I am bad about taking things for granted. I know that doesn’t make me special, but it is a fact of life. For someone who can be so impulsive, it is odd how much I tend to delay gratification. While a big part of my life is taking the time to appreciate things and truly savor experiences, there is a down side when you let that exquisite bottle of scotch sit on the shelf untouched, because you are afraid that the actual experience of taking the sip won’t live up to the anticipation of tracking down that elusive bottle. Sometimes, I get so focused on the potential good to come that I forget that the goal wasn’t to get the bottle on the shelf, but to enjoy what it holds inside. That’s what I mean about taking things for granted. Assuming that they will always be there when you summon the courage or energy to finally dive in. I don’t know how many times in life I have missed out on a great restaurant or exhibit that I really wanted to try only to see they are closing before I ever get around to visiting. They say that fortune favors the bold, but who favors the fellow who wants that wonderful moment of anticipation to last just a little bit longer? I wish I knew or, at least, I wish I could better recognize when the time to take the leap comes, rather than that crystal clear 20/20 hindsight of knowing when you have missed your time. So, in the spirit of trying something new, too long delayed, won’t you join me now as we stand and make the Red Needle.

This drink was created by the inestimable Leonard Cohen. Yes, he of song, of poetry, of unmitigated debauchery and infinite depth. Apparently, he had a thirst in 1975 in Needles, California and got creative. I have spent a little time in Needles and I get it. In my experience, it is hot and dry and short on things to do, so why not make a drink. Well, when you aren’t writing or singing, obviously.

This one is really made to taste, so take this as a rough guideline and feel free to adjust. Everyone pretty much agrees that you need to start with 2 ounces of Tequila, I chose Corzo Reposado, poured over ice in stemware. From there his recipe called for adding a squeezed lemon slice and topping with cranberry juice. To make that more reproducible, I measured out 1/2 an ounce of fresh squeezed lemon juice and 4 ounces of cranberry juice and stirred to the beat of Famous Blue Raincoat, but I, inexplicably, chose the Nathaniel Rateliff version. Who can say why I do the things I do sometimes, but I love that saxophone riff and his version just speaks to me. Whatever you choose, I suggest finishing with an expressed lemon peel for garnish.

Of course, it is good. You knew it would be. Unlike his music, the drink is not particularly complex. But, it is good. It is simple. It is perfectly unpretentious and suitable in the way it doesn’t quite satisfy.; how it leaves you wanting more. I like the way the lemon and cranberry play, but I want more flavor from the tequila, maybe a nice smoky mezcal would punch things up, maybe it would ruin things. I guess we will never know, unless we try.

I have known about this drink for a long time, but it was a strange journey to finally making it for myself. I was recently asked to speak at a Leonard Cohen Tribute celebrating what would have been his 90th birthday. I was honored to have been asked and more than a little intimidated when I saw the caliber of talent I would be sharing the stage with. I had chosen a short poem to read and knew that I needed more to fill my time slot, so I did what I do, I looked inside and I wrote the words I found there.

Page after page of recollections on how Leonard Cohen and his words had played a role in my life. How this song was playing when that happened, how I loved these words, but did not know they were his, on and on, the memories poured out. I listened to his music again, read his poetry and even made his drink, in an attempt to feel closer to him. Somehow, in this process I finally really heard Famous Blue Raincoat and realized it is a love song, or perhaps an appreciation song, from a husband to the man his wife cheated on him with. How had I missed that? I dug down through the layers rediscovering treasures and memories along the way. Of course, that meant that I had to do a lot of editing, mostly with a hatchet, but I got it down to a reasonable time and for the sake of posterity I will share it with you here:

Presented at
The Light Gets In
A Tribute to Leonard Cohen
September 21, 2024

I never met Leonard Cohen. We never shared a drink or a meal. I never saw him in concert or owned any of his records, and, if I am honest, I did not like his music when I first heard it. So, what the hell am I doing up here? Well, I remember lying awake one night, listening to the radio; feeling lonely in the keen way that only those who have not yet experienced true heartbreak can, relishing every moment of my self made sorrow when I heard him singing, “You got away, I never once heard you say, I need you, I don’t need you”. That was the first time I really heard Leonard Cohen.

He touched a nerve, spoke my truths far more eloquently than I could and made me feel seen by giving my feelings credibility. Letting me know that though my experience was personal, those feelings were universal, and I was not alone. He explored his depression, working through it rather than reveling in it. When asked about the need for pain in the creative process he responded that it was not only not necessary, but that “creation is an act of triumph over suffering”. That hit me; freeing me, not only, from the self-indulgent angst and need to suffer, but to not view happiness as a detriment.

He always seemed evasive in interviews. As if he did not want to let himself to say the words out loud, unscripted. Perhaps there was a need for them to be written. For the contrast of letters on the page to give them their proper solemnity and weight.

But the words he wrote, they had power. The power to bring us together in our loneliness. To remind us that our exquisitely personal experience of love and hate and passion and longing and suffering were ultimately pedestrian. That to cry alone in the night was perhaps the most shared experience of the species. That no matter your creed or color or language, we are bound together most in our solitude. Our cries in the night merging into a chorus for all of the misfit lovers of the world. The chorus of a song that he wrote with every line a prayer, to the beautiful frailty of our humanity.

Every song he wrote, every poem, every line of carefully chosen prose, feels like an act of worship. His words are a reminder that we are more than our selves, that our little lives are not small, that we, each of us, have meaning…beauty…value.

He reminded us of the importance of the little things. I want you to think of a friend or a lover. Take this moment, and fix them in your mind…

Have you got them? Now ask yourself, what image comes to mind? For me, it is not her birthday or her job. It is the way her hair fell across her face, on a quiet morning in bed some twenty years ago. It is her smile when she thinks I don’t see her looking at me. The sound of her quiet laughter when she is reading in bed and doesn’t want to wake me up. I am willing to bet that for you, it is something similar. These are the moments that make up a love and a life. The tea and oranges, all the way from China, that remind us of those who have touched us. The little things that we remember, perfectly captured in a single line from a song of platonic love.

The same way that the image of an unmade bed in the Chelsea Hotel haunted and inspired my adolescent brain when I first heard it. In my mind that bed is seen through a partially opened doorway, fully embracing the voyeurism that his words invite. That conspiratorial peek into his life and a world where such wonders, with an awaiting limousine, were possible. It would be many years before I understood the beauty of sharing these pleasures, paying with the only coin of the realm worth a damn, time spent together.

I love the way he left the stage. As it turns out, I did want it darker. His music and words providing guidance on how to age with grace, reflecting on how a lifetime of experiences can lead us to the beauty of finally embracing just how much we still do not know. As he put it, “The older I get, the surer I am that I’m not running the show.” In his final years, he grew rather than fading, and the work was as impassioned, and ultimately, as important as ever. He taught us to travel light and accept our eventual ends with the same understanding, patience and grace that he had in his youth when he taught us how to love, how to lose and how to survive both.

He made us feel connected in our longing for inclusion and his work encapsulates the contradiction of needing space for the self, while envying the warm embrace of the crowd. He explored this inconsistency over and over, asking us to recognize that, as he said, “We are not mad. We are human. We want to love, and someone must forgive us for the paths we take to love, for the paths are many and dark, and we are ardent and cruel in our journey.”

He plumbed the depths of his own pain and the darkness inside so we could better know ourselves, showing us the beauty of imperfection, those cracks where the light gets in. If we listen, the pain of a broken heart can teach humility, create empathy. That is where the healing begins, with love and acceptance and the knowledge that we are not on this journey alone. Whether we hear the holy or the broken hallelujah, we know that we are walking along this road with others, following the path set by those who have gone before us. Leonard Cohen was one of those guides and I am deeply grateful to this man I never met for his voice and for his courage to not only shout his words loud enough for all the world to hear, but to also whisper them quietly, bringing hope through the radio, into the ears of a young man who lay awake that night, afraid that he would always be alone.

And with that, I would like to read you a short poem by Leonard Cohen that means a great deal to me. It is called:  

The Only Poem

This is the only poem
I can read
I am the only one
can write it
I didn’t kill myself
when things went wrong
I didn’t turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
but when I couldn’t sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
on nights like this
by one like me.

Was that a bit self indulgent, probably; but then, isn’t it all in the end. The idea that people care enough about what I want to say to read the words in the first place is already a bit fraught, so I’ll risk it. I will risk it, because this is another of those things that I sometimes take for granted, that people want to hear my voice. When the doubts come, it is easy to forget what an honor it is to be asked to speak or act or sing or just to sit in a quiet corner of a bar and share time and connection. I am blessed beyond belief and have trouble justifying, to myself, just how I have been so fortunate. So, if I sometimes miss a moment, remember that just like Mr. Cohen, I can be a bit daunted by untapped potential and frankly, I am not always sure that I deserve to take a sip from that bottle. So, it turns out, that most of my delayed gratification is actually an act of cowardice disguised as virtue. It ain’t pretty, but then life seldom is and I am confident we will get through it, eventually. Till then, stay safe, stay hydrated and stay sane my friends.