King of the Whole Darned World

America and Me - Part 2

2011-10-01T18:05:00.000-07:00

I told Duke Ellington to take the A train. I knew the secret woid and won a hundred dollas. I smoked a Chesterfield, a Lucky Strike, and a Camel. I was on the lecture circuit with Mark Twain. I told Stevie Wonder that it was finger poppin' time. I called Jim Morrison a Lizard King. I told Minnesota Fats to try the eight ball in the side pocket. I told Roger Maris to go for 61. I begged George Reeves not to do himself harm. I told Robert Young that Father Knows Best. I convinced Ozzie Nelson that a missing tie could be considered an "adventure". I told the MC5 to kick out the jams. I told Iron Butterfly to slur "In the Garden of Eden" to "In a Gadda Da Vida". I was on the grassy knoll. I told Elvis that if he felt it, he should wiggle. I went down to the crossroads with Robert Johnson. I told Joe Kennedy not to take the dangerous mission. I told Chick Webb to let Ella audition. I introduced Stan Laurel to Oliver Hardy, and Larry Fine to the Howard brothers. I knew that with Brylcreem a little dab'll do ya. I watched Bucky Beaver hawk Ipana toothpaste and I wondered where the yellow went when I brushed with Pepsodent. I thought Ovaltine tasted like chocolate vitamins. I went by whatever Mrs. Francis, Captain Kangaroo, and Buffalo Bob said. I saw George Carlin host the first Saturday Night Live. I was in the plane with Amelia Earhart. I helped Diego Rivera paint the mural at the DIA. I told Ditka to let Payton take in the last touchdown of the '85 Superbowl, but he went with the "Fridge" instead. I told Sam to play it again. I told Woody Allen to take the money and run. I told Stephen King's wife to pull "Carrie" out of the trash and submit it. I told Stonewall Jackson that we should bury his arm out back, separate from the others.... I decided that only in America could cooking, art, and comedy be made into a game show. And then I hated it. I was with the Detroit Tigers in 68 and 84. I told Kurt Gibson that even though he had a leg brace on he should go out and bat in the ninth inning. I thought Campbell Soup was "Um Um Good" and Maxwell House was "good to the last drop." I'd "walk a mile for a Camel" and rather "fight than switch" from Tarrytons. I explained irony to Rod Serling and O. Henry. I taught lasso to Will Rogers. I made Roy Rogers and Gene Autry cowboys. I taught Meryl Streep how to act. I told Jimmy Stewart that being from Indiana, Pennsylvania was like being from Alaska or Wyoming Michigan. I reminded Humphrey Bogart that he wasn't really the Gerber Baby, I was in a 'Thriller' episode hosted by Boris Karloff. And yes, you were on my mind.

America and Me - Part 1

2011-05-17T18:53:00.000-07:00

I was next to James Dean in the Spyder. I held the high ground with Chamberlain on Little Round Top. I was in the Inn where Paul Revere stopped and a stable boy finished the ride. I was in the Enola Gay. I pitched to Babe Ruth. I wandered the streets of Copenhagen with Tom Waits. I was in the car with Bonnie and Clyde when that Melvin Purvis got over. I hit the beach at Normandy. I was on the bandstand with Charlie Parker. I was hitchhiking with Jack Kerouac. I was in the Pepsi Generation, and had a Big Mac attack. I was with Jack Benny when the robber approached with "your money or your life". I know Who's on first. I was with Bogart when he told Ingrid Bergman to get on the plane. I told Lee to go up the middle at Gettysburg. I was on the raft with Huck and Jim. I hung out with Holden Caufield, and Ishmael. I told Francis Ford Coppola to stick to his guns, and keep Al Pacino. I asked Emily Dickinson to come out of her room. I suggested to President Obama that we could. I told Sherman, "Let's go all the way to the sea!" I told Elvis to try and do a blues song to a country western rhythm and let's call it rock n roll. I was with Ray Croc when he told the McDonald brothers he'd buy them out. I watched Jimi Hendrix choke on his own vomit. I told the Smothers Brothers to be careful, Nixon was out of his mind. Lou Gerhig, Mel Ott, Harmon Killebrew.... I played with them all. I told George H. W. Bush to proceed with Operation Desert Storm. I was there when Dick Winters got field promoted to Lieutenant - I was in the Band of Brothers. I was watching the "Our American Cousin" in the box with Lincoln at the Ford's theater. I told Louie Armstrong he should just go with 'Satchmo' since his smile was as big as the satchel he was carrying. I told Allen Ginsberg to howl. I sat in the chair with the Rosenbergs. I told Thomas Wolfe to look homeward. I sat and waited and waited for Edison's light to finally burn out. I told Andy Warhol to paint a can of Tomato Soup. I suggested to Orville Wright that if the distance over the top of the wing was greater than the distance under the wing, we might get lift. I told Walt Disney to go with the mouse. I was in Cleveland with Eliot Ness because we'd been in Chicago during Capone. I told Andrew Jackson he wasn't fit to be President after the "Trail of Tears." I was in the parking lot with Sal Mineo when a blade slammed into his heart. I was with John Glenn in the capsule while we orbited the Earth. I was in the New York parade when the confetti looked like a snowstorm. I was angry that Lincoln missed "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" and Kennedy missed The Beatles. I was on the Arizona in Pearl Harbor. I told Steve Jobs not to hire that Bill Gates. I was in the audience in the Ed Sullivan Theater on February 11, 1964. I introduced Paul Simon to Art Garfunkel, and Steve Stills to David Crosby and Graham Nash. I was in the Apollo 13 capsule. I spent a horrible winter at Valley Forge. I went to the crossroads with Robert Johnson. I was in the "Metracal for Lunch Bunch", was squeezing the Charmin, and asked "Where's the beef?". I fixed the 1919 World Series. I went to Speakeasys during prohibition. I lived in Mayberry, loved Lucy, and went to the Twilight Zone where Alice went bang-zoom to the moon. I handed Truman the newspaper that proclaimed Dewey the winner. I told Berry Gordy to change the name to Motown. I was in a bar with Charles Bukowski. I told Miles Davis he looked kind of blue. I told Dylan to go electric. McCarthy blacklisted me. I danced on American Bandstand. I was a Mouseketeer. I convinced Jimmy Stewart it's a wonderful life. I told Harper Lee it's a sin to kill a mockingbird. I stood on the corner of Haight-Ashbury in 1967. I was in the water with Natalie Wood. I was with Neil Armstrong when he took one small step and one giant leap. I saw the first Saturday Night Live live. I was Amelia Earhart's co-pilot. I took Springsteen to Thunder Road, and showed Dylan Desolation Row. I watched the market crash in '29. I saw the first mushroom cloud. I was in the limo with Kennedy and in the book depository with Oswald. I was in the World Trade Center on 9/11. I was on Yasgar's farm in August of 1969 - Woodstock. I held the stop watch at Kitty Hawk. I told Dave Brubeck to take five. I hung out with Elvis in the Jungle Room. And through it all, I thought of you.

Money is Fiction

2011-03-04T19:41:00.000-08:00

I was listening to something on the radio and a woman remarked that "Money is Fiction". And in my car while on M-57 I yelled "Eureka! Somebody agrees with me!" Money is fiction. There is no money. You have no money. You are penniless. Lucky for you though that you have digits.

You see, every two weeks the State of Michigan puts a series of electronic digits into my account. And I am happy. From that series of electronic digits I send my creditors a series of electronic digits. And when they get them, they are happy. I assume they then send their creditors an electronic series of digits, and all of their creditors are happy. But they are only numbers. They are meaningless numbers.

Where is the money in all of this? There is no money. We are all just agreeing to somehow get along.

Money is fiction....an illusion. But, what the hell.

storms revisited

2011-02-21T20:18:00.000-08:00

Another storm. Worse than the last, but without all the hype. Lucky for me it was President's Day, and I didn't have to go in anyway. I'd have never made it. The snow came on schedule, and it was something else. I spent the day doing three separate rounds of shoveling so I can get out tomorrow.

Somewhere it doesn't have to be like this. I cannot wait to leave Michigan. Who in their right mind wants to live here? The economy's a mess and as an added bonus the weather stinks. I want to leave. I want to spend the rest of my life enjoying it. Not waking up angry because of where I live. Just a couple more winters. Just a couple more. I have to keep telling myself...

I only hope I don't die before I can get out of here. I don't want to be the weather version of George Bailey in "It's A Wonderful Life" never getting to realize his dreams. I want to be able to look at my driver's license and not see Michigan anywhere on it. That's all I want. I just want to finish up here and go.

Somebody else can shut off the lights when everybody finally wises up and leaves this horrid piece of tundra....

The last one standing

2011-02-19T21:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, I admit, it's stupid. But in my mind I tried to predict who would be the last surviving member of my graduating class. High school, that is. And I always came up with one name. Barb Meadows. That was my pick. That beautiful and quiet girl from my class. But in searching for her for last summer's 40th reunion, it was revealed she has passed due to complications from diabetes. That truly sucks. She was one of the sweetest things about the class of "because the world is round it turns us on" 1970. Barb, you left us too soon.

storms

2011-02-01T17:02:00.000-08:00

It's the night of the "Storm of the Century" although we're only 10 years into the century. The staff in the prison where I work could all go back to work tonight if we so choose, and stay for 16 plus hours...more like 20 for me. Oh well, I'm not going. I may try and make it in in the morning, but getting home tomorrow night is the part that bothers me. When to retire bothers me too.

When is the right time? "To quote the Clash: Should I go or should I rock the Casbah?" I heard that somewhere. And as time drags on it becomes apparent that I am slowly not belonging there as much as usual.

And so a storm is brewing. Let it rage I say, let it rage. I want to pack my stuff and my girl and go to where it never snows. Soon, I must tell myself. Soon. But til then.... I must rock the Casbah.

Rolling

2010-12-19T17:27:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday night. I've dutifully taken out the trash. I loaded all my pills into this little device I have that says SMTWTFS across the top. I don't know what that means, but I use it because those letters happen to coincide with the days of the week. Seems convenient.

Captain Beefheart has died. I have a copy of "Trout Mask Replica" in front of me. In it's day it was the favorite album of every wannabe hippie. The fact they'd never heard it never seemed to be a problem for them. They just "knew" it was good. And it is pretty good. It can be a lot of work to listen to, but so? It's sort of music, but more performance art. Disjunctive chords over which Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) shouts his poetry. The notes are crowded together and don't fit, like immigrants on a train against a Chinese city skyline.

So it was the best of times, and it was a distant time. I roll through the old neighborhood now, and it's turned into one long endless crummy strip mall of pawn shops and fingernail places. Half the signs aren't in English. Paper-cup parking lots and shops with people without teeth. Everybody around here looks orange. Phone plans, and consignment clothes. Faded paint on the Fatman's sign. A staggering, dying dynasewer. Shall we carry our tears in the rusty tin cans?

Off we drift into the cosmic frownland.

Travelogue

2010-11-01T17:13:00.000-07:00

Recently yahoo posted a rare piece of footage on it's news platform. It was film from the mid 20's and in it there was a woman who appeared to be talking on a cell phone. It was called "Time Traveler Caught on Film" and it was interesting to say the least. And so since this whole time travel thing seems to be coming unraveled I have a slight confession to make.

Not long ago I was doing some reading, and decided something had to be done. So I borrowed a reinforced Chevy blazer, and several AKs and Mac 10s from a friend. I filled her up with gas and ammo. I picked up my pals Bill Murgan, Jerry Ford, Bill Baker, and ironically Jim Hoffman, our high school drama coach. We all loaded into the Blazer and we were off. We found a nearby time space/continuum wormhole and we drove into it. I was at the wheel and it was hard to concentrate with Hoffman constantly asking where Scott Morey and Bob Jackson were.

We got to the other side and my calculations were correct. We parked up in some trees far above Cemetery Ridge in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It was July 3rd, 1863. We spent about 45 minutes up in the trees with our long range superior weapons and none were the wiser. Let's just say we made the little "Pickett's Charge" thing go away.

We got back into the Blazer and drove in silence all the way home. That is, except for Hoffman chattering on and on about "Barefoot in the Park"... sheesh he can be annoying. We all arrived safely back about an hour after we left and history was altered forever.

Not that we're looking for anything special, but next time you see Bill, Jerry, Bill, and Jim, or me... hey, buy us lunch, or at least a drink. Dang, we preserved the union after all. Is a drink really to much to ask?

Trying to call the USA from Paris.....

2010-10-30T20:08:00.000-07:00

I was in Paris and frantically trying to call home to wish my brother a happy birthday. "USA si vous plait" wasn't working with the operator. I gave it up. Instead was invited across the hall to the room of an Australian family. We we all staying at a quaint but inexpensive hotel in the Latin Quarter. I think about that whenever I hear the Tom Waits song "Phone call from Istanbul".

I dreamed I died and went to Heaven. I was sitting in a club and I was at a table with Jack Kerouac, Charles Butkowski, Allen Ginsberg, and the apostle Paul. Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and John Coltrane were on the bandstand. Paul kept yelling "blow that thing, man!" I kept wanting to talk to Kerouac, but Sam Kinison kept coming over to our table monopolizing all of his time between songs. Finally I just went over to the bar and sat with George Harrison, Miles Davis, and Willie Shakespeare. I paid for a round of Diet Mountain Dew. There is no alcohol there.....

That Kinison is getting annoying.

coffee time

2010-10-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I was sitting on the moon looking down and the Earth, and it looked windy. All of the clouds around the planet were swirling as they do in Van Gogh paintings. My legs were dangling and I was afraid to lean forward much for fear of slipping off the curvature and falling. I hate the idea of falling, but in space, I guess it would be more of a drift. I could do "drift", I guess.

My coffee maker is struggling and in the mornings it moans as it goes to work. Building up all that white calcium is hard work I suppose. It creates this calcium that is like the glare off fluorescent light, the stain of a concrete skyline, the look of a widow's face. I swirl my creamer into the aromatic eddy and ponder the state of my guts. Is it stress? Am I dying?

I'm older. But am I wiser?

Proper Residence

2010-07-13T11:24:00.000-07:00

A While back I noted that Allen Ginsberg should have lived in Howell.

That made me realize that:

James Brown should have lived in Seoul.

Ray Kroc should have lived in Hamburg.

A young Earl Anthony should have lived in Bowling Green.

Rudy Vallee should have lived in Charleston.

Oscar Meyer should have lived in Frankfurt.

And of course, obviously, Thomas Crapper should have lived in Flushing.

Thank you for your kind attention.

The Home Acres Chronicles -Part 11: Paul Degi

2010-03-01T16:31:00.000-08:00

There were many interesting characters in Home Acres. There were the bigger-than-life characters, ones with shops or stores that bore their name. Bill Farrow of Farrow's Music, Norm Smith of Norm's Fine Foods, and Lee "Fatman" Lambert of Fatman's Fish Fry to name a few. But there were also other legends in the making too. Guys kind of like us who had all the earmarks of going down in Home Acres lore.

One of these was Paul Degi.

Paul was an unassuming guy, quiet for the most part. He wore round spectacles and, at least in the early years, kept his sandy blonde hair slicked back neatly, never forgetting that "a little dab'll do ya". Paul played drums in the school band. His father had been a drummer and had played for years with the house band at the only Home Acres night spot - The Southern. Paul dutifully followed in his fathers footsteps.

As we entered High School, Paul become the envy of every kid in school, when his mother and his step-father bought the Brickrette Motel, one of the two Home Acres motels. Paul had his own unit in the motel far down the way from his parents, as his room. Imagine! A motel room as your personal bedroom! With a swimming pool outside your door! And with him being so far from his parents' quarters he could easily get out and away at night. Could it possibly get any better than that? Well, as it turns out, it could and only as the mind of Paul Degi could imagine it.

Paul got a hold of a casket somewhere. Now no-one really knows if it was a real one, or some sort of prop, but those sort of details are best left out of folklore. At any rate, Paul became famous for sleeping in a casket in his motel room bedroom. This alone would qualify any kid for legend status in any town in the world. But as the sixties wore on, and The Beatles hair continued to grow, every guy wanted his hair to grow too. Paul was no exception. But what made Paul exceptional - besides his friendship with Dan Kiloblowski, was that he, and Dan, refused to cave into the warnings from the school and he ended up having to leave school over the length of his hair. It seems unbelievable today, but in 1967 the reality was that adults and especially school administrators, were totally confused about what to do about hair styles, and clothing styles, and changing youth politics. Their knee-jerk reaction was to kick out the "change".

Paul continued to play his drums however. Occasionally the summer wind would carry the sounds of guitars and drums coming from somewhere and the curious could find it coming from the parking lot of the Brickette Motel. Paul would be rehearsing with a band - whom at that time were called "The Missin' Links". The only time I ever saw The Missin' Links play, was at a battle of the bands that was a fund raiser for a high school student who was suffering from cancer. As I recall, The Missin' Links weren't bad.

Paul lived his life as he saw fit. He and Dan once picked up a girl from the beach out in Holland. She was incredibly drunk and they put her in the back seat trying to figure out what to do with her. Almost instantly she vomited all over the car. Never being ones to miss an opportunity, Paul and Dan, rolled up all the windows, stuffed their sweaty socks into the car heater, turned it all the way up, just to "see how much they could take."

Sometimes Paul would place a speaker outside of his motel unit and peek out of his curtains to watch the reactions of passers-by as he sang them "Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ber-Ann.." at the top of his lungs. Once he polled every customer in a Big Boy restaurant asking them if they thought his friend Joe looked like an ambulance driver. Another time he was out on the sidewalk in front of the motel when he was approached by Pat McBain, a 15 year old at the time. She had on very tight short shorts. Paul instantly dreamed up something. He stopped her and said "Excuse me Miss, but I couldn't help but notice that you have about an inch of hair hanging out of your left pant leg." Pat screamed, and ran crying all the way home as Paul doubled over in peals of laughter.

Paul played in many bands over the years, taught himself how to do art in glass, dabbles in religion and to this day continues to thrive on eccentricity. He recently sent me a photo of himself. He and his girlfriend are both wearing some sort of lampshade on their heads and their eyes are glowing. Beneath the lettering reads: "We Can Clone You. $9.95"

The Earth's Most Beautiful Arc

2009-12-31T19:25:00.000-08:00

She trembles from the cold
it is chilly
and we're not wearing shirts.
I slide my left hand under her neck
as my right goes around her waist
and I pull her close to me.
As she snuggles in;
we share a moment, and then another
and then more and more
until we are flooded with moments
and we become warm to each other.
Dreams come;
sleep comes, a sweet sleep.
My right hand moves up to her hip
and then slides back to her waist
following the Earth's most beautiful arc
and then moves up searching for
a handful of breast;
and I assume the position
that I would love to be in
when death's cold kiss finds me.

Red

2009-12-31T18:26:00.000-08:00

Your lips were red
I watched them as you smiled
and talked of this and that.
You smiled a red lined smile.

Your coat was red;
red as a flurry of rose petals.
The red accented your eyes.
Your eyes want to be blue
but they are a teal of honesty
you are a woman of mystery and honesty.

Your scarf was red.
It wound around you and held you,
furling in the wind like the cue of your name,
and the surrounding flair entwined
and covered your heart.
There was red in your cheeks from the cold outside.

Your dreams are dreamt in ruby hues.
In your dreams you live all the books you've ever read
and that I've read.
You are always the damsel
that the heroes want to save.
But you save them.
And I save you.
We save each, one unto another.

As the sun readies, it climbs into its Heavenly perch.
You don't need rose colored glasses
to ask what you saw in me.
I don't know what you saw.
I am strong, but I am weary.
I want to rest with you.
You have read my heart.

The Home Acres Chronicles -Part 10: The Train Tracks

2009-12-12T14:15:00.000-08:00

Running along side of Home Acres was a set if railroad tracks and these tracks went right past the end of my street. When I was a kid we lived about as close to the railroad tracks as possible without actually being on them. Just a single half lot separated my bed from boxcars rolling by - great rolling metal billboards shouting out big white letter names like "Great Northern" or "Grand Trunk". In fact there were many times I watched knick-knacks begin to shimmy and shake and make their way to the edge of a shelf and finally to the floor, as a train was passing by. But as time passed, we placed knick-knacks more securely and passing trains went virtually unnoticed.

At night I would lie in my bed and listen to the whistle as a train approached 50th Street. There was a pattern to the whistle as it approached a cross street, I can't remember what it was now - 2 long blasts, a short one, and another long? I would lay there at night in the dark and wonder where these trains were headed. Out west? Out East? To Chicago? I would drift off to sleep with the trains roaring off into the night.

Of course to a kid, the tracks and the multitude of boxcars presented a place of mystery and wonderment. We would spend hours playing on them, around them, under them, and of course, in them. Our mothers did their best to keep us away, but mothers can only do so much. As we got older we all got pretty adept at running the length of the cars and making the leap over the span between them. Of course there was the occasional accident. One time a kid fell from the top of a box car and broke his arm. A kid in a nearby neighborhood got his leg cut off. But those were the exceptions to the rule.

Exploring the boxcars was always an adventure. Most of us were under strict parental orders to never go in them, but what parents don't know won't hurt them. We'd get caught occasionally, and take what we had coming, but it never kept us away. I remember one time a worker at the General Motors plant came from one of the boxcars and asked a fellow worker if he had a son named Bill - this guy had just found Bill's wallet in a box car. Of all the luck! What are the odds?! But one whipping would soon be over and the box car exploration would continue.

Once in the sixth grade, we were getting braver and one day after school decided to jump on board. We figured we'd ride a short distance and then jump off, thereby having a railroad rite of passage to brag about at school the next day. Only problem was once we were on the train hanging on the outside of the cars, the train sped up and was going too fast for us to get off. When it finally slowed enough to jump we were very far south in or around Wayland. We had to hitchhike home, not arriving until well after dark. I can't remember what our story was for that one.

Usually the box cars were empty, but once in a great while we would get lucky. Most notably there was the time we found a box car full, floor to ceiling full, of cream pies. Oh yeah, fairy tales do come true. After gorging ourselves beyond any healthy level, we had a pie fight that lasted for hours and would have brought a tear to the eye of Soupy Sales.

The trains and the tracks became part of the fabric of our lives. The summer between seventh and eighth grade we learned to smoke sitting in the mouth of a box car. As seniors in high school and beyond we would get beer and wine and wander down the tracks drinking and telling lies about any girls we knew. We called that "Searching for Kerouac's Ghost."

The tracks are still there and I suppose get used, but on the few occasions I'm back in the neighborhood, I rarely see train cars down there. Where would they go? And where would they come from? The Kelvinator plant is closed, the GM plant is closed, and the grass grows tall around the gates of most of the trains old stops.

I have long since moved away, and it has been years since I have lived that close to railroad tracks. But once in a great while I will be somewhere, with my head on a pillow in the dark, and I will hear the cry of a far off train whistle. And it brings a smile to my lips. Because it brings with it, a flood of memories, of days when I was rocked to sleep to the lullaby of the Chesapeake and Ohio.

Finally. Win-Win.

2009-08-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

Having recently, twice in the last two weeks actually, received awards from police officers for handling my vehicle so well at high rates of speed, (at least they called them citations), I think I have come up with a workable solution that keeps the public safe, and that will allow me -and you - to drive reasonably. I thought of it a few years ago when I was watching my then young sons "drive" in this large video game at the bowling alley.
Anyway, here's my idea: When you go to the Secretary of State's Office to renew your license, you have to get into one of those driving video games. Then you are allowed to drive as fast as you can. As soon as you crash, it's over. The computer then calculates at what speed you were still handling the vehicle well and proficiently. That speed is then generated on a sticker that is placed on the back of your license. At your own expense, you may also elect to put a numerical decal over your license plate. The idea is that you are legally allowed to travel at the rate of speed on your license sticker. Yours may be 87 miles per hour. Then when the officer pulls you over for doing 60 in a 25, you show your license, and he looks at the 87 on the back, smiles and tells you to have a nice day. Or he sees the 87 on the back of your car, and doesn't even bother to pull you over.

The technology is there, and in the last two weeks, I have spent enough money on these tickets to purchase the video device for our local Secretary of State's office.

So there you go. I'm an idea guy.

Lorena at Sundown

2009-07-30T14:57:00.000-07:00

This is my favorite time of day
late afternoon
not really day anymore
but not evening either.
July is a great month
for this time of day.
There is no humidity,
a slight breeze,
and the sun plays off the trees -
the way it does
that always makes me think of the Civil War.
Union soldiers putting down for the day,
fires being built,
and hard tack and salt pork
becoming a starving man's feast.
And then as the day slips
further and further away
the tobacco and stories come out.
Now, if I'm real quiet,
I can hear a fiddle, a banjo, and a mouth harp
and the melody "Lorena" drifts over the trees
like the twisting wisps of campfire smoke
giving comfort to all the ghosts
that were here
and now
like this day
are not.

©Lyle Fales 2009

With Tim West in Mind

2009-06-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

Okay, here goes:

It's CHAMPING at the bit, not CHOMPING at the bit

It's My old STAMPING GROUNDS, not my old STOMPING GROUNDS

Its a BALD FACE lie, not a BOLD FACE lie.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.

Three Dinosaurs in My Shower

2009-06-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

This morning I discovered three dinosaurs in my shower.
I went to step in and there they were.
I couldn't help but notice that one was a triceratops,
one was a brontosaurus, and one
was a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
And I thought to myself
"If three different species of dinosaurs can learn to get along
well enough to shower together, then certainly the three races
of mankind
should be able to get along.
But maybe the dinosaurs were just clowning around
and gave themselves names like "Moe, Larry, and Curley"
and were trying to make me laugh by surprising me
so early in the morning.
Or maybe they were all banding together
and plotting against me like Caesar's senators
or maybe more like the Three Musketeers.
"One for all, all for one"-ing their brains out.
Or perhaps they were trying to disguise themselves as
Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or maybe
Crosby, Stills, and Nash
since the Triceratops looked somewhat like David Crosby
and did have something on it's back.
They in no way looked even remotely like the Holy Trinity
so that was out.
But maybe in a bigger sense,
on a broader scale, they were attempting to be a metaphor
for world peace -
one representing the United States, one representing Russia,
and one representing China.

But chances are none of this occurred to my six year old
who left them there from his bath last night.
He can be so silly sometimes.

©Lyle Fales 2006

Will We Eat In Heaven?

2009-06-07T15:57:00.000-07:00

"Will we eat in Heaven" I thought
as I headed east into a sunrise.
The sky wasn't blue yet, but a pale purple
and the sun hung there
like a florescent peach.
It vaguely reminded me of a
Sutherland Brothers album cover.
Did I mention my great grandmother's
maiden name was Sutherland?
"We will eat in Heaven" I mused.
We'll eat fruit I suspect.
Fresh right off the tree.
And at night there will be ice cream
and it will cause us to lose weight.
We will eat in Heaven
because there will be joy;
and it will be social -
and as far as the eye can see
no spinach anywhere,
and broccoli will taste like chocolate chip cookies
fresh out of the oven.
We will eat in Heaven
and as we eat peaches they'll burst in our mouths
and the juice will run down our arms
and drip off our elbows,
and then will instantly dry and not be sticky.
We will eat in Heaven.
But never salad.
Not ever salad.
Not ever again.

©Lyle Fales 2009

The Joy of Cupcakes

2009-02-24T19:51:00.000-08:00

Life is a crazy patchwork; a coat of layers and layers (not that I'm telling you anything you don't know) and sometimes it is so sad and it hurts so much. But still, there are those moments, those divine sweet moments, when the light plays on the wheat and the water of the lake sings a melody of being and lightness. And thankful thoughts race to the heavens that exclaim "God, I'm glad I'm here." It is those moments, those few precious moments, that are us, moments that deflate disaster and dissolve anxiety. And when it is our time to be tossed into that giant bowl of cosmic potato salad, we will not scorn, not regret, for we had today. And we had each other.

We had our moment.

New Phrases I Hate

2009-02-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding like my good friend Bill Murgan, who about 10 years ago stated, "Man, I sure am getting sick of the dot com thing", here are a couple of phrases I can live without.

WEB-BASED - oh please. Only ducks and geese are web-based.

GREEN- envy is green. Money is green. Policy is not green.

CARBON FOOTPRINT - oh, shut up.

Oh and by the way NPR, who told you enlightened bunch of egomaniacs that it is CarNEGie as in Andrew CarNEGie. Get over yourselves you boatload of blowhards. How can one possibly pull off the joke "How do I get to Carnegie hall?" if one says CarNEGie? You can't. So leave it alone.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part 9: Popsicle Pete

2009-02-09T18:43:00.000-08:00

In the lazy days of summer in Home Acres, there was a fixture that showed up year after year. Not a standout, just a subtle symbol that would meander down the streets of our neighborhood at least once a day delivering refreshment to excited children. These children were not just excited to be getting a cool, delicious break from summer heat, but a chance to interact with a virtual legend. The one and only Popsicle Pete.

Popsicle Pete would pedal down our summer streets in a contraption that was part bicycle and part freezer chest. One year he had a cart that he simply pushed. But usually he had a pedal version and he would ride along, all the while using one hand to casually ring a series of bells strung across the handlebars. The chest part was always white with stickers shouting out "Creme Sickles, "Pedal Pops", and "Popsicles" stuck to the side.

The name Popsicle Pete first appeared in the American lexicon in the late 30's on radio's "Buck Rogers in the 21st Century" as a character known as the "all-american boy". Later, in the mid-40's, as a contemporary of Bazooka Joe, Popsicle Pete became a spokesman for the Popsicle company. But these were mere wannabes compared to what we were treated to. Our Popsicle Pete was more than a faint radio memory for our parents. He was a real, bigger-than-life symbol of summer.

I think I heard once that our Popsicle Pete's real name was something like Jim Brown. But who cares. There was already a famous football running back Jim Brown, and of course the Godfather of Soul was James Brown, but neither of those guys could have filled the shoes of our beloved Popsicle Pete. Pete was a guy that had started as a pin setter in a bowling alley and had obviously made vocational errors from there. But it didn't matter to us. We loved him.

My favorite memories of Pete were varied. Once I saw him cutting across near the railroad tracks to get from Jean Street to Holly Street, and he stopped in between and pulled an ice cold Coca-Cola out of a little compartment he had in the front of his rolling bicycle ice chest, and he drank it all down without stopping. And then he never even burped. How cool is that? Try it sometime. Another thing Pete was famous for was stopping along the way, pulling over, plugging one nostril and letting a string of mucus fly. Who needed a handkerchief? It used to drive mothers crazy, but that's where all the guys in my neighborhood learned that trick.

But it was a beautiful thing to watch Pete interact with all the little kids of the neighborhood. They would all be so excited by him that they would place orders. But Pete was used to such things, and he would patiently say "Let me see your money first". Gradually the kids in the neighborhood would grow up and soon Pete was selling to the kids of kids he's sold to a generation before. And on and on it went.

Undoubtedly Pete was a guy that went somewhere to a small room at night where he could lay his head, drink a beer, and listen to the radio. He would probably lay there at night in the summer heat and try not to move because, it was too hot to move, and wonder about all of the people in the neighborhoods that he visited. People that had real jobs, and houses, and families. And then he probably wondered where he'd gone wrong, and where he was going tomorrow, before drifting off into his ice cream dreams.

A Thought About The Financial Crisis

2008-09-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

A Nation never falls but by suicide.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

These Days

2008-09-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

I am thrilled to be alive at such a pivotal moment in American history. I am thrilled to actually be voting for someone again, and not just voting against the other guy. Because, see, Obama can't be just an "okay" President and he knows it. When Jackie Robinson got into the major leagues in the late 40's, he knew he wasn't just playing for Jackie Robinson. He knew he was playing for all the future generations of black kids who might want a chance in major league baseball and that they would be judged on his performance. Jackie Robinson had to be more than a great player. He had to be a great gentleman and an outstanding human being. It'll be the same for Obama. His presidency will not just be for him, but for all the generations to come. It will be a beacon of shining light, sending the signal that at last, if people are diligent enough, if they work hard enough, they can achieve anything.

Album Covers

2008-08-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently sent me a link to a site entitled Album Covers that Changed Everything. There is a series of album covers there that were obviously so revolutionary that they changed everything.

First of all, they're album covers folks, not the atomic bomb, the transistor, or moving pictures. They're album covers. Get a grip. They didn't change anything, except how much money we had left after buying them. Some of the choices are confounding to me, I admit. But I reckon the choice was really based on the contents of the album and not the cover. For instance, Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" was there. Ooohh, be still my heart! White light going through a prism and coming out colors. Let's not all pee our pants at once. The Clash's "London Calling" was listed because it's a clever knock-off of the first Elvis Presley release. If that's the case, why not just list the Elvis album cover?!! Probably because the person making the list still has pimples and to them "London Calling" is really delving into the annuls of history. Of course the obligatory "Sgt. Pepper's" is there. Okay, I'll give that a pass. Great cover, although my least favorite Beatle album. And the person who made the list would have to explain to me what they found so extraordinary about the Sex Pistols album cover. Could it possibly have been any more mudane?

But since I am a compulsive list maker, I feel compelled to add some of the covers that I feel were unrightfully left off the list. Now, I must remind you, I am not necessarily endorsing the contents of the album, but I do think these covers were innovative and deserve mention. But even as innovative as they were I don't think they necessarily "changed everything."

BIG BAMBU - Cheech and Chong. Designed to look like a giant package of rolling papers, this cover even featured a giant rolling paper. Yes, dear readers, mine is still intact.

TWO VIRGINS - John Lennon and Yoko Ono. A naked Beatle and a naked Asian Chick. Nuff said.

OGDEN'S NUTGONE - Small Faces. this was a round album cover, the only one I ever remember. It unfolded about 9 times and was big fun.

THICK AS A BRICK - Jethro Tull. I have the original and it unfolded and unfolded until it was about a 4X6 foot newspaper front page. It was a pain to get back together though. They should have made the next one like a giant road map.

ALONE TOGETHER - Dave Mason. This cover was a tri-fold that unfolded to become a wall hanging of a giant Dave Mason in a top hat behind a mountain - guess you had to be there. On the front of this wall hanging there was a pocket that held the album that was pressed on multi-colored vinyl and looked awesome under a black-light.

ELECTRIC LADYLAND - Jim Hendrix Experience. Not the American release, but the British. On the British version Jimi is sitting amidst a large group of nude women. I agree.

LOOK SHARP! - Joe Jackson. This was a 10 inch disc - a double if memory serves. Up in the corner, there was an opening that had a little lapel pin exclaiming Look Sharp!. Again, mine is still intact. I'm like that.

MOM'S APPLE PIE - I can't remember of this was the title of the band or of the album, but it featured some great artwork of a matronly type beauty offering up my favorite pie. I have never forgotten this artwork.

YOUNG, LOUD, AND SNOTTY - The Dead Boys. Something about the grittiness of this cover says more about NYC than any skyline shot.

SANTANA - Santana. Another cover that featured notable artwork. 30 plus images of women cleverly composed to make a lion's head.

YESTERDAY AND TODAY - The Beatles. As much as I loved the cover of "Meet The Beatles" (which really did change everything come to think of it), and the stark Yoko influenced "White Album", "Yesterday and Today" has to be on of the most notable album covers of all time. And of course I am not talking about the boys all around a footlocker that Paul is inside of, but rather the infamous "Butcher cover". The lads all sitting around in blood splattered smocks in a blood splattered room with many decapitated dolls. The first batch was printed and then Capitol freaked and the cover we all know and yawn at was hastily pasted over top. If you ever stumble across the record in a garage sale, and you know what to look for (a dark spot over Ringo's shoulder etc) you can send it somewhere, have the top lifted off and then you have a record worth at last look at around $400.

Agree? Disagree? More additions? Feel free to comment.

The Home Acres Chronicles : Part 8: Getting Groceries.

2008-06-27T17:23:00.000-07:00

When I was a little kid and we needed groceries, there were three places to go in Home Acres. Plus specialty stores, but more about them in a bit.

Berend's Grocery was located on South Division Avenue just like the other two markets. Berend's was run by an amiable gentleman, George Berend. He had a pleasant demeanor and his store was truly a throw back to a time that was quickly going by. His store still delivered. Someone would call up, order everything over the phone, he'd put it all in a box, and a kid would run it, or bicycle it, to wherever it had to go. I was only in there a couple of times, but I remember him being a nice guy. Sources also tell me that he had the best macaroni salad that you could ever imagine. He couldn't withstand the onslaught of the big supermarkets though and had to shut it down when the big Meijer store finally moved into the area. Berend's was sorely missed however, predominately by the underaged guys in the neighborhood that relied upon George's employee Milo to buy them beer - Milo was famous for it. Hey, everybody's got to have a niche.

Then there was Fred's Market. This was a small grocery store by today's jumbo supermarket standards, but was probably pretty average for the day. About the same size as Berend's, but with better parking. The giant Meijer "Why Pay More?" Markets were popping up, but still far enough away to not worry the small grocery stores in Home Acres. Fred's was located on South Division, down near the car dealership Home Acres Rambler. In subsequent years Fred's would sell out to one of the Weemhoff brothers -Gordy - and it then became known as "Gordy's Market". In the face of great adversity Gordy's survived. The main reason Fred bailed out was because a big Meijer Supermarket did finally move into Home Acres, right across the street from Fred's. Gordy's weathered the storm of the Meijer across the street, by expanding. Back at the meat counter, Gordy installed rows of deep fryers, and went head to head with Fat Man's Fish Fry which was just a little to the north and across the street. Apparently there was enough business for both, because they are both still there in Home Acres. One of my favorite stories from that place occurred while I was in a crowded line there once. They only had one or two check out lanes and there were several customers all in line at the only open one. Suddenly the woman that was being checked out remembered that she needed something she's forgotten and leaned over the checkout girl and without being as quiet as she thought she was, stated that she'd forgotten to get Tampax. "No problem" said the cashier - my classmate Pat McBain - "I'll get a stockboy to get it for you." She called the stockboy over and trying to be discreet, under her breath quietly asked him to go get a box of Tampax. He dashed off, and in a few seconds he yelled from a few aisles over "You want the kind you push in with your thumb, or the kind you drive in with a hammer?" Come to find out he thought she'd said "Thumbtacks."

Finally there was the place where my folks shopped - the IGA. The IGA was the largest of the three stores, but looking back now it wasn't all that big either. The IGA folded quickly when Meijer moved in. It became Jacqeline's Party Cakes. But I liked the IGA. One of my favorite things was that I was allowed one treat whenever we went there. I usually made a bee-line for the candy aisle and got my favorite thing. A small box of Campfire Marshmallows. They actually sold them by the dozen then. It was a small box with a lid that opened and there were two rows of three marshmallows on top, a piece of waxed paper, and then six more below. That box would be quite a collector's item today. Once as a promotion, they were going to have a real live Indian in the store, in fact a Chief! I couldn't wait to get into the line to meet him. It was very surreal to a little guy like me, and I got excited when I saw all the feathers and the full outfit. Until I realized that it was our neighbor Mr. Bowen. He really was a full chief of a local tribe as it turns out, but gee whiz, it just ain't the same when it's your neighbor... One other thing about the IGA. I got really scared in there once - thanks to Mr. Peanut. That's right, The Mr. Peanut. Well, I realize now it was a person dressed as Mr. Peanut, but still, who needs a tall peanut wearing a top hat lurking about, scarring little kids?

The other thing I realize about shopping habits from back then, is that the Supermarket concept was relatively new, and people still shopped at many stores to get everything. For instance, we bought groceries at the IGA, but then had to go down to Oppenhuizen's Produce for fruits and vegetables. A place that is now a costume and novelty shop is where we had to go to to buy milk and butter. We probably also went to a bakery somewhere. But Meijer put an end to them all. It is sad in a way, because Meijer put an end to all of these specialty stores, and then when they were all gone, moved away to where they could have more room to be even bigger. Only Gordy's survived and is there to this day. And it's a wonder. The old Meijer building is home to some sort of Chinese grocery and is now the eyesore of Home Acres.

And whatever we needed in a hurry, we could always run up to 50th Street and Division across from Candy Ann's, and pick up at Pellerito's, a little family grocery. But Pellerito's is a story for another time.

The Home Acres Chronicles : Part 7: The Orange Wedge Apartment

2008-06-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

Along the strip of shops on the east Side of Division Avenue from 44th Street North, there was a store called Super Surplus. This was a very cool place with interesting stuff, in particular all forms of military regalia. And above the Super Surplus, there was an apartment. Now there is nothing very extraordinary about that, but this apartment deserves a nod from purveyors of Home Acres lore.

The apartment first came into our realm of consciousness in 1969 when two 1968 graduates of our beloved Kelloggsville High School, Dave Swart and Scott Morey, took up residence there. And of course wherever Dave and Scott were, Al Lesert and Pete Groendyk were sure to be lurking about. I'm also sure there were other questionable characters such as Dave Gless, Harry Dieterman, and Bill Murray nearby. I never visited the apartment when those guys lived there, I had to settle for stories about it later.

One entered the apartment from the back, across the parking lot from Home Acres Building Supply. A covered stairway took one up to a porch which also had a cover over it, and finally across the porch to the back door. Since it was the only door, I guess it was the front door too.

After Dave and Scott had moved on to other places, the apartment was taken over by a couple of other Kelloggsville graduates, Scott Pfetzing and Richard Lipsey. Scott was a drummer, and Richard was a guitar player. They also had hooked up with a bass player and if memory serves, his name was Joe Sarnicola. They had formed a band and named it Orange Wedge -undoubtedly after the LSD of the day. This band had a little notoriety, based on the fact that they had gotten into a some trouble at a gig when Joe attempted to hump his bass on stage.

Rick Haan, Dave Perry, and I got to go up there a couple of times mostly on the merits of Dave Perry, our drummer in our band The Lemon Fog - or maybe we'd made the name change to Mass Hysteria by then. Dave's older brother Ken had been the bass player in Scott and Richard's high school band The Outcasts.

The Orange Wedge apartment was a mess as it would be with three wild young men living there. Album covers were casually tossed against the wall - I remember that the Doors' first album cover was upside down against a wall where it had been tossed. The next time I was there, it was still in the same place. The living room held all of their equipment and was their rehearsal hall after Super Surplus closed downstairs. Once while we were there, they tore into a rousing version of Time Has Come Today by the Chambers Brothers. But just as it had been with The Outcasts, Richard's guitar overpowered everything else. He was a very talented guy, but he had no sense of sound balance. Even at our young ages, we knew that he was never going to realize his potential, because he always drowned everything and everybody else out.

Another cool thing about the Orange Wedge apartment was that it was our first brush with the drug culture. As would be expected of any musician of the day the Orange Wedge were doing what appeared to be pot and LSD. In fact once when we were there, I looked into a bedroom and there were some of the Wedge with others and they were all sitting indian style around an ashtray, passing a joint. It was very ritualistic, and frankly is hilarious now. They saw us though and someone jumped up and closed the door. Richard couldn't come out either because according to someone there, he had put a hit of acid in an eyedropper and done the hit in his eye and it was giving him trouble. That's the story - who knows how true it is. So these were our journeys to a real hippie apartment. I must say that over the years, whenever I have gotten into any kind of discussion with anyone about the old neighborhood, The Orange Wedge apartment inevitably comes up. That's why I think it definitely has it's place Home Acres history.

On a final note, it should be mentioned that the Orange Wedge did record a single. The A side was Morning Dew - a cover of an old Grateful Dead song. The flip side was called From The Womb To The Tomb and began with Richard doing a baby cry. I had a copy of that 45, and I sold it a few years back for a pretty penny to a guy that collects Grand Rapids Rock - the Orange Wedge record is now a highly coveted collector's item. Believe it or not, there are many collector's in both Germany and Japan that collect Grand Rapids rock and the Orange Wedge record today brings hundreds and hundreds of dollars. And you know how I got mine? There were cases of them sitting outside the door on the covered porch, and I just asked if I could have one. Wish I'd have taken a handful now.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part 6: Norm's Fine Foods

2008-06-16T19:38:00.000-07:00

There were some spots that seemed like they were the very essence of Home Acres: Earl Roebson's Department Store, Engel's Jewelers, Farrow's Music, Home Acres Building Supply, Ace Hardware, Home Acres Feed Store, and Loveland's Drug Store. But none seemed more Home Acres than Norm's Fine Foods.

The place was opened in 1948 by Roy and Jo Bennett and was then known as "Bennett's Diner". Due to Roy's health concerns (he was a drunk), the business was sold in the mid-fifties to a guy named Nick and he called it The Hickory - and he soon became known as Hickory Nick. Nick had problems keeping up with his taxes though and he'd get closed down periodically. Finally the tax bills became too much and he was forced to sell to a man named Dick who owned another restaurant down in Godwin Heights known as "Dick's Galley". (Until the day he closed, the Galley Burger remained on Norm's menu.) Dick sold the restaurant to Norm Smith who took it over in 1961 and put up a new neon sign with the words Norm's Fine Foods surrounded by flames - I suppose to signify "char-broiling" or something even though everything was cooked on a standard flat griddle. Norm's Fine Foods shared the building with a neighborhood bar called the Wolf's Den, named after the original owner Wolf (the Wolf's owned the whole block). However since as long as I can remember, the Wolf's Den was run by an Arab named Al.

I first went to Norm's when I was a little tyke, I suppose then it was still The Hickory. In 1956 and 1957, in November when my Dad would go deer hunting, my Mom and I would get on a bus and go downtown to Christmas shop at Wurzburg's and Herplesheimer's. On the way home we would get off the bus at 44th Street and get lunch at Norm's/Hickory. I remember the fried chicken especially. It was quite an experience to try and look out the steamed up windows, and to listen to all the clatter from the people drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Those trips are burned into my brain - but they ended soon after my sibs came along.

The years drifted by like the steam off a cup of Norm's coffee. Sometime in the early 70's my pals and I started to frequent Norm's, usually for a cup of Java. We couldn't afford much more. We didn't want to hang around home and listen to our parents complain that we didn't have jobs so we'd go there, since it was walking distance, and drink coffee by the hour. Once in a while we'd search all of the cushions at home and put together enough money to actually buy a meal. Norm's pork steak was my favorite - although the fish was the cheapest. And the homemade bread was great, with the best American fries you'd ever have, all cooked by the old lady Jo who was the head cook from 2 o'clock in the afternoon till close every night. Yes, she was the same Jo who'd opened the place with her husband Roy all those years before. She was the one constant of the restaurant from the day it opened until the day it closed. Every single night she would work until closing, supervise the clean-up, and then go next door to the Wolf's Den, buy a 6 pack of Blatz, and go home to drink it.

The layout of Norm's was pretty straight forward. Imagine a rectangle with the entrance at one of the short sides. That short side was on the east end. As one entered there was a family sized booth and a coat rack. To the left there was a stairway that led downstairs. On a certain day of the week a weight loss club met down there and after their weigh in, they'd all come upstairs and eat like hogs.

In the back of the room and the west end of the rectangle, was the kitchen, complete with an "in" door and an "out" door and one of those small window openings where orders could be placed. It also allowed for customers to peek in at the cooks and the cooks to peek out at the customers. Along the south wall were the booths. And in the center of the room there were four small tables and one large one.

Along the north wall ran the counter with eight or ten stools. Behind the counter were all the usual things; coffee makers, condiments etc. There was also a great caricature of Norm hanging on the wall. It showed Norm with a golf club with the inscription "Norm at the US Open".

The place also featured the main attraction for us - things that our pal Louie's girlfriend, and now wife, Lori referred lovingly to as "those trashy waitresses." They weren't really cheap or trashy, just girls a little younger than us, that we became friends with. They had names like Sheri, Sandy, Karen, and Shelby. I often wonder whatever became of them, and I get somewhat distressed when I realize that they are now all middle-aged women who probably have children older than they were then.

The most colorful thing about Norm's were the other regulars that haunted the place. There was the man that was shell-shocked from World War II and constantly talked to someone that nobody else could see. He and the invisible man would actually get into arguments. Whenever they came in, the waitresses always brought two cups of coffee. I distinctly remember a waitress giving the guy a refill and then pointing to the other chair and asking "Does he want more too?" But everyone was dead serious. It was nothing people joked about.

There was the jovial coffee salesman that everybody loved named Dick Waffle. The whole place went into mourning the afternoon we found out that his car stalled on a railroad track and he was killed. There was the fireman who would always do magic tricks for the waitresses. And there was us. Usually two or more guys that killed a lot of time in there, writing comedy sketches for our cable access comedy show Rabbit Meat Bunnies. We wrote bits about dog gynecologists, professional party wreckers, and once even a sketch about a lonely man in a restaurant.

When Norm announced he was shutting the place down to retire (also the building had been sold) half the town went into mourning. That final Saturday, regulars and regulars from times gone by turned out in droves to have one more Norm's breakfast. Besides breakfast I also was able to get a menu and a coffee cup. The place was packed all day long. It was sad, a loss that could not be put into words.

A couple years ago a friend sent me the obituary for Norm Smith. They had an old stock photo of him out in front of the restaurant. What a memory. The building has long since been demolished and as near as I can tell Norm's front door would have been in the parking lot of the Walgreen's that sits there now. The regulars have scattered and the waitresses are who knows where. But on that corner there are plenty of ghosts who gather around tables and tell lies over steaming hot coffee. And hippies who thought cancer jokes were funny. And a little kid who gets a kick out of steamed up windows.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part 5: Candy Ann's

2008-06-07T05:22:00.000-07:00

Candy Ann's began in the fifties as a Drive -in restaurant - complete with car-hops. The parking lot was lined with billboards with paintings of malts, burgers, and fries, painted by a young black kid who was learning his stuff about being an artist. And he must have learned a lot from painting burgers and fries, because he went on to become an artist of great renown. In fact, that artist, Paul Collins, eventually was commissioned to paint the official presidential portrait of Gerald R. Ford.

The owner of Candy Ann's was a man named Robert Christian. Some men know from the beginning that they are destined to be their own boss. "Mr. C", as he would later become known, was one of those. He started his career in the late 40's or early 50's by purchasing a Texaco gas station at the corner of South Division and Farnham Street, just one block off 44th street - the very heart of Home Acres. He ran the station by himself, but sold it after deciding to try his hand at the restaurant business. He opened a hot dog stand in the early fifties and was very successful, based in part because he found a meat supplier who allowed him to float his bill until the end of the season. Although they charged a little more, Mr. C never forgot how they helped him and he stayed loyal with that supplier throughout his career.

Eventually he would open the restaurant at 50th and South Division, and this is where he would spend the rest of his working life. He named the place Candy Ann's after his oldest child.

Candy Ann's featured a "Candy Burger". For years, before I ever had one, I imagined a hamburger with ground up hard candy sprinkled over it. In reality it was a Big Boy double-decker knockoff; a double-decker bun, two beef patties, lettuce, cheese, and thousand island dressing. Only a Candy Burger was better. I think it was the dressing. They made their own thousand island dressing right on the premises. Mr. C saved money wherever he could. He even pattied the burgers himself. Nevermind that the machine constantly clogged up and he spent more on man-hours than pre-pattied meat would have cost.

Somewhere along the line, Mr. C decided to expand and he opened another restaurant on Wyoming's up and coming 28th Street. He named this restaurant "Scotty's" after his second child Scott. However, Mr. C was very controlling and since he couldn't be in two places at one time to oversee every detail, he soon closed Scotty's. Ironically, he sold that building to Big Boy's.

Back in Home Acres though, Candy Ann's continued to do well. Even though much of the business took place in the Drive-In part, there was an eat-in spot in the front of the building. I remember that whenever we would eat there, the employees and Mr. C himself would stare at the customers as if they were somehow intruding. They watched every move customers made as if to say "Hurry up and eat and then get out of here." It was years before I realized that it probably wasn't all customers, but us, because we were long-haired hippies. One time my friend Bill Baker and I were the only ones in the place and we had a deck of cards on us. Since no-one was in the place we dealt a hand to ourselves. That was all it took. We were tossed out.

Bob Christian was a big believer in one of the golden rules of business - watch what successful people do, and then do what they do. Such as the Candy Burger being a Big Boy incognito. In the early 70's, as the Drive-In days were sinking slowly in the west, Candy Ann's remodeled and modeled themselves after another local successful chain, Mr. Fables. In the new Candy Ann's one entered, ordered, and slid a tray down the way cafeteria style. I've always hated that arrangement, but a Candy Burger was worth the annoyance of standing in a cattle line while some old geezer dragging an oxygen tank took forever to decided between the chocolate cream pie or the red jello.

The newly remodeled Candy Ann's was fairly large and had lots of windows. Once, while sitting there against the south wall and staring out the windows, we watched some men pull up to the small building on the other side of 50th Street. One guy got out of the car, stood on the hood, reached a ledge, climbed up on the ledge, found an open window and went through. Jerry and I thought that was curious, and since there were two cops in there having a break I told them I was sorry to interrupt but... and I explained what happened. I told them it was probably nothing, but they said they'd check it out. They finished up and went over there. As it turns out the cops went into the building (the first guy in had unlocked the door to let his buddies in and forgot to re-lock it), and the officers walked into a room full of hot merchandise. The cops came back and got our names, and we were eventually summoned to court, but never had to take the stand.

In those times, the Christian children - Candy, Scott, and Holly- were now old enough to work there and they did. We became friends with them - Candy was just a couple years younger than us. Mrs. C also worked there from time to time. When they were all there is when Candy Ann's was the best.

When Christian opened Candy Ann's all the years before, he applied for a liquor license, but for over twenty years was denied one. A short trip down South Division Avenue to 54th Street and the Chez Ami Bowling Lanes would explain why. The Chez was a huge bowling and lounge complex ran by the Scalici family -the Italian family that ran the south end of town if you know what I mean. They didn't want any competition in the booze business and had used their influence to keep other liquor licenses far from them. But in the mid 70's when Tony Scalici Sr. was in the midst of retiring, three liquor licenses came up and Mr. C was granted one. The whole Christian family was ecstatic.

But this meant the end of Candy Ann's. The restaurant was once again remodeled, and became The Edge, a mid-to high end restaurant bar/lounge featuring steaks, chops, chicken, fish, and prime rib. The place where we pushed our trays along became the salad bar. The north end of the room became the lounge. The windows were covered over. A lot of great food was served there, but they would never again serve another Candy Burger.

The Christians ran The Edge very successfully for a few years. Scott and Candy went from being fry cooks to bartenders. Probably fielding many lucrative offers to buy his liquor license, Mr. C finally decided to retire and sold the business. Candy married a rock musician. Scott went into another line of work re-enameling antique bathtubs. Holly married a doctor and he set up practice out in Colorado. I haven't seen any of them in many, many years. I check for the Christian children on classmates.com once in a while, but so far, no luck. The building today is owned by the Brann family and is a reception hall.

Sometimes if the sun is hanging just right in the western sky in the early summer, I think about running through the drive-in and eating left-over fries off the tray and stealing the tips. Of course, I never did that but Bill Baker did.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part Four: Farrow's Music

2008-05-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

One of the staples of Home Acres life in the 60's and on, was Farrow's Music Store. Bill Farrow was a graduate of Kelloggsville High School - and voted the class of 1948's Best Musician. I don't know when he opened his first music store, but when he did he shared the building with what is now Fat Man's Fish Fry. Farrow's like most music stores of that era, was most interested in selling band instruments to kids that would grow to disdain lugging trombone cases back and forth to school. What set Farrow's aside from many of the music stores of the day though, was that when the Beatles hit in 1964, Farrow's embraced the movement instead of trying to convince kids caught up in Beatlemania that Big Bands were going to make a comeback. Farrow's began selling a wide assortment of guitars, amps, and drums, along with the occasional Farfisa keyboard.

I remember that trips into Farrow's were special events. Because Farrow's became more than a music store, it became an escape out of Home Acres and into "our" culture - or 'counterculture' as was the term du jour. I was usually accompanied by pals -Jerry Ford or Rick Haan. We would walk in and just look and gaze and wish and dream. We would stare at the gleaming sunburst finish of a Fender Stratocaster, or the Humbucking pick-ups on a Gibson Les Paul, much as Ralphie stared at the Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story.

By the time I started frequenting Farrow's they were located on the northeast corner of Division Avenue and 44th Street, in a long row of shops that included Don's Kitchen, Shippy's Rexall Drug Store, Super Surplus, and Engel's Jewelers. These were older shops, the kind that had creaky wooden floors and water stains on the ceiling tiles. A Drum set usually sat in the front window of Farrow's and guitars and amps enjoyed main floor status. A trip down creaky stairs led one down to the basement where keyboards, PA systems, and microphones were displayed.

One of our favorite parts of a Farrow's visit was to stare at the 8X10's that were prominently displayed. Almost every band in town was represented. There were bands with names like Lynn and the Invaders, The Boyfriends, The Bel-Airs, and The Ju-Jus.
We would dream of the day that our band The Lemon Fog would have a photo on that wall.

We would eventually end up buying guitar picks or sheet music so that we felt like legitimate customers. Somewhere I still have the sheet music to Good Lovin' by the Young Rascals and The Small Faces' Itchycoo Park.

Now and then a balding Bill Farrow would come out from the back chomping on a stogie and barking questions to staff - who were usually local musicians that needed a day job. We would stare at him in awe. Bill Farrow was Home Acres' version of Bill Graham. And our awe was in spite of the fact that he still played an accordion in the bands he played in on the weekends. We had not yet figured out just how extremely uncool that was.

When Loveland's Drug Store across the street closed in the late 60's Farrow's bought that building and after extensive remodeling moved across the street to the new digs. The store was more modern, well-lit, and bigger. For the Grand Opening, Farrow's sponsored an open mike jam session for about three days. We were there constantly. For a few years this morphed into an annual Battle of the Bands, where the winner could walk away with a PA system. Our band played there once, but we had an off day - coupled by the fact we had to go first.

Eventually Union Bank down on the corner got hot to have the spot that Farrow's enjoyed. They undoubtedly made a lucrative offer and and soon Farrow's was moving again. Farrow bought a house down around the corner on west 44th Street and remodeled that. This is where the store is today. I bought a guitar there a few years back and I was gratified to see that they had found some of the old 8X10s and had them hanging on a bulkhead. I grinned as I looked at each and every one.

The Lemon Fog never did have an 8X10 made.

After Post: I have recently learned that Farrow's Music sold their last instrument in February, along with all the store fixtures, and closed forever in March 2008.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part Three: Fat Man's

2008-05-23T16:59:00.000-07:00

Fat Man's Fish Fry began at Franklin Street and Division Avenue. In the late 50's or early 60's, as that area began to deteriorate, Fat Man's moved out to Home Acres. In the beginning Fat man's shared the building with a new and fledgling Farrow's Music Store. Eventually though Farrow's moved on and Fat Man took over the entire building.

Fat Man wasn't really fat. He was at best stout. My mother would have labeled him "husky". He was not a tall man, standing at about 5 feet 6 inches. He had a shiny, shaved, entirely bald head, and always wore a gold necklace.

Although he was short, he was fierce. He had the look and demeanor of a pit bull. He was originally from New York and he never lost the New York attitude, air, or swagger. I remember him counting out my change for me and as I held my hand out, he tossed the change on the counter for me to gather. I guess you can take the boy out of New York, but....

The food at Fat Man's was take-out only and it was sold by the pound. It was deep-fried, heart attack happening, blood vessel closing, fabulous. It was an array of fish, frog legs, french fries, onion rings, mushrooms, and many other delights. It was all augmented by any combination of delightful tartar sauces, hot sauces, salts, catsup, vinegar and many other condiments - all of which could be purchased under the Fat Man label.

In the 70's the gas station next to Fat Man's was converted into a Dunkin' Donuts and the Fat Man could be seen taking breaks in there late at night. That's where I got to know him. He always wore a gold yellow smock unzipped just enough to show the gold necklace and long white chest hairs.

He told me that when he first moved to Home Acres the newly formed Wyoming Police Department would stop his old and loyal Franklin Street customers as they entered Wyoming - our city that cradled the Home Acres neighborhood. They would be on their way to Fat Man's and were often black. He said the police would stop them at 28th Street and tell them "You niggers go to Fat Man's and then get right back out." I asked Fat Man how he felt about that and he said "There's only one color I love - green."

Fat man's name was Lee Lambert and he has long since retired from the business. He turned the store over to his sons and they continue to run it. They still put up the old "Gone Fishin'" sign whenever they go on vacation. Rumor has it that if you go there on a Sunday night, Fat Man himself might be there, giving the boys a break. I should attempt to get in there some Sunday night and try and see a Home Acres legend one more time.

I had an opportunity to stop at Fat Man's a couple weeks ago and was fortunate enough to be waited on by one of Fat Man's sons. Sadly, he informed me that Fat Man - Lee Lambert - passed away in Florida about 5 years ago.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part Two: Earl and Ed

2008-05-10T13:33:00.001-07:00

In the early sixties - on a certain wintry Saturday morning every year, my Dad would take my brother and me down to the heart of Home Acres. We would join a line that would begin in front of Earl Roebson's Department Store. Earl was a local businessman and a city council member, which explained why he lived on the only side street in town that had street lights on it. The streetlights ran down to his house and stopped.

Earl Roebson was a white-haired man who loved to walk, so much so, that he turned his loved of walking into a free publicity campaign. he would walk all over the nation. Once he walked from Grand Rapids to Independence, Missouri and met Harry S. Truman. A picture of Earl and Harry hung in Roebson's Department Store.

But on these wintry mornings, we wouldn't be walking. We'd be lined up in front of his store in anticipation. We waited for what seemed like forever, and the line usually went down around the block to who knows where.

After forever - or an hour or so - it's hard to tell them apart when you're a kid standing in one place - the Boy Scout bus would rumble up Division Avenue and turn onto 44th Street and pull up next to the Gas Station.

Ed Tanis, the local Boy Scout leader would saunter out of the bus with a swagger, unruly white hair, unshaven face, and a Chesterfield cigarette from the corner of his mouth. He would swing the door at the back of the bus open revealing thousands of red nylon Christmas stockings packed in the bus from floor to ceiling. These stockings were stuffed with peanuts, hard candy, and an occasional plastic trinket. Ed personally handed out all the the stockings to any and all that wanted one.

All in all, not a bad haul for only standing in the cold for an hour.

Or forever - I can't remember which.

The Home Acres Chronicles - Part One: Ma & Pa's

2008-05-09T19:11:00.000-07:00

A trip to Ma & Pa's - the candy store located across the street from our school -presented two dangerous possibilities. In fact, it was practically taking your life in your own hands. Acts of death defying danger were performed several times a day - all for a strip of white paper with candy dots all over it or a Slo-Poke All-Day Sucker.

The first ugly option was to cross the surface of South Division Avenue, one of the busiest streets in our neighborhood. For a first or second grader this was pretty much out of the question. No matter how agile or fast a kid that age was, they'd have just ended up a greasy spot on South Division pavement.

The second option was only slightly better. The tunnel.

The Tunnel might have seemed like a good idea back in the 20's or 30's when it was constructed, but by the late 50' and early 60's it was cracked, with chipping paint, and dank. It took water. This constant half inch of water might have been a welcome sight if you were, say, a mosquito farmer, but otherwise the water only encouraged children with poor planning to turn it into the world's largest urinal. Since there was water on the floor of the tunnel all the time, someone came up with a solution. A series of wooden skids were placed in a row the length of the tunnel, and one only had to guess where they were in the dim light.

Another hazard of the tunnel was the return trip. Those going to Ma & Pa's were relatively safe, for they were not as yet carrying kid booty. But one of the scariest things in the tunnel, was any one of an assortment of bullies who would be lurking, hoping to intimidate some little kid out of a Black Jack or a Bit O' Honey. Arthur "Art" Hall, enjoyed quite a high rung on the bully ladder in our neighborhood. Art was an angry youth and his anger seemingly could only be soothed by Sputniks, Jaw Breakers, Root Beer Barrels, Bazooka Bubble Gum, Wax Lips, Lik-M-Aid, or candy cigarettes.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention Ma and Pa themselves. They lived in the back of the store and both were about 112 years old. Their heads looked like their brains were on the outside. At any rate they spent a good deal of their day putting out candy, getting the hot dogs ready, and banning kids for life. Banning customers for life was big in their store. In fact, nearly everyone who ever went there was banned for life at least once. The problem was, that since so many were banned, it was impossible for either Ma or Pa to remember who was banned and who wasn't. So if you banned for life, you had to stay out of there for at least two days. It didn't take much to get banned for life either. Once I was there while Pa kept wiping his runny nose on the same hand he was putting the licorice in the licorice jar with. The girl in front of me asked if he thought that was a good idea. That's all it took. Banned for life. Since I was standing within five feet of her, I too, was banned for life.

Eventually, the era of the Mom and Pop candy stores passed by like the cars on South Division Avenue. In the mid-sixties a well-lit, better stocked Candy and Soda pop shop opened right next to the school and was on the same side of the street. Whatever business there was, now ended up in "Joe's" and did so for a year or so, until it was discovered that Joe would get a little frisky with the high school girls that he would hire to work there. Joe was forced to move, but it was too late for Ma & Pa. Their doors were closed and the two old people shuffled around their small back-room apartment, while dust gathered on the licorice jar and counter out front.

I'm not exactly sure when Ma and Pa died. I did hear a cop in a coffee shop in the early 70's announce that if either Ma or Pa ever required police emergency mouth-to-mouth breathing, they'd be dead. Whether they ever needed the mouth-to-mouth or not, eventually they did die, and the travel trailer business next door finally got their little building, and then owned the whole corner. They couldn't wait to tear Ma & Pa's down.

I don't get down to the old neighborhood very often, but whenever I am at that corner, I stop a give the spot a look. And I swear that I can still visualize the activity of the place. Some kid would order two hot dogs; one with catsup, and one plain. I swear there are times I can hear Ma yelling back to the kitchen, "Two dogs - make one bloody and one in the nude, Pa!"

Big Band Music

2008-04-07T18:47:00.000-07:00

Don't you kind of wish that all of the people that were fans of big band music when they were young would hurry up and die, so that we don't have to hear that crap anymore?

Me too.

A Couple Random Observations

2008-02-13T04:37:00.000-08:00

Today's observation #1:

Do you realize the abbreviation for June is Jun? And for July it's Jul? Man, you've gotta be in some kind of hurry! I hope I'm never under the kind of pressure that only allows me to abbreviate these two months.

Today's observation #2:

A cheeseburger at McDonald's costs 99 cents. A Double-cheeseburger costs $1.00. This raises a couple of questions. First, do they sell a lot of regular cheeseburgers? If so, who buys them? Secondly, if they can sell me the second beef patty and cheese for one penny, one can only assume the other beef patty and cheese costs a penny. So do they use really expensive buns?

Pet Peeves

2007-10-14T06:08:00.000-07:00

Pet Peeves. Everybody's got 'em. Some people have only one or two. I envy them. Anybody that can be that oblivious obviously knows contentment. Some people have many. I think they're more normal. My wife has several - unfortunately they mostly center around me. But they are legit. What bothers her may not bother others, but they do bother her. Mine bother me. Yours bother you.
So I got to thinking about pet peeves yesterday, and I thought I would share a few with you. In this way, you may say "Hey, you know, my pet peeves are no big deal." More likely, you'll think "You know, that's a good one. I'm putting that on my list of pet peeves too." So here are the pet peeves of mine and other people I know.

MINE: Pronouncing the T in often. It's not ofTen. It's often - pronounced offen. If you put an S in front of it, it doesn't become sofTen. It's soften - pronounced soffen. It's fabric soffener, not sofTener. By the way, how come the same people who pronounce this T leave it silent in the word LISTEN? How come they don't say lisTen? Like in Sonny Liston?

HANNAH (my bride): People that make un-necessary noises. Cracking knuckles. Drumming on table tops. Snapping gum. And let's not even get into bodily functions. Yes, dear readers - guilty on all counts.

BILL MURGAN: People that mis-use the word "Literally". "It is literally raining cats and dogs out there!" Why, Einstein, just step in a poodle? No it's not literally - meaning empirically, in fact - raining cats and dogs.

SANDY BAKER: People that hold up fingers to show the number three, and hold their first finger down, leaving finger 2, 3, and 4 to illustrate three. In her mind - mine too- one must hold down your pinky finger and hold up fingers 1, 2 and 3 to properly illustrate three. I suppose the Boy Scouts have been wrong in their salute all these years? I think not!

STACEY SUTTON: Another buddy's wife, another finger thing. Her peeve is this. Whenever Tom lays a map down on the table, and he has to point to something, he points with his middle finger. Her contention is that in order to properly point one must use your first or index finger. I concur. That's why God gave it to us.

These are just a few. What are yours? Let me know what they are. I'll publish them. Maybe we can get people to stop annoying you so much!

Pinball Alley

2007-09-17T17:47:00.000-07:00

Back in the mid-seventies Todd Pierce and I climbed into his VW Beetle and caravanned with a bunch of folks down to East Lansing, Michigan to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band somewhere on the Michigan State campus. It was Bruce's "Born To Run" tour and it seems to me that the East Lansing stop was one of the first stops on the tour. We made it down there and Todd and I had seats about mid-way back on the main floor. It was not a huge venue so they were pretty good seats. The show was the first time I'd seen the Boss and naturally I was blown away. Three plus hours of frantic blistering rock and roll in an era that was overdosing on California singer-songwriters. Bruce took the stage and played every song like it was the last time he was ever going to get to play in front of people. He poured absolutely everything he had into every solo, lyric, and song. He did a Mitch Ryder medley. Entirely awesome.

After a Bruce show one's adrenaline is pumping so Todd and I were excited. What a show! As we walked outside to meet up with the others, we noticed the tour bus. We decided to hang around and see if we could meet Bruce. We had good intentions, but it was spring and there was a nip in the air. We got chilled and eventually we gave it up. The others had left us by now, so we decided to hit the Big Boy across from the campus for a burger and coffee before heading home.

As we were finishing up, we noticed the tour bus pull into the motel next door. I brazenly stated to Todd that we should just go over and see about partying with the band. A driver got out as we got near the bus, and I just asked where the band would be partying that night. The driver said "They said they were going to somewhere called "the copper penny or the wooden nickle, or something like that." I told Todd we should go over the the Silver Dollar. We did.

When we walked into the bar we were sure the driver had been putting us on. There was nobody in this place. There was a band and they were playing to the bartender. No exageration. There was not another soul in the place. Why? It was a Sunday night and it was exams week. People who had dared spend precious time at the concert, were now back at their dorm frantically cramming. So it was like a ghost town. But we were the only two there, so we opted for pinball and a beer before heading out. Suddenly we noticed another guy at the bar. It was Mighty Max! Bruce's drummer! We went over and bought him a beer and I was delighted to spend time talking about drummers with him - a subject he has since written a book about. Then we noticed Danny Federici come in and Clarence and Roy Bitten and I struck up a conversation with Miami Steve (now of 'The Sopranos' fame too). Then I notice over his shoulder was Bruce. How cool. Todd and I have the whole E street Band all to ourselves. Bruce went up to the pinball machines and I asked if I could play with him. We did. I will always tell my grandkids about it, as if I were telling them about getting into a swordfight with Zorro. After the pinball game I fumbled through my pockets looking for something to write on. Since I worked part time at Flaming Rat Records, all I could come up with was a promo sticker for Roger Daltry's release "Ride a Rock Horse". I told Bruce none of my friends would believe he was in this bar. He wrote on the Sticker "Lyle - I was in this bar - Bruce Springsteen." I have it framed.

None of my friends ever did believe me.

This Year's Kleinhardt Excursion.

2007-08-27T19:46:00.000-07:00

I don't know where or when I met Dave Kleinhardt but since we were both guitar players (a term used loosely in my case), we struck up an instant friendship working together in a prison. He was a counselor then and I was a Sergeant. Throught the years we have played in numerous bands together. Well not really numerous, since every year instead of learning new material we would just change the name of the band. We started as "Premature Grey", and went through names such as "The Dillons", "Shotgun Romeos", and "Three Daves and Two Other Guys". Although they still occasionally play, Dave cleverly moved so far away that it became impossible for me to keep it up.
However all is not lost. Although he accepted many promotions and works in Lansing now, we have kept up our friendship through the miracle of e mail. He supervises a large office staff and every year for Christmas they buy him a double pass to the Common Ground Festival in Lansing. As a generous goodwill gesture, Dave usually lets former band mates go to one of the 8 or 10 nights with him. I started out just taking the night nobody else wants to go, but recently I've kind of indicated which one I'd like to see.

So here is a run down of the years as I recall them.

Year One: Nobody else wanted this night so I went to WAR and JOE COCKER. We sat halfway back, and halfway through Dave's seat collapsed (chair technology has come a ways since then). But nevertheless it was a great show. I was blown away by how really good Joe Cocker was . He just kept coming at us with hit after hit. I had fogotten how many really great songs he has had.
***** Five stars.

Year Two: CROSBY, STILLS, AND NASH: Easily one of the best concerts I've ever seen, and buddy, I've seen a lot. I had anticipated three guys with acoustic guitars on stools and some quiet warbling. Boy, was I wrong. These guys came out rocking and never let up. They opened with a pounding version of "Carry On". We were also about second row center, and the boys were only about 20 feet from us. We could hear them chatting to each other. Hit after pounding hit highlighted by a blistering version of "For What It's Worth" from Stills, who is a lot greater guitar player than I ever gave him credit for. Combining all of the Springsteen shows into number one, this show easily fall into my top ten all time shows.
**** Five Stars. Easily.

Year Three: MITCH RYDER and THE BLACK CROWES. First row - right. I was attracted to this bill in order to see Mitch Ryder. I was right about him. He sounded great for 60 years plus. The Black Crowes were a real downer though, and maybe the worst show I've ever seen. They were terrible at best and were so full of themselves they wouldn't even play their one modest hit "Hard To Handle". If you ever get a chance to see them - don't.
* one star (Mitch gets that one).

Year Four: KEB MO and BONNIE RAITT. Third Row -center. I love Bonnie and since I'm a blues fan I was also excited to see KEB MO. But it had downpoured on us earlier and KEB just barely got a short set in before it started to down pour again. Bonnie tried to hurry through a set, but we were getting drenched and she mercifully cut it short. What we heard was wonderful though and I can't wait to see her again.
***Stars (only because it was short)

This year: DICKEY BETTS and PETER FRAMPTON. Fourth Row Center. Never been a fan of opening act Dickey Betts and still ain't. He was tired and lame. Yech! But Frampton came out and opened up on us with both barrels and never let up. He was incredible. Every time I see this guy, he's a better player than the last time. Man, was he great. And on top of that , he had a guitar side-man who was also one of the best guitar players I've ever seen. This was an awesome great rocking show, and I am so glad my old buddy Dave thinks of me year after year. Other than the Black Crowes, we have seen some terrific shows together.
***** Five Stars

My Kids, The Superheroes

2007-07-21T06:50:00.000-07:00

Man, am I lucky. Not only do I have great kids, they are superheroes. What makes my kids so special? What is their super power? Are you ready for this? They can become invisible. I'm not kidding. If you don't believe it, come stand behind them with me at a parade sometime. Watch how all the kids get candy tossed at them, and then watch how mine get skipped. Amazing. They stand there in what I believe to be full view and yet nobody handing out candy can see them. It has to be a super power. Some of the people look in their general direction, but I know they can't see them. Most just walk on by totally fooled by their invisibility.

Did I mention my kids are black? You'd think they'd stick out even more in our rural commmunity, but nope. Nobody can see them.

Now before you start rolling your eyes and think "Here we go again" let me give you a little background. I'm a white guy. Almost three years ago I married a black woman who much to my delight, brought along with her two children. They have been raised their entire lives in our small, rural, white community. I have often mused that I enjoy the kids innocence so much because they don't know they're black yet, i.e. what it means to be black in America. They have friends of all colors at their school, and are usually included in every social event just like everyone else. But slowly I have noticed a subtle, unconscious (dare I say the "R" word?) racism creeping into their lives. And I thought this stuff went out with Brown vs. the Board of Education, or the Civil Rights Act of 1964. But this stuff is so permeated into our society, that we as white Americans make decisions that we are not even aware of. (And I say "we" because having a black wife and black kids doesn't get me a free pass).

So I noticed the parade thing about three years ago while watching my first parade with my new family. I thought it odd that the candy would fly and then the person would be fumbling in the bag as they walked by mine, and then it would fly again, but hey, that's the breaks, and just wait for the next candy hurler to come along. And they would. And the same thing happened. And then another. And another. And soon the parade was over. Oh well, we'd think, better luck next year. That was just the way the chips fell this time, but what are the odds of it happening again? But it does. It happens so consistently that I, becoming jaded, find myself getting more and more disgusted and disheartened. What do I tell a kid on Memorial Day in Sheridan whose little white friend just down the way managed to get nearly a half a grocery bag of candy when he got three pieces? Three. And he gave one of those to a kid in a wheelchair. Trying to be good adult examples, we mumbled something about having better luck next time, but we know that luck hasn't got anything to do with it. Because it happens nearly every parade.

My son also played Pee-Wee baseball. Although he was consistently huddled with the others around his coach, and yelling as loudly as anyone, he would usually be one of the last to get an assignment. Ah, but there were three more players than positions. So the coach made a deal - if anyone agreed to sit out an inning, they could pick where they wanted to play the following inning. So, my son figured that this was an easy sacrifice to be able to play first base. But guess what? Assignments were being handed out, and he would bound out of the dugout first, but dog-gone it, he had that invisibility thing going and he would get an assignment last. He rarely ever got first base and if he did it was because nobody else wanted it.
My wife and I watched him come out of the dugout slower and slower as the year went on. He was resigning himself to the fact that he couldn't be seen like everyone else. And do you want to know the kicker? His coach loved him. His coach was a wonderful, caring, giving, generous individual who had a genuine fondness for our son. I know what he did was not a conscious thing. He liked our boy. But when we questioned our son about it at the end of the year, and asked why he thought he didn't get called on by the coach like the others, he answered "I just thought the coach didn't like me." Try convincing a kid in his position that the coach did like him. And like I say, the coach did like him! In fact we want our son to play for him again next year. But this white American conditioning is subtle.

We don't want our kids treated in any special way or any concessions made for them in any way at all. You see the point is, we just want them treated the same as everyone. No special favors, no free rides, just the same as everybody else.

So regarding the parades, eventually I reckon they'll end end up figuring out what's going on, and they'll get angry about it and become more aggressive in trying to get candy. And then watch. I can hear the people sputtering now. "Did you see the way those black kids acted? They don't know how to be civlized. They act like they won't get any candy unless they bully their way in." Suddenly, unfortunately, our kids won't be invisible anymore.

25 "Must Have" Recordings

2007-07-21T06:01:00.000-07:00

Here is a list of 25 recordings that everyone should have. If you don't, then check them out of the library and download them - or would it be upload them? I get confused - anyway load them. You'll never regret it.

1. REVOLVER the beatles
2. BLONDE ON BLONDE bob dylan
3. SMALL CHANGE tom waits
4. BORN TO RUN bruce springsteen
5. SURFACING sarah mclaughlin
6. MY AIM IS TRUE elvis costello
7. WORLD MACHINE level 42
8. STOLEN MOMENTS john hiatt
9. ONLY TRUST YOUR HEART diana krall
10. I AM THE BLUES willie dixon
11. BEGGAR'S BANQUET the rolling stones
12. 'ROUND MIDNIGHT ella fitzgerld
13. MARSHALL CRENSHAW marshall crenshaw
14. JOHN PRINE john prine
15. TAKE FIVE the dave bruback quartet
16. KIND OF BLUE miles davis
17. SWEET BABY JAMES james taylor
18. MY FAVORITE THINGS john coltrane
19. ARE YOU EXPERIENCED? the jimi hendrix experience
20. SQUEEZIN' OUT SPARKS graham parker
21. TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN cat stevens
22. ZIGGY STARDUST david bowie
23. IN THE COURT OF THE CRIMSON KING king crimson
24. DESPERADO the eagles
25. MY MOTHER'S HYMN BOOK johnny cash

Note To Karl Rove

2007-07-15T18:22:00.001-07:00

Just because you can teach a monkey to sell pencils on the corner, doesn't mean it should be the CEO of Eberhard-Faber.

The Biography

2007-06-24T17:39:00.000-07:00

THE BEATLES - THE BIOGRAPHY
BOB SPITZ - Little, Brown, & Co.

Not long ago I finished the latest Beatles book in my collection - "The Beatles - The Biography" - and it is easily my new favorite book on the subject. I have read dozens of books about the lads from Liverpool, but this one is not only the most comprehensive, but is one of the most readable. I thought I knew everything about this subject, and yet I learned quite a few things. (Did you know that in spite of all the mysticism and swamis along the way, George Harrison embraced traditional Christianity near the end of his life?) And by comprehensive I mean comprehensive - it was well over 300 pages before Ringo Starr is mentioned in any context other than one casual reference to the drummer of a rival band in Hamburg. This book practically goes day by day.

This ride is thrilling as it paints the meteoric rise of the band, the blossoming genius of Lennon-McCartney, and the joy of discovery as they record "Rubber Soul", "Revolver", and ultimately "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band". The ride is also told in painful detail as the boys begin to falter - with the disasterous Magical Mystery Tour film, and as Yoko enters the sanctity of the studio and actively criticizes the other Beatles' methods. She actually at one point got up in the studio and sang... as if they were going to ask her to join the band. And we also get all of the details as John and Yoko got strung out on heroin throughout the "White" album, "Let It Be" and "Abbey Road" sessions.

My only critcisims are that author Bob Spitz doesn't mention the George Harrison trip to America in the summer of 1963, when he spent two weeks in a small town in Illinois and jammed at a VFW hall with a band called the "Four Vests". He also becomes a bit over-zealous, as they all do, and credits the Beatles with inventing the music video after they made two small films of a couple songs to promote then instead of playing them live. (I believe that of all people Ozzie Nelson was way ahead of his tme, when he would take a Ricky Nelson song like "Travelin' Man" and superimpose concert footage with scenes from around the world. Call it what you want, but that was a music video.)

Over all, even if you think you know it all, like I did, read this book. I guarantee you'll learn something.

2007-06-03T19:57:00.000-07:00

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Elementary School

2007-05-25T18:02:00.000-07:00

Thank You Mrs. Thomas for teaching me to read.
Thank you Mrs. Krieger for teaching me to write cursive.
Thank you Mrs. Bradshaw for allowing Steve Walton to participate in story telling
even though he had that over-active saliva gland problem.
Thank you Mrs. Waters for reading all those animal stories to us.
I still remember why the Blue Jay is blue, and why the porcupine has quills.

But Mrs. Heaton with your wooden block heeled shoes
and your demented cruelty,
And Mr. Acey with your sadistic treatment of Mike Browan
and the sick way you punched us in the chests with your first two fingers,
and Miss Azzarello with your talon like nails that pinched juglar veins
and your twisted obsessive-compulsive hand washing and clothes changing
throughout the day,
You three can all kiss my fat behind.

But you can't can you?
Because you're all dead.
And so we terrified little ones, we victims of our ages,
We have the last laugh after all, now don't we?

Because you're all dead.
Dead and gone to the eternal teacher's lounge in Hell
where Farrell Bieber's cigarette smoke always hangs in the air,
and the sandwiches in your lunches stay forever dried out.

After The Dance

2007-05-22T20:08:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago I sat in my room staring at the e mail on my screen. A friend had sent me an obituary of a former local disc jockey. For a moment I went whirling back to places and times I associated with Wayne Thomas, the disc jockey. I can still hear an echo from the 60's shouting "The Waynillo Thomaso Radio Programmy - I am not a prima donna!!" He was more than a guy that probably lived in a mobile home and struggled to make ends meet. He was a key to a storage cabinet of memories.

I remembered the night one of my high school garage bands played at a high school dance and this very disc jockey was also hired to entertain.
He was angry for having to share the bill with us.

At the end of the dance, we both stood in a breezeway. He was waiting for whoever picked him and all of his records up, and I was waiting for my band-mates to back an equipment trailer up. While standing there together, I mustered up all my courage and muttered something to him. I admired him very much and was star-struck.

He was a much older guy and he looked down with a look of disdain and snapped something at me and looked away. I thought to myself "You needn't be that way - it won't always be like this - you won't always struggle."

I'd like to think I thought that, but maybe at the time I really thought "hey buddy, bite the weenie."

And now that the dance is over, as I looked at his obituary I realized that even though he changed his name to China Smith, and tried his luck in California, he always did struggle. And at the time of our encounter, he was only twenty-five years old.

And I forgive him.

The N Factor

2007-05-16T16:18:00.000-07:00

For those of you who didn't see it, this editorial entitled "The N Factor" appeared in The Greenville Daily News on May 15, 2007.
It was edited quite a bit, and in fact in the paper was entitled "Presidency Hinges on 'The N Factor'. So for those of you who didn't see it, and those of you who did, here is the unedited editorial in it's uncensored entirety.

THE N Factor
-Lyle Fales

It's a couple of years away and already stories regarding the next Presidential election are creeping into the occasional news segment. John McCain is being touted as the likely Republican candidate, and of course the bigger story is who the Democrats might select to run. My personal pick is John Edwards, who might make a race with John McCain interesting indeed. Of course there's always the outside chance - I think it's outside anyway - that Hillary Rodham Clinton will toss her hat into the ring and along her husband, the thermonuclear weapon of campaigning, and/or that the religious right will crush the hopes of the moderate McCain.

So there are many who may run, but who is most likely to win? I have long held that the candidate, in order to win, must have a name that sounds wholesome and as American as apple pie. I knew for example that Dukakis never had a chance. His name sounded too... well...foreign. It was practically like they were talking about turning the reins over the the commies for crying out loud. Nothing against Mr. Dukakis, a fine fellow I'm sure... if you're a comrade. I know, I know, Dukakis is actually a Greek. Don't get me started.

And Obama whatever from Illinois? Not a threat. I read about him all the time and I still can't remember his name. Other than it sounds vaguely like a terrorist.

Thus come my theory. I call it "The N Factor". This simply means that in our history we find names - and hence candidates - most appealing if their last names end with the letter N. Yep. That's it. That's my theory. I think if the candidate's name ends with the letter N they have a much greater chance of being elected.

I know you are mentally scrambling right now, so let me save you much time, research, and energy. N Factor Presidents to date are: Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison, Buchanan, Lincoln, Johnson, Harrison, Wilson, Truman, Johnson, Nixon, Reagan, and Clinton. And if you didn't know it, we once had a President for just on day and his name was Atchinson. Further, when one pronounces the name Cleveland (as in Grover) it sounds like it ends in N too. And he was President twice.

So when I hear that Hillary Clinton may run against John McCain, it gets my heart racing and I break into a cold sweat. How can this be? Who would win? Would this somehow upset the natural order of things? Contribute to global warming? Would there simply be no clear winner (shades of 2000!)? Since buttered bread always lands buttered side down, and a cat always lands on it's feet, a McCain vs. Clinton race would be like tying buttered bread on the back of a cat and tossing it out the window. It would just get near the ground and spin like opposing magnets.

So let's all hope Edwards runs for the Democrats and the Republicans put up Bill Frist. No N Factor. It's more fair that way.

And if the Democrats want to make it even more sporting, they'd let the Republicans have Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton.

President For A Day

2007-05-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a little bit about the reference I made in my "N Factor" editorial regarding a President for one day.

His name was David Rice Atchinson. He was President of the United States for a day.

Atchinson was never elected President of the US. He succeeded to the office by accident - and is renowned for having served as President for one day.

The facts are these: Atchinson had been elected president pro tempore of the US Senate 15 times and was president pro tempore in March 1849. President James K. Polk spent his last day as President on March 3, 1849 and as midnight tolled and Sunday March 4th began, Polk was out of office. Meanwhile, his successor, General Zachary Taylor, a staunch Episcopalian, refused to be sworn in on March 4th because it was Sunday, and preferred to celebrate his inauguration on Monday, March 5th. The United States was faced with a full day gap between Presidents. According to the law, when the presidential and vice-presidential offices are not filled, the president Pro tempore of the Senate automatically becomes President of the U.S. Since Senator Atchinson of Missouri was president pro tempore of the Senate, he automatically became President of the United States for the single day of March 4th, 1849.

Detractors claim that he was never elected - true - and that he never took an oath. The Constitution does not set time limits on taking the oath. Nevertheless, the Biographical Congressional Directory published in Washington, D.C. in 1913, called Atchinson the "legal president of the United States for one day."

In 1928 the governor of Missouri and other state dignitaries went to Plattsburgh to dedicate a statue to Atchinson and his brief term as chief executive of our nation.

Holly and Division

2007-05-11T22:05:00.000-07:00

It was a cold Saturday night in the spring of 1969. We were all gathered for a cast party since we had just given our final performance of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons". I was fairly new to high school drama, and George Deever had been my first real part. We were all still feeling pretty euphoric since our final performance had been particularly moving and quite successful. Everyone was chatty and excited, feeling, in our minds at least, that we had all just been part of something important. And it had been special to be sure.

High school parties then were coca-cola cheese curl extravaganzas. This one was no different. People were discussing their parts and how their character wove into the story as a whole. Others searched for symbolism and greater truths. My friend Bill and I were mostly just interested in soda pop and potato chips.

Eventually someone produced a guitar and it began to be passed around to the various people who could play. Soon the room was full of people singing along to "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore" and "Rock My Soul In the Bosom of Abraham". I watched the whole thing with total indifference. I didn't know those songs and I didn't care to learn them.

Eventually the guitar made its way around to me. I hesitated because I wasn't the greatest player in the world, but I decided to try my hand anyway. I put my head down, closed my eyes, and took off on a growling, rousing version of Bob Dylan's "Maggie's Farm". "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's Farm no more. I got a head full of I-dee-yas, driving me insane...." When I got done, the room was absolutely quiet. I looked up and some of the girls had been staring at me and were now starting to giggle. They rolled their eyes, and gave me sideways glances as they asked incredulously, "What was that?" It was obvious I'd made a fool out of myself. I decided I needed to look for more snacks and simply went outside to get away.

Out in the cold night air, I began to see things as clearly as I could see my breath slipping out like puffs from a steam engine. I began to see that these girls, who didn't know a songwriter from a typewriter, would never get it. They would never see The Monkees as a corporate marketing ploy, and never see Dylan as the quintessential singer-songwriter. Somehow there in the lonely night of Wyoming Michigan on the corner of Holly and Division, I figured out some empirical truths about art. And how public acceptence has never been an accurate gauge of artistic achievement. I mean, Donnie Osmond sold millions of records for crying out loud, but nobody will ever accuse him of being a great 'artist'. Maybe Arthur Miller was to blame for my realizations; he'd just sent me spinning through empirical truths.

Suddenly I sensed another presence. I turned and saw that I wasn't alone. My hostess and fellow cast member Shawn was there. She came up close to me and whispered in my ear "I thought it was wonderful." And then she was gone. And so was my anxiety.

I have never forgotten that night. I'll always be grateful to Arthur Miller for writing that brilliant play. I'll always be grateful to our director Jim Hoffman for giving me a chance. But mostly I'll always be grateful to Shawn for her simple words that were spoken at just the right time.

I had an opportunity to direct "All My Sons" for a local theater group a year ago or so, and many memories came flooding back. I remembered certain lines and phrases, and how other people delivered them 35 years earlier. But mostly I remembered Shawn and her brilliant, inspired performance as Mother Keller, and her sensitivity to a friend.

So, Why Is...

2007-05-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

For all of you out there who have wondered why a boxing ring is square and Madison Square Garden is round, ponder this with me:

Why is it that "Wise Man" and "Wise Guy" mean the opposite, but "Fat Chance" and "Slim Chance" mean the same thing?

And why is "people of color" acceptable, and "colored people" not?

Silly, isn't it?

Virginia Tech Shootings

2007-04-28T13:53:00.000-07:00

It wasn't the Dean's fault.
It wasn't the Administration's fault.
It wasn't the faculty's fault.
It wasn't the police's fault.
It wasn't the gun salesman's fault.
It wasn't the ammo seller's fault.
It wasn't the campus security's fault.
It wasn't the other students fault.
It wasn't music's fault.
It wasn't video games fault.
It wasn't the FBI's fault.
It wasn't movies fault.
It wasn't parents fault.
It wasn't the media's fault.
It wasn't gun laws fault.
It wasn't legislator's fault.
It wasn't background check's fault.
It wasn't the gun manufacturers fault.

It was Cho's fault.

Where Are They Now?

2007-04-08T18:43:00.000-07:00

I realized during a prior posting that my two old buddies that began the Flaming Rat Record Store in the Town and Country Shopping Center circa 1970, are both deceased. This won't mean much to anyone who didn't grow up in the Grand Rapids area, but at the time, Dave and Harry were kind of southside legends. With the recent death of Jeff Boughner, the guitarist for local bands of some reknown, I got to thinking about some of the other local characters that have sort of faded into the woodwork. If you happen to be reading this and know where any of these folks ended up, please share.

FLOYD BLOSS: whatever became of Grand Rapids' first porno merchant?
TERRY McCARTHY: the owner of the head shop "The Painted Caravan". ?
BUCK BARRY: Moved to Texas, and passed away several years ago.
DON MELVOIN: Fireman Freddy of GR TV. Died three years ago, after living in the Traverse City Area for several years.
FRANK SLEIGHMAKER: The first TV 8 Weatherman I can remember.
SKIP BELL: disc jockey
GEORGE ARTHUR: the disc jockey that guided us through the "Paul is Dead" clues.
ARIS HAMPERS: Runs a disc shop at Celebration Cinema on the Beltline.
RONNIE FREY: Made the Bavarian a place to go to. Country musician from Canada.
VIC AMATO: Made Charlie Huhn a star. And Danny J's out of "The Elbow Room". I lettered his drum heads.

More to be added later as I think of 'em.
And who could share any insights about PHASE II (head shop on South Division at Burton), THE BEEP LINE, THE PLACE, THE PIT, HOOVER GIDEON, and CHERYL HAVENS?

later old timers-

Black Is Beautiful, But C'mon...

2007-03-25T06:34:00.000-07:00

It was with great sadness a few years back when I watched the Atlanta Falcons sidleline their bright red uniforms. The NFL granted much leeway regarding such things and Atlanta had a new coach and he, along with management, apparently decided it was time to "reinvent" themselves. So they benched red in lieu of black.

Atlanta wasn't the first team to don black jerseys. The Chicago Bears have always worn black. They should. They're Bears. And for years the NFL's resident "bad boys" - the Oakland Raiders - wore black. Their notoriety as cheaters (and being very successful while doing so), made the color black a color to be "feared."

Of course all teams are forced to wear white, a a very light colored jersey for their away games. This dates back to the early days of lucrative television deals and since most or all of TV was broadcast in living black and white, it was the way in which teams could be easily distinguishable to viewers in their living rooms. But the colors the teams are known by are the ones on their home jerseys. And more and more they are becoming colorless in the name of macho posturing.

The Denver Broncos were once a lively orange and were even nicknamed the "Orange Crush". Now they've switched to a blue so dark it looks like black at first glance. And recently, following the lead of many teams, the Detroit Lions, laughably, have gone to a black jersey. Along with their standard and beautiful Caribbean Blue, it becomes very unpleasing to the eye. Sorry Detroit, you can't be tough and feared by simply putting on black jerseys. You get that by winning games.

Alas, this ugly trend has even slithered down to the high school ranks. Even the Greenville Yellow Jackets have gone from a once great look to the "go-to-when-you're-out-of-ideas" color black (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). Another victim of a coach's perceived need to "reinvent" a team and possibly desiring a "bad boy" label. I, for one, sure miss the beautiful and very eye pleasing complimentary colors of the purple jersey with the yellow numbers. They are the YellowJackets after all. Maybe the coach should have stopped by one of the most important departments in the school - the art department - before making the decision to opt for boring.

But this is what happens when not enough attention is paid to the arts in school. Today's architects design buildings that are just square boxes. Automobiles today all look alike. And all of the beauty and color, delight and pagentry of football is going dull, colorless, and flat. And we don't even complain.

Hopefully someday this disturbing trend will cycle out and color and a little joy will return to football. I think it should start now. Bring back color to the game and leave the overly dramatic black to Johnny Cash and Darth Vader. They pull it off. But anyone else, as often a not, come off looking like Snidley Whiplash.

When Do You Reckon?

2007-03-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

This is a posting that I am going to add to as different words occur to me. See, lately I've been contemplating the fact that we seem to be losing words and misusing others (For example people can often be heard saying they are 'anxious' to do something when in fact they mean 'eager'). But that will be for another time.

RECKON: I occasionally use the word "reckon". Do you reckon?" I might ask. "I reckon we should do that" I might offer. This makes my wife nuts. She thinks this makes me totally hillbilly. She'll always respond with "I dunno, but y'all shore makes me feel purty!" I don't know why we are losing the word 'reckon'. It seems perfectly logical to me and sometimes seems like the only appropriate word for the situation. I'd like to think that I am just trying to perserve the language, but I acknowlege that it may be a case of too much Andy Griffith Show.

SLEET: Another thing that makes me crazy is people saying this stupid phrase "Freezing Rain". Hey, folks we have a word for that. It's called "sleet". This begs the question: When did 'sleet' fall out of favor? Why do people opt for the more bulky 'freezing rain'? Now I know there are those morons out there that will say "Hey, Freezing Rain and "Sleet" are two different things." Oh, really Frank Sleighmaker? Not according to the dictionary. It's sleet. And no, there's no such thing as 'black ice'. There's clear ice on black things.

CRESTFALLEN: When's the last time you were crestfallen? How would you know if you were crestfallen, as opposed to just say, blue. I suppose the "freezing rain' people would prefer the bulkier "down in the dumps." But sometimes I feel downright crestfallen. I can't explain it, I just am. So try to be crestfallen this week. It really feels different. And it'll make you want to save the word.

GAY: The problem with homosexuals having some sort of inferiority complex which does not allow them to embrace the perfectly good word 'homosexual' is that they decided to steal another word from the language, and that word they decided (They must have - I didn't get a vote!) is GAY. Now this is truly too bad, for many reasons, but mostly because we don't have any other word in the lexicon that means exactly what gay means. But we have many words that mean the same thing as Fabulous. So fellas, have a "Fabulous lifestyle" and go to "Fabulous nightclubs" and let us have 'gay' back.

ASTONISH: 'Awesome' is so over worked, that it is losing its potency. Most people blurt 'Awesome!' when they are actually astonished. These are the same people that say they are 'anxious' to do something, when they really mean 'eager'. But I suppose exclaiming "Astonishing!" would draw sidelong glances. Too bad. Astonish is a good word and is too often neglected.

Baby Face

2007-03-16T17:26:00.000-07:00

A little tid-bit I recently ran across and was sharing wih my pal, Bill Baker:

In the early 30's Baby Face Nelson decided to get into the Bank Robbing business. On August 18, 1933 he robbed his first bank -the Peoples Savings Bank - in Grand Haven, Michigan. I have a friend that used to live in the area, and according to him the old bank building still stands, although the People's Savings Bank is in a new location.

Ten Must Reads To Understand American Life

2007-03-13T15:14:00.000-07:00

Here are ten books that I think are must reads if a person really wants to understand American life. For my money, I think you should have to read all of these in order to qualify to be an American citizen.

1. Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe
2. To Kill A Mockingbird. Harper Lee
3. The Grapes of Wrath. John Steinbeck
4. On The Road. Jack Kerouac
5. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain
6. The Catcher In The Rye. J. D. Salinger
7. Of Mice And Men. John Steinbeck
8. One Flew Over The Cukoo's Nest. Ken Kesey
9. The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald
10. Trout Fishing in America. Richard Brautigan

If you ain't read 'em, read 'em!

Jeff Boughner

2007-03-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

I just discovered that my old friend Jeff Boughner passed away the middle of last month. Don't really know the cause yet - it takes a while to get news out here in Sheridan- but rumor has it it was cancer. Jeff was of course a founding member of the 60's Grand Rapids garage band extrodinaire "The Soul Benders" with former radio personality Aris Hampers.

I worked with Jeff on and off at "Flaming Rat Records" which was a record store co-founded by Dave Swart (deceased) and Harry Dieterman (also deceased). Ironically, in later life, Harry Dieterman would become a very close friend of Jeff's brother Lee. But I guess that's another story.

Flaming Rat Records" morphed into "The Rat" after a location change - a change that proved to be it's undoing. But while it was "The Rat" across from Woodland Mall, Jeff and I spent many hours there working together and debating the virtues of this artist or that artist. I am a compulsive list maker so it really was "High Fidelity" come to life. Jeff had a quiet soft-spoken demeanor, but he wasn't a lightweight. He was one of the sharpest guys I've ever met. Got me truly interested in jazz.

Jeff also gave me guitar lessons back in my "Springsteen period". Since I was already a player of no distinction, I would go to the lesson having already told Jeff what song I wanted to learn. He would have it figured out and would take an hour to teach it to me. Imagine my delight when I hit the street and could knock out "Prove It All Night", leads and all. Man, that was fun. It was about then he found out he needed a kidney transplant, and his brother Lee had to give him one of his. I visited Jeff in the hospital then and had to get into a full scrub outfit and had to keep my mouth and nose under one of those masks. Haven't thought about that in years.

After that I would see Jeff as he managed Schuler Books and Music on 28th Street. Again, a quiet demeanor, but with a little prodding we could get into a discussion about the best or worst of this or that. But since I have moved so far from Grand Rapids, I hadn't seen Jeff in a few years. Schuler's won't seem the same. Nor will the Grand Rapids musical landscape.

So long, Jeff.

PS. Little known Jeff Boughner fact: His grandfather was former GR mayor George Welsh, of the Welsh Auditorium fame.

Don't Buy Into Convoluded Thinking

2007-03-10T13:07:00.000-08:00

One thing that I hear people say that I find incredibly disturbing is the saying "if you don't vote, you don't have a right to complain." What a bunch of hogwash. So then I guess another way of saying it would be, "If you don't vote for someone you don't care for, don't share values with, don't agree with on a multitude of subjects, don't believe can make the world a better place, then you don't have a right to complain." Pshaw! Of course you have a right to complain! And maybe you have a right to complain more than anyone.

More accurately I think the saying should be "If you don't pay your taxes, you don't have a right to complain." See, I think if you don't pay your taxes and aren't being part of the process, then you don't have a right to complain. But please don't feel obligated to vote for someone you don't want to see elected just to have the right to complain. You have that right. Make a lot of noise. That's what being an American is all about. Our right (duty really) to question, or complain, or protest or (Heaven forbid) burn a flag, is what makes us beautiful. And we are beautiful.

Americans the Beautiful.