The website that I have created, unlike any other, is dedicated to the exchange of ideas that are of importance to the jazz community. Because major jazz magazines are dependent on advertisers, there are precious few forums for the discussion of issues that are on the minds of many in our community. Bird Lives is a non-commercial site. It is my way of giving back something I’ve received from the music that has become such an important part of my life.

From my experience on the web, I was also tired of faceless sites that offered information, but no personality. So I decided to take the title from one of plays, The Pariah and create a character who would serve as the voice of the site.

I also wanted a vehicle for my own thoughts, some rather outrageous, some totally sane, without the usual bounds of editorial interference. Nearly fifty and hoping to leave a legacy my daughter might someday respect, I felt a certain obligation to speak the truth as I perceived it. I decided to offer it unvarnished and on a weekly basis in the form of my Diatribes and Twisted Tales, which were fictionalized accounts of some of the characters I’d met along with the way.

Of course I knew all along that I'd alienate certain people immediately, just by even standing up and saying something truthful. By using this global network for the dissemination of radical ideas, I also knew I'd really be perceived as a troublemaker in some circles, particularly the corridors of power, where the mantra for survival is "don't make waves."

When I railed on about the injustices of the music industry, particularly the jazz record business, my Pariah identity became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Accordingly my income as a jazz writer has been diminished. I get significantly less work these days from jazz magazines and major record labels. People I'd known for years in the jazz industry now look at me askance. Where they used to hug me upon greeting, I now receive a limp handshake. Then they stare at me bug-eyed as if I'd just arrived from Mars.

More recently, at a concert or industry gathering, I find people try and avoid me. And where I used to receive promotional copies of CDs from all the major labels, three have now all but blacklisted me. So be it. I still receive enough CDs to open a store.

Voltaire's hero young Candide cried out after each disaster that smote him, "It's the best of all possible worlds." Voltaire meant this cry to sound bitter, and ironic. It never has to me. I've found the grin of life, however ironic, more important and persuasive than all its defeats, because all of the stupidity and ignorance that will always be present.

The inanities of our politicians, the poppycock produced by our fear of Death and our fear of ourselves, in fact the whole climate of invective and despair which covers us today with its smog, is no more than that. An unsunny day.

A individualist doesn't have to strike his colors in bad weather. That in a fashion is my theme. I'll try to stick to it and keep Candide's slogan sounding: it's the best of all possible worlds.

Bird lives!