It was about 1978 when I'd picked up a Rolling Stone magazine and was reading between classes. The article and photos were about a new rage in music out of the New York club scene. Bands like the Ramones, The Dead Boys,the Clash and of course,the Sex Pistols were bringing the first tastes of agro-rock to the underground of rock. They were loud, abrasive and fascinating. The high mecca for this new sensation was a crappy little club called CBGB. At least this was all I read and assumed to be gospel. Then I closed up the magazine and went to History class. To me Punk was born.

From this shift in popular music came New Wave. Now New Wave was something I could actually get in to. First off it was played on the radio and I could buy the records. Secondly, it didn't necessarily require shoving a hot safety pin through my nose to show my allegiance, which is always good. Especially when I was already suffering from a bad perm and maligned glasses frames courtesy of a dodgeball accident. Think: Napoleon Dynamite, except not as sexy. Well by the summer of 1978, The Cars had blown up with their debut album. Blondie was starting out well, and even the B-52's were a new and exciting act out of Georgia. Fortunately for me, a radio station in the Washington area had dedicated themselves to playing this new format. WAVA kept the new and exciting rock coming. I burned up at least one telephone calling in to win records or tickets. Soon other acts came forward such as Joe Jackson and Talking Heads. But to me, The Cars had the staying power. They were melodic and quirky, but not so much so. I could actually play their stuff without getting the obligatory, 'What's THIS crap?' from my dad on the first play through. I proclaimed that "The Cars" was one of the best albums EVER as "Let the Good Times Roll" blasted from the Sansui speakers, and my dad openly wondered if I was just a little retarded. Insert Teen Angst here.

Just about 3 months ago, I was listening to the library of songs on my home computer that I use to load my iPod. Most likely I was surfing the 'net, or goofing around on a guitar, just typical stuff we all do everyday. Find a project, put on some jams. Fine. A song comes up and Jack gives it a listen, says he's always liked it, and asked who it was by. I asked if he really liked it, and if he knew the words. He said he felt he DID know the words...or at least a big chunk of them. I reached over to my Taylor 614, tuned it up and delving deep into my huge library of 13 songs I actual know, sat down and played it for him. He sang along with great abandon, with a sense of true surprise that he DID know the words and that yes, the old man really COULD play it. Together we crossed a wonderful bridge: a song we both loved, that together we could perform. A seed was planted. The song was the punk band Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)".





Back to the following summer in 1979, New Wave had a full head of steam. By this time Elvis Costello was riding his popularity crest, Talking Heads had a new album out (Fear of Music), and the Cars delivered 'Candy-O'. I couldn't go anywhere without hearing the track "Let's Go". Not the mall, not in the car, and not at my girlfriend's house. Well mostly because I didn't have a girlfriend, but I digress. The band was huge. And they were touring.

Summers were spent in Oklahoma with mom. It was six weeks of not having to get up at 5:00am to throw papers, which automatically made it my favorite place AND time. The Will Rogers Theatre with its random double features (Mel Brooks' 'Vertigo' was second bill to 'The Deer Hunter'...talk about your ying and yang) was walking distance. The Patio, My Pi, and Beverly's were all great places to eat. And of course, it was time with mom. It was good. In contrast was the whole newspaper situation. The Daily Oklahoman versus The Washington Post. Ok, that part..was bad. I was used to the Sports section being 20 pages in Washington. Here the whole newspaper wasn't 20 pages. So I'd peruse the whole paper here and even got to the point of checking the classified as a matter of regular course. I had 6 weeks to kill, I wasn't about to miss out on knowing when the next farm auction was going to be held. One sleepy morning I flipped open the classified and saw it: Gold.

Tickets to the Cars.

Now with Jack, once he finds something he likes, the boy WILL stick with it. And in the past three months, he's been sticking with Green Day. All of Green Day. They'd pop up on a concert show like 'Storytellers' and we'd record it and he'd jam along with it. But this was different. He was paying attention to guitars and hand positions and the dialogue and the names of the performers. He was getting INTO this band. He was becoming emotionally invested. One evening as I was goofing around on my laptop, I looked up at him, and he was air guitar-ing with his eyes shut and belting out the words. But with a different intensity than before. I quietly mumbled to myself, "It's time."

The deal with the Cars tickets of 1979 was three-fold. One, it would be my first concert. Two, the tickets would have to be bought from a scalper. And lastly, it would require exactly half of my summer allowance from mom to pull it off. This was June. The show was in August. The upside if it all worked out?.. Third row center at the Civic Center...for MY band. The cost: $25. I said I wanted to do it. Foregoing golf, junk food, and shopping, I was committing to a band. I was driven to a small crumbling house on 18th street and paid the $25. In my hand was a life-changing event. The hard part was now waiting to do it.

As a parent we all want to do right by our kids and teach them the things in life they need to succeed. Study hard, play nice with others, clean your room, etc. And at the end of the day if they pick up the majority of those things we are happy. But there are also little things that he like to hope we can have someday as well, and presenting something that we enjoy a lot to them and in turn having them enjoy it is a real slice of heaven. We can force feed sports or dance or reading onto them and many times if it doesn't stick we have a real sense of let down. But when it DOES stick, when they do find that enthusiasm as truly as we do, it's a wonderment. So after seeing Jack get into his band, it became clear to me that may be whatever the cost, it would be something he and I could truly enjoy together. So I made my move. I got online and bought tickets. Good tickets. Then I made a plan.

The Cars show was opened by Nick Gilder (Hot Child in the City), and he was appropriately loud and pretty bad honestly. Then after a fashion the real show started.
Of course they opened with "Let's Go", and to this day I still get goosebumps. Rik Ocasek had a lightning bolt guitar strap and the whole band didn't move 5 steps the whole show. And it was awesome. I was deaf as a doorknob for 2 days later. Which meant I had to play the album just that much louder at the duplex we were in, and by this point mom was about to ship me off to anywhere if she had to listen to side 2 of that record one more time. Three days later, we were on a plane heading home to Washington, DC and that stupid paper route. But I had my concert t-shirt on the whole way.

My plan with Jack was to take him out of school early, and drive to Dallas on a Thursday night, see the show and rely heavily on my world class insomnia to get us home by 3:00am on Friday morning hoping he'd fall asleep on the way home. The rest of the family showed up at school to see the expression on his face when I told him he was about to go see HIS band. And it was so worth it. Little boys don't tear up at much. This little boys did. At the show he jumped, screamed, pumped his fist, yelled at authority, and got hoarse. He also got a t-shirt and wore it the whole way home.

And it was heaven to me, for together we had crossed a bridge permanently. His first concert is one he won't ever forget. Which for me was all I wanted. I wanted him to be rewarded for investing in something he can call his. Twenty years from now when he's at work, he'll be able to say his first show was a punk band in all of it's loudness and crudeness and fascination.



As we walked out of the venue after a 3 hour show, Jack leaned into me and said, "Dad, I can truly say I had the time of my life."





(in front of Green Day tour bus)

Friday February 5, 2010
Late at Night.


"I know you're different. You know I'm the same."
Second Nature, Rush (Peart)



I guess one projects his respective interests on his kids whether they want it or not. Almost by simple osmosis they absorb what goes on around them and to some level it is appreciated and taken in or more likely, completely discarded. The interests that have staying power have a certain victory quality, or at least an affirmation of quality. These 'quality' activities help instill interests for one's kids and at least potentially, one's deeper future generations. Seeing what sticks is when it gets fun. Completely, utterly fun.

My oldest is arguably the most gentle soul I know. Hardly a quiet kid, yet he is exceptionally caring and acutely aware of others, being gracious and kind almost to a fault. He has the physical size that if he were to be a bullying sort, he could have his way in many instances. The fact that I have to teach him how to be aggressive on a basketball court, is still heart-warming. Now, mind you, once he's been given permission to literally throw his weight around, he will. I've seen him play with a controlled aggression that both is inspiring and impressive. But as soon as the game is over, he's back to being his gentle self, quietly drawing with an acumen that never fails to take my breath away.



The youngest on his own merit, is a ball of energy with a true passion for sports. All sports. The DEEP sports: "Dad, turn it back...it's women's billiards." He is the guy ESPN was made for. Athletics come easily to him, and he can and may do anything he wants inside chalk lines, fairways or under bright lights. He runs about the house in what seems like an unlimited number of sports uniforms, starting as Kevin Durant and then shape-shifting into Adrian Peterson in mere seconds. He insists I work on my alley-oop release. He has a very particular facemask he wants on his helmet. And the visor that goes with it. He knows all the rules to many of the games, flooring even me last Sunday during the Federer final in the Aussie Open when he told me without TV prompting that it was a break point for Federer in the third set tie-breaker. I kept my mouth shut not wanting discourage the kid as I stepped on him with my wealth of tennis knowledge, only to have Dick Enberg remind the audience that it was break point for Federer here in the third set tiebreaker. I flipped over to see what was going on in Women's billiards.

My dad came to the photography game while stationed in Thailand. Buying a Nikon F2A and a couple lenses and putting them to use when he got back to the mainland. And after he put them them to good use, he turned around and used them for making my sister and I just a litta bit crazy. Trips to Annapolis, Kill Devil Hills and Gettysburg were recorded with frame after frame of teenage ennui. Back in the good old days the cameras had film in them and the really good film made not prints, but slides. Yes, with a giant-ass bed sheet, my incredibly bad haircut and hideous glasses could be blown up to be the size of a small dirigible. Uproarious laughter by the photographer always accompanied the pained exhibit. The upside was having to sit in the dark of a bathroom trying to feed the photo-sensitive film into canisters and then letting the film dry, then ultimately sliced and mounted into slides. Homemade slides.

My grandpa was a mortician, and I write that with a morbid warmth in my heart. He was a gentle soul and deeply religious. He always knew there was another life after this and so he trod lightly in this life. For 97 years. He was also was a premier sportsman, and the rules of 'needing what you take, and taking what you needed' always applied. "If you hunt it, kill it. And if you kill it, you better eat it", ring in my ears every time I grab my fishing rod or shotgun. So along with family and friends he would hunt the Canadian north for trophies and dinner. Not necessarily in that order. He had a son who would become a provincially ranked shooter at 16. Guns weren't looked upon with any more regard than we'd give a ax. It was a tool...a tool you could really hurt yourself with if you went to screwing around with it, but if it was used correctly it was handy as a pocketknife, a handkerchief or a 30 lb. ball of camp wire. Guns back in the good old days didn't have a monster 30x scope with drop compensation built in. No, you put the sight on the moose/deer/elk/caribou and trust yourself. He got good at shooting because he had folks to feed.






Last weekend, my gentle giant drove me to the verge if insanity as we sat through a heavy downfall of snow, sleet and ice. It was my job,... no, duty... to thaw out the truck and drive him to...the gun store. Not any gun store for any 9 year old. No, the store where..they...know...him. I literally parked the truck, let him out, and continued to pound the windshield wipers into some usable fashion. After 10 minutes, I walked into the store where I completely expected him to be over by the cleaning rags and pouting that I hadn't come in and talked guns with the shopkeeper, but alas to my poorly hidden delight was my son shouldering and lowering a Browning, a Beretta, and a Remington, respectively. He was the only one in there as a customer. He was serious. He was passionate. We couldn't shoot, so we went where they talk about shooting. I bought a case of shells and did what every good dad would: loaded his butt up in the freezing truck and went to the OTHER gun store. He told me of each gun behind the counter. Told me his preferences. Told me what he would buy tomorrow if he had the money. He researched it all in books and magazines he bought with Christmas money. Other kids want to know the cheat codes for the latest war video games. Mine wants to know the magazine capacity of a Remington 11-87 versus a Browning Citori. He's figured out choke sizes. He competes in sporting clays tournaments as a Sub-junior. I didn't teach him that. I couldn't teach him that. It came from a different generation. Or two. Echoes from the past. Needing to be heard. Soothed.


This week, the youngest and I were doing what would be the equivalent of flipping baseball cards. We each grab our respective iPods and run through the music library and try to turn each other onto what music interests us. He truly has his own tastes, as do I. But many more times than not, we agree that we like a tune and flip it into our current playlist rotation. This week he turned me onto The Killers, a current pop band from Las Vegas. And honestly, I've been wearing it out. Conversely, I knew I'd made an impression on him as I walked past his bedroom at bedtime, only to hear the muffled sound of a kid under the blankets doing the trademark 'Whoa-oh-oh-oh's of "The Trooper" a song of the Crimean War from 80's heavy metal godfathers Iron Maiden. A 21st century "Mays for Mantle". One can teach children to listen to some music. No one can force personal preferences like this if they won't stick on their own. I love it that he likes my music. But I love it that I love HIS music.


Today my full photo card from the last 3 months has finally worked its way to the photo store to have enlargements made to ultimately have framed. As I turned the disk over, I dug deep and found my very serious voice and said, "Don't screw this up. I mean it." Of course I have everything backed up in two disks here at the house and online. Honestly the disk could be tossed to the wind and it would be just fine. But still, it felt like handing in a term paper. A term paper I really tried on; knowing there was some seriously good stuff in there. The disk was opened and the sales guy confirmed that this was good stuff, and that working with it wouldn't be a problem. It felt like pressing the lens to the slide on the viewer and seeing the image. Seeing the image come out perfectly. Even if it was my bucked teeth, bad hair and mismatched clothes.




Still, it was perfect.





And completely, utterly fun.

New Year's Day 2010


"There's a brand new dance
but I don't know its name."
- David Bowie, "Fashion"


I suppose at the beginning of a new year many will sit down and look at goals and plans for the future. Most will tend to hope their ship stays righted and on the same course. Others will look for a better circumstance. All of us will hope and pray against unusual or untoward events. Primarily, I'll hope to go another year without having to clean out my closet.

Yes, it has come down to that. My last dug-in entrenchment must remain intact. I know it's the home of old cameras, audio gear of each of the past 3 decades, photo albums, diplomas, unsent warranty cards and game-worn hockey jerseys from players with careers as long as 7 years, but it's mine. The boys treat it like untapped treasure, wandering out with things unseen in a generation, wanting to know 'what's this go to?'. Discovering parts of started coin collections, weather radios, gold plated graduation pens, polarizing lenses and even a gold crown from the upper left bicuspid of my beloved grandfather. Stuff with stories behind it. Treasure.

And then there's the clothes...

The previous assaults have come as loaded questions such as,"Do you think you could get much for this on eBay?" or "Exactly what year did you buy this?". The best is, "Tell me precisely when you might wear this again?" as a pair of ultra double pleated front Ralph Lauren labeled pants that honestly would fit Ralph Kramden are wagged in front of me. I answered with what I always answer with: "Tuesday."

I don't have fashion sense. I don't need to. I work in pajamas. Part of the reason I chose my job is because I can work in pajamas. The biggest decision I make about my wardrobe is "light blue or dark blue." When I come home, I toss on a pair of jeans, a different pair of sneakers and something lavish like a thunder sweatshirt.





Yee-haw.

There was a time where I was the clothes horse though. I dated a bona fide clothes horse for awhile and that was simply a different artform. It was serious stuff. It was contagious. For a while there, I could honestly tell you the difference in this year's and last year's Liz Claiborne shoes. And with some pride, I might add. I became a ladies shoe snob. To this day, I will tell a patient that she is the "Nicest shoes of the Day"-winner, but they really do have to be nice. We're talking at least a three inch heel and black strappy covers everything, except maybe red patent...huh?...where was I? But I digress. Fashion scouting reports, field trips, mental note-taking at church. Once purchased, everything had a shelf life. Oscar de la Renta was likely shorter lived than anything with Oscar Meyer on it.

Someone will have to explain to me the whole jeans thing. Guys denim that has been 'bedazzled' and then charged $300 for, needs to come with an explanation. I'm not saying it couldn't happen. But. In my previous lifetimes, those fashion choices usually required a lost wager, photographs of compromising nature and a great deal of alcohol. I don't give a damn how big the dragon is across my ass, I ain't wearing it. Unless, of course, it can get me in a position of compromising nature while consuming a great deal of alcohol.

On a matter of principle, I went way retro and bought some plain old Levi 501's. That's right boys and girls. Button fly. I felt like I'd stormed the halls of fashion like Napoleon as I threw on a pair in my size 33/33's, sucking it in with all my might...only...to...not...have to. They fit. It felt awesome. And then in some weird reality, it didn't. I felt small and puny. Now wait, I still bought them, after all that label on your butt is like walking around with the Stanley Cup, regardless if you've spent 1500 hours in the gym or have a highly functioning tape worm.

I think I have four suits, which after buying one Italian suit with a simply surreal handmade custom shirt (I think the real word is 'blouse'..and for $350 it better have it's own word) is three suits too many. Honestly, if left to my own devices, I'd go into the deep end for suits. I read once where an Italian designer said a full tailored suit should be the most comfortable thing you own, and laughed. Then I got one. I stopped laughing. Nice shoes are the same way. It's probably criminal in certain circles that I only have four pairs of shoes not used specifically for triathlon training, but I return to the point of my daily routine.


But maybe that speaks to the whole closet thing. I don't particularly 'out-grow' things, and I've rarely bought too much stuff that was completely 'out there'. (except for my one pair of hideous "Jamz-esque meets MC Hammer" sweats...deliciously awful) They would have had to have survived multiple 'consolidations'. (Consolidation is what is referred to as "I'm throwing your crap out,honey.") But the stuff that remained is showing signs of life. Those Wayfarers of yesteryear are now on fire on the Champs-elysee. As are the Izods, Polos and Fred Perry's. Packrats rejoice.

So after all these years of accumulating junk and tossing so many tons more, perhaps I'm entitled to keep my closet as is. Perhaps we all are allowed. Fashion is having a zero-effect on me, or perhaps I'm having a zero-effect on fashion.

So what's left?



Stories, trinkets and nick-naks.



Treasure.

Christmas Eve. Wow, what's not to love about Christmas eve? Literally as I sit here, about every 12 minutes, the boys wander out of their bedrooms mumble something I assume is a low-level conspiracy between each other as to WHY they can't sleep and making sure the story is straight before they make their ever-so-convincing 'confused why we can't go to sleep'-look, while quickly perusing the room to see if HE has come yet. And each time they meander out, they look more and more like a yuletide version of "Attack of the Zombies" with each passing hour.

"But dad, ..I...(looking frantically)...was wondering if...(looking, looking, looking) you wanted me to re-wrap any of my gifts?", said the oldest, barely able to keep a straight face with his faux sincerity. "Naw, man. I can live with the 'one layer of paper and 5,000 wraps of the scotch tape'-thing you've got going on here." "Well in that case,...how's about I just sit here and, you know....just wait with you...since you are ... all up (colossal yawn)...and everything?", now blinking wildly through yawn tears.

"Go. To. Bed."

Now I know Santa knows who's been bad and good all year. But that doesn't stop some last minute politicking. Deadline additions to The List are not uncommon. We all did it. Toys that have been pined over for months are quickly sidelined in favor of a gizmo with a flashy ad campaign. Parents scramble to find that bicycle/cabbage patch/iPod/Elmo. Kids ask for it because, well it's Santa and I HAVE been good all year. The Santa envelope gets pushed just a little further each year. The really wacky stuff gets asked for, not because it is truly desired, but rather as a measure of just HOW good, was I? Seems to make sense...

I had the incredible good luck to have a cousin post a bunch of photos of some Christmases we had as kids. It put back into focus some fuzzy memories of kids chasing each other, gigantic meals, modest yet ethereal times when getting a single toy that required batteries was a HUGE haul. And a Christmas tree adorned with those perfect ornaments that in clinically-exceptional form, caused sheer delight by just pulling them from their packaging and placing them on a lop-sided evergreen. Photos of bad haircuts, wide bell bottoms and even wider collars were a wonderful delight. The grainy visions of gingerbread houses past, what with the partially missing Fruit Strip sidewalks, transported me back. Back to a time when the grandparents made that 2-day drive to come see us. And it was enormously special. The greatest things in the world would all convene and would be exponentially be better because of it. Grandma would pour over Christmas treats. Christmas dinner would be made that perfect way. Even between meal snacking was... encouraged!!

Of course the person in charge of making Christmas wonderful was my mom. Nothing unusual about that. Lots and lots of moms make sure that if there is one day out of the year their kiddo is going to have a fantastic day, it'll be Christmas. But from my earliest days, it really wasn't about how much, or how big. It became a measure of how SPECIAL. Never was the true meaning of Christmas lost. Each year we'd break out the Bible, and read the Christmas story before opening any gifts. But in addition to that, we'd have the house decorated and it was always a real tree that we hung tinsel from. After all Christmas had to SMELL like Christmas as much as look and taste like the season.

Probably the youngest Christmas I recall was a trip to the Canadian Rockies and a visit to Radium Hot Springs. Half the family is Canadian, so it was a perfect spot to gather. I was about 5 or 6, and this was a big deal. We were all crammed into a freezing cabin and as I recall, all the beds were twin size. The mattress was ideal...if one had scholiosis. I remember having the mixed blessing of having to rack with grandpa. Mixed in that grandpa snored. Not 'make a little rumble' snoring. Snored like he was trying to suck down a tube sock through his right nostril, with a jackhammer in his left. That year he gave me a prized and high appreciated gift: my first fishing rod. I thanked him by pee-ing in the bed.

(It was on a subsequent trip like this that Grandpa brought down his Ski-doo and invited the family for the wintertime fun that was being pulled behind the Ski-doo...on a flipped-over truck hood...in 10 degree weather. Ah yes, regular gas fumes, other-worldly frostbite and a river of snot pouring out my nose while I have a deathclutch on any surface I can get ahold of as we go flying around the frozen lake at about 4000 mph. Good times...)

Of course this is the time of year where a set of tires can be run through just driving back and forth between home, parents, in-laws, and cousins. With each stop is a new 10,000 calorie meal and another iTunes gift card. By Boxing Day, I'm oozing gravy and have a decidedly pinkish hue from all the ham and cranberry jell-o I've ingested. Ironically I wear my adidas training suit to most of these gatherings. I guess it does take a measure of training to get ready for that triple bypass. That elastic waistband does come in handy though.

The skill of gift-giving can pay off during this time of year of course. But there is still the art of 'gift-receiving'. That grin and bear it time when you are handed something so perfectly wrong and yet you can't let on. The year I got a Chicago Bears sweatshirt with an ironed-on 51 and Butkis across the shoulders, was particularly epic in that a) I have no real affinity for a player from what was 20 years previous and b) I didn't ever like the Chicago Bears. The fact that it came from the girlfriend's parents lead me to believe they either didn't listen to a word I said or didn't want me to be the boyfriend any longer. Ultimately they got both.

As a kid, or I should say as a kid who hated school, I was always loathe to pick up the gift that I just knew was...a book. There's books and then there's BOOKS. Nothing says Christmas Happytime like "1001 Incredibly Hard Math Problems that You Have No Chance of Ever Solving, BigBoy"... in hardback. They may as well have given me a Mason jar of baby tears. How does one even fake-smile through that one?

From a purely 'hit it out of the park' stance, there was a gift I got when I was a kid that I truly didn't expect. Partly because it was pricey and partly because I REALLY wanted it. I got my first Nikon and...I...freaked. I'd wanted...no I LUSTED this toy. I knew I could only afford to get a few rolls of film developed, but I also learned quickly that I liked the pictures I took. And to this day, learning the lessons I learned with that camera, I still like the photos I take. I got that camera as a 16 year old. And I got it from Santa. And to this day, you can't tell me he doesn't exist.

Through the years, mom always made a to-do about the gathering of family. Whether it was the Canada crowd and/or the folks from Oklahoma. It was a centerpiece of union. Love and laughter would pour in and for a few days we'd just stop. Stop our frenetic pace, and look around. Be humbled at our blessings. At the top of these Christmases may be the most bittersweet. In 1995, mom had fought about as hard as anyone could have against an opponent that didn't fight fair. We knew it. We also knew we needed that year to be special. Family from near and far came to town. They came because this was her season. The one she had bought special plates for, special trains for, special ornaments, glasswear, clothing. Years and years of making it special for us. We needed to make it special for her.

And we did.



So here I am again on Christmas. Eternally grateful for my blessings which have been as little as a fishing rod and as big as that warm fuzzy feeling sitting next to my family telling stories and waiting on Santa with the boys.

Just kinda wish someone else was here, because I always think about her.


Her smiling,.... barking at me...





"Go. To. Bed."

It's Saturday night and I'm doing what I normally do on Saturday nights. Nothing. Well nothing, and watching rodeo. It appears to very serious business because each of the contestants is wearing the equivalent of a full-body cast BEFORE they ride. Neck and back braces, wrist wraps and even the odd helmet. Someone needs to send these ol' boys a memo and tell them that these animals are BIG.

The band played a wedding this summer for a wonderful couple, the groom of which is a cowboy. Not the OSU variety, but rather the 'fall off a horse/bull/Crazy Arkansas chick variety. This guy and all his buds are that 'no screwing around' tough. Many you could hook up their horse trailer to their chin. Most of the introductions for the evening went like, "Geoff this is Rusty, Rusty..this is Geoff. He's hilarious." Then we'd shake hands and it felt like having my hand in a hydraulic vise. A vise twice the size of mine. Rusty would smile a Skoal-filled crooked yet warm smile, and I would smile in a way that said, "damn I hope I survive this handshake." You see my hands are tough from years of fighting gingivitis. Rusty's hands are tough from years of throwing 800 lb. animals on their ass by twisting their heads around to see their respective now-empty scrotums, for which, Rusty was acutely responsible too. I remember one time twisting MY neck really far too. It was from swinging at a golf ball. Take that, Rusty. Try living with the repercussions of miss clubbing from 175 yards. So I don't wanna hear about getting a finger knotted up in a mis-thrown heeler during a NFR qualifier.

I did learn that it is universally thought that real cowboys, in real Wranglers and clean starched shirts are quite dearly thought of by the fairer sex. No matter which directions their fingers, kneecaps or shoulders go. So maybe there is something to strapping oneself to a giant critter with the brain of a drunken possum.

I remember as a kid meeting Larry Mahan. He was working a booth at the State Fair in his home state of Oregon in about 1971. It was late in the day, his day had been full of glad-handing folks, listening to the same stories of greatness recalled of him from adoring fans, and I'm sure about 3 cans of Copenhagen. Dad saw him, recognized the name and knew that I liked autographs and this would be an opportunity. Larry was essentially alone in the dim light of a hanging light bulb in a fair booth. Now, I didn't know squat about rodeo other than the limited exposure of Wide World of Sports and well, I thought it was super-cool because it showed these ultra-tough guys doing amazing things. And the entirity of their armamentarium was: a hat. A rope, maybe. But a hat for sure. And there was Larry Mahan, then 5-time world Champion, right in front of me. As late in the day as it was, and as hungover as he could have been, when he saw this goofy little 8 year old kid with a bad choice in personal wardrobe, he did as I'm sure he had done a thousand times before that day: he smiled, called me by my freshly-introduced name, and shook my hand with a paw that felt like extra-course grit sandpaper. He engaged my dad on some small talk, mussed my hair and signed "To Geoff, Best Wishes...Larry Mahan". And you know what...when he won that sixth championship in 1973, I read of it in the papers and smiled a big goofy smile. Because my buddy had done it again.

I knew right then that I'm probably not cut out for rodeo. Which is a shame. I tend to think that life's greatest achievements really could be marked not with a piece of paper, e.g. birth certificates, marriage licenses, diplomas, etc., but rather a good belt buckle. Can one imagine the glory, not to mention the sheer mass of the buckle celebrating a new driver's license? Or the utter glory of a college degree? Not to mention boy-girl conquests? Yessir, a buckle the size of a dinner plate is loud, proud and mostly...portable. EVERYONE can see it. Who needs a doctoral sheepskin when you can have something roughly the size of a '58 Buick bumper around one's waist?

But being that rodeo, or pro football, or mixed martial arts championships are out of reach (not for a lack of talent mind you, but I'm pretty sure it would take me out of that 1650 daily caloric intake thing we all live by, right?) then I'd have to draw on my wealth of knowledge from personal experience to whittle down to a list of things I COULD do, eliminating from a set of jobs I HAVE done. I hate to be repetitive.

Therefore, I can remove paper-thrower, having tossed the Washington Post for three years. I hated that job if for no other reason than it set my sleep schedule from 9:15pm to 5:00am...through high school. Oddly, chicks didn't dig my uncontrolled yawning starting at 8:20. For that matter they didn't dig my permed hair, bad glasses, or lack of much socially in general either. The upside was I was awake when the FM stations played the great music that they couldn't play during prime time... Not to mention any time there was a need to be caller 7 to win a contest or new promo album on the radio, it wasn't uncommon that I was caller 2,3,5,6 and 7. "WPGC...you're caller 7...oh, hey Geoff. Yeah, I've got your address right here. 20870 is your zip right?" So in hind sight it was a push.

Next on the list would be yardguy/maintenance man. This involved learning-on-the-fly electrical and plumbing work. It's amazing how mad one can get at one's self when "Be sure you flip the breaker" is ignored. Twice. I learned how to tile and grout. And dry wall. I also learned that I hope to never do that again in my life, and so when these activities present themselves today, I plead ignorance. The upside to that job was learning pool maintenance. In a college town. No, the chemicals probably didn't NEED to be checked every 20 minutes, but when working for your step-dad, one cannot be too careful. I could die in an electrical accident. I wasn't going to die because the pool needed chlorine. Self-preservation, you know.

I worked at Hardee's for two, count 'em two nights. That's NIGHTS. I learned that brown polyester doesn't breathe and it DOES catch fire easily. And when my direct supervisor had "Love" and "Hate" tattoo'ed across her fingers...I knew that I probably wasn't going to be flying up any corporate ladders anytime soon. I learned to be incredibly nice to those in the food service business. They can, and will, jack with your dinner. And not care one bit. I also learned to not order the fried pies. Ever.

Well, with this deep and wide assortment on my resume', I guess rodeoing wouldn't be that bad. After all it's only 8 seconds. And it's not hauling wet carpet out of a flooded apartment, or being yelled 'custom order!!!' by a amphetamine driven line cook, or even walking in the pouring cold rain tossing papers. No, I wouldn't have to get my mind around being thrown 15 feet in the air, and landing on my ear.

Mentally, I would just have to survive shaking hands with 20 'Rustys' every weekend.

Paris.

I don't know, maybe it is or maybe it isn't my favorite place in the world. How about this..? GEOGRAPHICALLY..it's my favorite place. Obviously I'm not going to over ride the happy place of the warmth of my kiddos hugs for a 'almost fell on my ass because I didn't grab the rail' metro trip, but you get my point.

The first trip was 4 years ago. I clamored for months trying to learn at least some of the language. The stuff I would NEED. Anyone can ask for an extra glass of water...without carbonation. I planned on needing the good stuff. "Pardon me sir, I have seriously overeaten and would like the care of a fine physician in a stellar hospital. Can you help me?", or "I am trying to tell you I have the Mother of ALL Hangovers, and am willing to give you much of this multi-coloured paper money to make it go away."

Yes, for what seemed like an eternity, each morning I'd play the same lessons on the stereo in the bathroom telling me how to order a glass of red wine ('vin rouge'), explain how I was going to walk around the block, and then order 'something else'(Autre chose). Nothing about cheese, museums, taxis, or talking my way out of staring at people with really,really bad hair. No I was going to subsist on red wine, walking and something else. For a week.

Here's the deal: if one just tries...tries the language, each time the French have given me extra-super credit, and they open up with their English, and their humor. They become positively helpful. One night I was hungry, which is entirely common while walking past bakery after bakery...when I walked into...a bakery. A boulangerie ."Je voudrais cinq croissant, si vous plait.", I attempt to order 5 rolls. The lovely 50-something lady behind the counter asked if I wanted them in a bag to go, I think. I fumbled to keep up my front. I blurted something out in English. She stopped. Smiled. Slowed the conversation down. "Please. Use your French." And then, she waited. Waited on me to organize a thought, figure out the words and go again. I told her that I would like to take them to go...or I told her to feed the zebra...either way, she smiled hugely, asked for about 3 euros, and we were done. I have been smitten ever since.

Paris is a cheater town though. One can go there, not know a lick about parlez this or parlez that, and probably get along fine. Eating is the most obvious example. The menu will say something that shares a word over here, but means something entirely different there. You may want the "Outback Caesar salad with extra croutons on the side, and instead of Caesar dressing can you bring out a fat free vinaigrette, and maybe..cos we're on vacation and all...maybe get some shrimp (steamed) on the side." Yeah, that ain't happening. But if you want just a salad, and you ask nicely...you might get it. But...as I've learned..but, why would you? It's France, get out of your own way. Order the thing that you wouldn't eat on a bet from your cousin JimBob. Like mom used to say, "try ...one...bite."

My favorite soup in the world is there. In case I didn't express the point earlier, I'm not very fluent in French, so I'm mostly on the "I'll trust you not to kill me, and you'll trust that my ghost won't come back to haunt your cafe'"-plan when it comes to ordering. The soup of the evening had been explained in very, very,very broken English, that it would be a Cream of Celery. Ok...about 98th on Top 100 Campbell's hits, but my survival wasn't in jeopardy. All that other writing on the menu must be talking about the temperate regions the Celery was grown, huh? So the soup hits the table, and well, there's nuts in my soup. No, not the Stillwater kind of nuts, the nuts kind of nuts. Pistachios to be exact. Finely chopped. Sitting in about 4 drops of some sort of oil ON TOP of the CREAM soup. I take a sip and go from thinking thoughts of how many books I'll read in the bathroom, to getting dibs on the bowl across me. There is a couple next to me that have had it before and know what's next. When French people stare at you when you are eating, you ain't eating Campbell's. In the bottom of the bowl, in litta bitty pieces was the foie. I had a big spoonful, smiled at my next table company, and they smiled back. "C'est tres bon."

Sometimes the language really is lost. It's no one's fault, it just is. Things are taken or understood differently. If everywhere was Mobile, Alabama would the world be a better place? I dunno. Mobile may be killer. But how do they get that "O" sound out of "-ault". I mean just look for yourself




It's a beautiful city. Sure the things like the Eiffel Tour and the Louvre are amazing. But the little things are fascinating. The one thing that grabbed me was the produce. So many little places to buy fruit, flowers,...one here, another 2 blocks away. So bright and alive. And it had to be bought today. Now. And it was.







Countless folks walking home with a fresh baguette, a small handful of veggies, and cheese. So simple and uncomplicated. So few really fat people. Usually, the really fat folks were the Americans. Yeah us... I mean if you are going to pass out, why not make it the Louvre?




This last trip was less about fitting into a new culture and more about just riding the tide OF the culture. Seeing museums became secondary to moving in the city. Walking into stores, trying on clothes; or buying glasses, or that fiend, chocolate. No, none of the locals were faked out because I was wearing my brown shoes instead of my Asics, or the fact that I was as tough as they were not needing a big down parka, because yes, I wore the same long handles under my 501's for 7 days, which was really interesting especially when on Day 6 they elastic waistband said,"Enough", and decided to ride about mid-cheek for the rest of the trip. Yeah,...it's not as hot as you may be thinking, even I will admit to that. Especially going from the relative support of jeans to the blousyness of dress pants at the Opera. Yes, I walked around the Opera House yankin on my pants looking like I'm trying to find Mr. Haney to get the ladder to climb up the telephone pole to call the folks back home and tell them about these here singerfolks. And let's just say it was a tad warmish to begin with inside the place without the help of anything out of the Cabela's catalog.

Made me wanna go out and walk around, drinking red wine....or autre chose.

Bands stories like many things in life become better with a little age, especially if there is a person to vouch for the fact/fiction. Nothing actually HAS to have happened, it just has to have been SAID it happened. Now, that said, most of the following is true.

Back in a different time, two of my dearest friends met in undergraduate school. Some people call this "college". Other people with really dumb dreams founded in not keeping normal schedules in life, living in poverty, and being completely unafraid to smell like a cadaver around others, call this 'undergraduate school'. The really afflicted actually GO to medical school. Those who find making fake teeth fun, go to dental school. Yes, it's that simple. These friends were one of each. So to summarize, each had really dumb dreams, smelled poorly at times, and were completely unfazed at studying any and all parts of the human body with great interest. Endlessly. I, on the other hand, could find an end quite easily.

Now the med student is a gifted guitar player. Really. I don't say that because he's my friend,or that he stores my junk, or that I owe him fifty bucks. He's good. He can play anything, although he has a tendency to play really annoying 80's rock. Which at the time was 'current rock'. Or 'Less pre-historic rock', as it may go for now.

I'd been invited to meet the med student/guitar player because I'd opened my mouth one day to the bass player and said I had a drum kit and might want to get together to play. You know, kind of like you want to go to Grandma's and check out her dinner patterns. It sounds good, but 'Please oh, please,...don't call me out on this one.' I got called out.

The order of things were that the Bass player was just getting into playing the bass, and he was friends with the guitar player, so there would be some friendly tutoring going on, and I was friends with the bass player and I had drums. That's it. Everything else like ME being friends with the guitar player and ME actually playing with something other than Genesis records would need to evolve. We reportedly liked the same kind of tunes, so it would be easy to find common ground there. It just needed to be 'painfully easy to play for 2/3rds of this gathering' in order for it to fly.

I recall walking into the guitar player's residence on a Sunday afternoon, and he is shirtless, wearing an unenviable pair of Jamz and his ultra-cool Technics stereo is blasting. I mean really....blasting. He has his guitar on and his amp is...blasting. We walk in, and he doesn't...even...slow...down. For we are coming to THAT part...That part of the song he has been waiting 434 hours of studying to play. The song was REO Speedwagon's "Roll with the Changes". He isn't playing the jangly rhythm part, no. He's playing the lead. And like I said, he's playing along very well. SO well that when he finally quits, the stereo sounds awful. And the stereo is playing....REO Speedwagon.

At this point, I knew I was going to be a huge disappointment to him on drums, because I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to play "Misunderstanding" twenty-five times. But at least the bass player sucks, so I have that going for me. Majority suckage: It Works. Later we would find acceptable singing was a simple luxury we couldn't afford. So we sang anyway. Or I should say, THEY sang, because THEY unplugged my mic without telling me. Front of the stage uproarious laughter ensued. I had a sore throat for 3 days. Jerks.

Somehow, some way we negotiate around a 10x10 water bed in a 12x12 bedroom with me literally in the closet. . Then the epic happens. The guitar player plays a little spot from a song he knows well, just to set his amp volume. We look at each other...think, 'I may know that'...and fire off into what I still refer to as my audition song, Led Zeppelin's 'Rock and Roll'. I get goosebumps just typing that. Realistically it was probably a 6 out of 10, but it was cool. We became a band. And I was in a closet...in a mobile home...in Oklahoma. Which is sorta like Abbey Road studio.

We scramble around and call every apartment complex in the metro to see if we can use their rec rooms for some 'soft folky music' rehearsals. we subsequently were kicked out of each one. We play in the storm shelter at the mobile home park, in all of it's cinder block acoustic glory. Once. It's still echoing down there to this day.

Then somewhere in here we get notice that there is a guitar show going on in Norman on a spring weekend. Fine, it'll give us something to do. We are broke, and bored. But mostly broke. The $6 entry fee cuts into our dinner funds, but 'we are a band, and this what bands do'. Guitar shows are good for finding guitars. They are dead lousy for finding drums, drumheads, and drumsticks whether they be the wooden, chicken or ice cream variety. So I'm back to bored and broker. I lurk with the bass player, who at least has financial resources: a Texaco credit card and an ATM card.

Suddenly, the guitar player comes over to us with this 'way too enthusiastic' look in his eyes. "They-have-one-they-have-one-they-have-one". "They" is a guy with about 6 guitars. "One" is a tobacco-burst Gibson Les Paul Custom. Very similar in style to the one played by Ace Frehley of KISS. Also known as the biggest influence on the guitar player, ever.

We tell him to go see what he'll take for it, and the guitar player said, "He wants $600, but I really think I can get him to come off of it. I mean, look around. He can either sell it to me for my price or drag it back to BFE. Whattayathink?". "Sure", "Sure"

"ok...one problem. Seriously, how much dough can you get ahold of RIGHT NOW?" The bass player and I hem and haw about having a grand total of $14 on our combined persons. We remind him we are: BROKE.

"You guys know I've got the dough...I'll cut you a check as soon as we get home. I need the $600." Laughing trails off as we see how serious he is. I have an ATM card that is to be used only if I'm ever kidnapped by naked women... in a foreign country...on a Tuesday. I have access to $300. The bass player can come up with $250, without a permission slip from the defense department. The guitar player has $50. We are good.

"No way I spend all of it, because he's going to come off that guitar a ton." We walk back to the bored-looking dealer.

"Ok, what's your best price?"

"$600.", he said flatly.

"How about $550?", guitar player asks, winking at us proud of his amazing bargaining skills.

"How about $600?", the still-bored dealer replied.

Clearly confounded, yet undeterred, the guitar player counters with, "What about $595...?"

Smiling, the dealer trumps with, "Sure man,... I'll buy anyone lunch."

The freshly amalgamated (pun intended) rhythm section laughs. "Marilyn" came home with us.

The Ketone Bodies were officially formed. We played a couple school gigs. We were hugely famous among the three of us. Girls called us by our names, mostly because we had classes with them, but that was beside the point. Then graduation came.

Life took over and sent us to different parts of the State. Incomes rose, and somewhere along the line "Marilyn" was revisited and had a major modification. Changing her original pick-ups from the stock 2 pick-ups, to the three pick-ups like that of one Ace Frehley. She glittered with tips of the hat to Elvis and included a name plate over the truss rod cover. She was the first 'real' piece of gear we had, and we cherished her even as new gear (including drums) came into the fold. With an expanding set list and the addition of new members and even better friends, other guitars were employed for practice and gigging. But "Marilyn" would always make a showing for a song or two at our gigs.

One eventful evening we were playing our outdoor show for our 'social riding' friends, when right after a break the guitar player reached to grab "Marilyn" and she simply was gone. A crowd of nearly 1000, out in the middle of a hay field, in the middle of the night. Gone. The crowd was mad, as it looked very poorly on them, what with it being a private-type party, and we were doing it for charity. We simply mourned. We played the rest of the show, and quietly tore down. A police report was filed.

Here's the thing. Bikers can be some of the scariest dudes on the planet. But bikers, especially bikers with a charity cause, can also have influence. Within a matter of hours, the report of the loss of "Marilyn" had hit the radio stations. TV stations in Texas and Oklahoma had picked up the story. The underground of the bikers friends had made it known that there was a bounty out for the guitar.

A phone call was made. Mysteriously, a good Samaritan bought the guitar for $300 but he was willing to eat that to give it back. That was his story. We didn't care. And he's likely glad to have full function of his teeth today. "Marilyn" minus a couple pieces of bling, was home. We were all very grateful.

Tonight, out of the blue, I got a text from the guitar player. He's goofing off in California. Three days of sun and fun, and some jamming with friends. For giggles, he took his old flame on the trip west. He's just going to get up on stage, pull out his $595 guitar, play his licks all these years later, while sweating under the lights on the stage.



Because that's what you do.




When you play with Ace Frehley.