Month: August 2017

Post college, and post summer-camp music director, I tried politics. Having worked as an intern at the State House, I thought I could run an Arts Council. And I did get hired there, but not as director.. once again as glorified intern/coffee boy. Despite meeting some nice folks, after six months I was done, and ditched politics to go on an epic cross-country trip with my buddy. We would zigzag the U.S. and end up in Cali. But, before our “Great Notion” “On the Road” began, I got to meet famed tenor Luciano Pavarotti. (:

I have one vague memory of South Dakota, from the big road trip. We may have pulled into a border town and encountered a dude. He looked at us.. we looked at him. It was cloudy, dark. The land was barren, seemed mining or oil, possibly industrial nearby. A few small houses, placed asymmetrically, had no vegetation around their edges. He turned his head, and spit. He didn’t spit directly at us. But we got it. The road, that led us in, took us out.

Punk rock Stacy dumped a pile of guys’ clothes on the floor. She’d found them on a curb near her house. “Dig in, ” she said. I grabbed the black pointed-toe cowboy boots. But her new guy-pal, hovering nearby, hesitated over 2 pairs of brown, wonky square-toed boots. “Hey, I want those black ones,” he protested. And continued, “Look, Stace, I bought you breakfast, I deserve them!” She laughed, countering, “Yeah, you know who deserves them? The guy up the street who originally bought ’em, but guess what. He’s dead! Losers keepers.. or weepers.. or something like that.. Ha!” She advanced, staring him down temptingly then brushing past with just a kiss on the cheek.That night I went to the Living Room punk show with a pint of Southern Comfort stashed in my dead-man boots and was glad when Stacy walked in. She said, “I ditched that dude. Don’t worry. He’s a junkie. I’m only doing safe stuff now.. liquor, cigs, maybe a joint.” I told her, “Then it’s my lucky day. I have all three in my van.” She grabbed my hand and we headed to the big parking lot, quietly abuzz. She lounged back in the passenger seat, long intricate hand-made earrings dangling, reflecting muted dome lights of punk bands’ vans with Jersey and New York plates. And after a drink and a toke, she closed her eyes, striking a nearly angelic pose, of innocence amidst the punk army about to kick love squarely in the face. Her eyes turned slowly. She smiled, lit a Marlboro and got the restless look again. With a single vault she hopped seats, opened my door and landed a pretty violent kiss, making us both tumble clumsily out onto the pavement, laughing with a young body’s defiant bounce. Then suddenly serious, she announced, “C’mon buddy, you’re missing the show!”

“Trust” is warning someone there’s a cliff up ahead.. “Loyalty” is following them right over it! (:

Who is wise, and who is the fool?
The one with the facts, or the one with the truth? (:

My first job out of college was Music Director at a summer camp. Having partied pretty hard my senior year, sitting in a quiet Music Room overlooking a lake sounded pretty nice. Plus I would get extra pay, for being a part-time camp counselor, then be excused afternoons to plan night-time music. No drinking was allowed, but the head counselor enjoyed his herb, claiming a responsible toke kept us all sane. So he acted as Spirit Guide, whisking us off for a quick buzz, asking if we had any hazardous activities planned, as he was safety-guide too. I started liking the woods, so I scheduled a hike for my cabin, of 8 middle-schoolers, with famous Hikemaster Hal, a Zen-like survivalist. Hal agreed, and appeared magically at our cabin later, leading us silently into the woods. We came upon a swamp. How would he handle it? A rope bridge? An unseen, raised trail? He waded into the swamp, and for two hours we trudged, waist-deep, then chest-deep through thick, black, bug-swarming, vermin-infested mud. I was increasingly baffled, and angry. He didn’t say a thing. What was being taught? We finally climbed up and out, directly behind the cabins. He nodded as he turned to leave. I yelled, “What happened to the hike?” He replied calmly, “That was the hike.” I showered, miffed, and headed for a much-needed, emergency toke with the head-counselor. He laughed deeply, saying, “I think you just learned the whole secret of camp! Maybe life..from Zenmaster Hal. All in one day. You’re a lucky man!” That night I was scheduled to lead a sing-along version of “Turn, Turn, Turn,” but hadn’t had time to learn the verses, or print hand-outs. But I took the hall-stage anyway, guitar in hand, and began singing, “To every thing Turn Turn Turn. There is a season Turn Turn Turn”.. Then I paused, and launched into a semi-stoned monologue about how there is a time for nature, and a time to turn away from nature. A purpose for camp, and a season to leave camp.. A time to walk into a swamp, and time to walk out of the swamp! I may have turned, before reprising the opening. Nodding thankfully, I left the stage to muted applause. No one asked what happened to the song, but if they had I might have replied, “That was the song.”