pain that Amy knew. But it doesn't work that way. We can show them the land mines, but they gotta do the exploding. 

Thanks for the tunes, Amy. If only you could have felt our love. 

Gebruik je accent.

Het is bijna zover. Het manuscript ligt bij de uitgever. De laatste lootjes. In de tussentijd wil ik je een voorproefje geven. Het is een hoofdstukje in de tweede sectie van het boek. 

> Accenten

“I have travelled more than anyone else and I have noticed that even the angels speak English with an accent.”

Je hebt een accent. Dat kan niet anders, want Engels is niet je eerste taal. Je hebt een keuze: gebruik je Engels om deuren te openen of schaam je je ervoor. Het is aan jou. 

Ik zou de eerste doen.

Engelstaligen beginnen vaak een gesprek met, “Where are you from?” Pak je kans. “Holland” antwoord je. De rest gaat vanzelf. Mensen geven niet om je accent. Ze vinden het leuk zelfs. Zolang je verstaanbaar bent, is je accent prima. 

Als je accent niet te verstaan is, zoek dan een leraar of logopedist. Zorg dat het beter wordt en ga weer praten. Verspil je energie niet door te piekeren over je accent. Je accent is persoonlijk en daardoor mooi. 

Darren Clarke faced his demons and won.

Yesterday, Darren Clarke won The Open Championship, the world's most prestigious golf tournament. The victory catapults him back to the upper echelons of the game. There is not a golfing fan alive who doesn't wholeheartedly applaud this development. Clarke has already been called the most popular major winner ever. I couldn't agree more. 

And to think, it almost never happened. Devastated after losing his wife Heather to breast cancer just five years ago, he left the game indefinitely vowing to return "when I'm ready".

When he finally did make it back, his world ranking plummeted. His game and personal life were in tatters. One particularly scathing reporter called Darren's career, "an inexplicable slide into irrelevance." He was swiftly being usurped as the king of Northern Irish golf by younger superstars such as Rory McIlroy and Graeme McDowell. His own manager, the inimitable Chubby Chandler said, "we've had some pretty dark phone calls." 

All of which left the big Irishman pondering the questions: Could he find the desire to carry on as the beloved, everyman professional golfer? Or was it time to hang up the spikes? 

It's a question we all have to face. How long do we hold out when life throws us more adversity than we think we can handle? 

Darren Clarke's story is our answer. When faced with the worst of life, his demons came calling. He could so easily have thrown in the towel. Famous for his love of the Irish 'black stuff', he could have sought solace in the bottle.

But he didn't.

Clarke faced his demons, stared them down, and kept going. Being a public figure, he endured well publicized criticism. But he kept going. Slowly but surely, the tides turned. Healthy, positive people came into his life. His golf game began to glimpse the glory of years past. His courageous performance in the 2008 Ryder Cup will go down in history. After winning the cup, his eyes flooded with tears, he raised a glass of Guinness to the sky and toasted the ebb and flow of life. It was magic.

Yesterday, the magic returned. Clarke held off Phil Mickelson and Dustin Johnson to capture the historic Claret Jug. In doing so he reminds us all that no matter how dark life gets, as long as we keep searching, brightness can again be found. 

Three cheers for the big DC, champion golfer of the year. 

My story of Swagger.

Three short years ago I had it all: my health, my beloved wife and kids, a flourishing business, a cozy home. In a word: freedom. Everything was peachy keen.

I was miserable. 

Sure, there were moments of happiness: a lovely trip to Spain, or an inspiring new client. All in all, though, I'd reached an emotional crossroads. A major funk. To numb the pain I drank and smoked. It didn't help. 

One morning, while watching the movie Madagascar, everything changed. At one point in the film, Chris Rock's character Marty has escaped from the zoo. He's walking the streets of Manhattan, a free zebra. But he's not just walking, he's strutting. It's a brilliant nod to the opening scene from Saturday Night Fever. I tell my boys it's my favorite scene. They replay it over and over. 

"Papa, it's your favorite scene!!!!" Press rewind, press play. Marty the Zebra, walking the walk.  

In one of those moments that seem somehow lessened by recollection, the word came to me: Marty is SWAGGERING down that fucking street. Swagger. I had come across the word in a book by one of my heroes, the golf psychologist Bob Rotella. Rotella talks a lot about how golfers need a certain amount of inner cockiness to succeed. I was also aware of the word in the context of hip-hop culture. 

It struck a chord. "That's it," I shouted. "Swagger!" 

My evil plan was hatched. 

Shortly thereafter I went back to school at the Institute for Mental Coaching in Amsterdam. I quit booze and cigarettes. I changed the way I taught and engaged with my clients. I invented Swagger, as I define it, and have been teaching it ever since. You may question the simplicity, the sudden and linear completeness of my shift, but I assure you, it WAS that easy. A word was all it took. 

How do I define Swagger? 

Passion. Confidence. Vulnerability. Simplicity. Fun. The freedom to make mistakes. Above all, I see Swagger as the courage to push forward even when you're scared. 

Do you have it?

Why that subsidy is killing our art.

I'm a lucky man for I am an artist and I live in Holland. The majority of the artistic community here, of which my dearest friends are lifelong, card carrying members, would, at this particular time in history, disagree vehemently. They feel this is, in fact, the worst time to be an artist in Holland. The reason? The right wing coalition government is blindly cutting funding and stealing our lifeblood.  This may, indeed, be true. There are most certainly cuts. These cuts seem to be happening in a lightning fast, across the board, kind of way. But it is not bad. It is good. Here's why.

Imagine, I'm an actor. When these proposed cuts take hold, my theatre company folds. I lose my job. How will I pay the rent? How will I feed my kids? These are my greatest fears. Forget all that mumbo-jumbo I tell you at that party about a civilized society needing a flourishing art scene in order to function properly. That is just bullshit. A smokescreen. I'm about to be an out of work actor; my fear is not about society. Rather, it is about my money and only my money. Of course, my questions about paying the rent, and buying food are of vital importance. We gotta eat. We need a roof over our heads. The starving artist myth is just that; a myth. But if I'm an artist, there is only one question I must ask myself:

When the government takes the money, and I lose my job, will I still make my art?

If my answer is, "Are you out of your fucking mind?! Yes, of course I will make my art, I have no choice. It is who I am!" If that is my answer then I am in no danger. I am fine. My theatre will survive. My music festival will survive. My film will survive. We shall overcome. No government can stop us. It is not their's to choose. 

But if my answer is "Oh no, now I'll have to do something else with my life," then why do I call myself an artist? If this current political movement, however Draconian and boneheaded, is powerful enough to keep me from making my art, and driving me elsewhere, then why should I receive any public money to ply my trade in the first place? I shouldn't. I am better off, no, the audience is better off, if I take that job at that office. That subsidy was merely promoting and sustaining art created in the comfortable bubble of guaranteed public acceptance. As in, "if the city gives me money to make it, it must be good." It isn't good; it's safe. Fool proof. Paint by numbers. It couldn't possibly inspire, for it wasn't born of courage. 

Here comes the good part: by asking ourselves these most pressing and uncomfortable questions and by feeling afraid, we uncover an opportunity and find our voice. After all, our job is to face our fears, take the stage and push forward regardless. To stand naked in front of that living, breathing audience. Expose our doubts and tell our truths. What better time to do that, than right now? What better place to do that, than right here, in the home of Johannes Vermeer: The Netherlands. Cultural meltdown? No way, dude. This is showtime.