1916

As I drove south on Crooks road, I did something that I always do as I pass Walnut street. I looked east toward Marywood street. 1916 Marywood. That is where my Grandma and Grandpa Taylor lived. The small house that was theirs was torn down for a small mansion to be built in its place. The garage had received the same treatment. At a glance, I saw the garage door was open. It looked like the old days to me and it really brought back some fond memories. Maybe my Grandpa had just arrived home from his job selling cars at Stark-Hickey Ford.

I wanted to go back and drive by but I knew the feeling would be gone as I looked at the lifeless mansion. So I held onto my glance and thought about J D and Leona Taylor. These were my Mom's parents. We used to all get together on Saturday and Sunday nights to watch Hee-Haw and Lawrence Welk. I guess my sister and I were mostly bored while we were there. I remember when I could hear the "we're getting ready to leave" tone in my parents' voice. I was always very ready to leave. Then, they would start talking about a new subject and the tone would go away for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, we would leave and the mile drive home would feel like it took about an hour. I would have given just about anything to stop by today and watch television with them again. Grandma Taylor until the day she died, loved Wheel Of Fortune. I would gladly turn back the hands of time for one of those nights as well.



I turned east onto 12 mile road. Tomorrow is garbage day and as I drove along, I saw an old card table leaning against a tiny tree. It's once white covering now very dirty and gray was torn in a few places and flapping in the gentle breeze. I wondered what kind of action it had seen. Endless games of Scrabble, Yahtzee, Old Maid and Monoploy. It could have been the kids table at countless Thanksgivings. A garage sale or two and maybe even some real poker games with guys in dress slacks and "shirt sleeves" smoking cigars and drinking Stroh's beer. Then, maybe a decade or two leaning quietly next to a furnace. Finally off to its final resting place. So long, dirty gray card table. You have had a long and useful life.



I then turned south onto Alexander street. The street I grew up on. I pulled into the driveway.
As I walked to the back door, this mild but crisp mid November night reminded me of the nights when I was maybe ten. You could smell the leaves that people were burning. I missed that smell.

New Phone

In the early 90's, I was doing laundry on Lincoln Avenue just north of Wrightwood. It is now an insurance agency.

An elderly man came in and looked around as if to say, "can someone help me?"

I approached him and asked him what he needed. He handed me a business card with a phone number written on the back. He needed to call the phone company and talk to someone about getting service.

The front of the business card was of particular interest to me because it said:

Sigmund Godla

Musician

It featured a drawing of him playing a violin. We talked a little about music, but he really wanted to make that phone call and he wanted me to dial the pay phone that was around the corner at the laundromat and talk to the phone company for him. So, I set him up. I told the lady at the phone company of his wishes, handed the phone over to him and went back to my laundry.

About a minute later, I heard him yelling. "Ahh!, WHAT?, Oh!, SHIT, WHAT?!, OH? It ended with the sound of the phone being slammed down.

I went over to see what had just happened.

Sigmund, being about 80 figured that he would talk to the people at the phone company and schedule an appointment for them to come install a phone and service in his apartment. Times had changed indeed.

I explained to him that the phone company no longer came out to install phones. I asked him if he knew if there was a phone jack in his room. He didn't know. We walked over to the building where he lived on Sheffield Avenue.

His place was small. A one bedroom apartment. But it must have had 6 phone jacks! Everything would be just fine.

Sigmund then showed me a three page list of tunes he liked to play. Tangerine, St. Louis Blues, There'll Never Be Another You, Summertime, On The Street Where You Live and many others. He went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, reached over cans of chicken noodle soup, green beans and cream style corn to retrieve his violin, which was inside of an old "Be nice to me, I gave blood today" t- shirt. He explained that he kept it hid behind the canned goods to throw off potential burglars.

He then began playing Tangerine. He sang along as he played. Then, onto Flamingo. He was really good and loved to play.

We walked back to the laundromat and I called the phone company to set up his service. It would be active in a few days. I explained to Sigmund that I would come back in two days and we would go to Radio Shack and get him a phone.

We picked out an inexpensive but sufficient phone and went to his room. After everything was set up and the phone was working, it was time for more music.

St. Louis Blues, Skylark and Meet Me Tonight In Dreamland. He was very passionate and happy when he played. I had brought my camera and had him sit on the far left side of his sheet covered couch. He got a little anxious because I shot so much. I explained that I wanted the perfect shot.

I gave him back his song list which I had borrowed to make copies of, he put his violin back into its hiding place and we said goodbye.

I wonder about Sigmund when I am in that neighborhood and will always love Tangerine because of him.

Practicing

For v.

Bugs Bunny once said, "this calls for stragety." Here's mine for November 4th, 2010. Jeff Beck night at Zachary's For Cocktails. I have been listening to and stealing from Jeff Beck since I was 12 or 13. I feel like I have probably heard every note he has ever recorded (and then some). I have brushed up on the 11 songs we are doing.

The last time I practiced the exact thing I was going to play for hours on end, it was a disaster. So, what am I doing 24 hours before the gig? Playing Cindy Lauper, Billy Joel and Marcos Valle tunes. A musician I admire once told his bassist, "enough practicing!" Motown bass legend, James Jamerson's response to a producer's request to play a tune for the umpteenth time was, "rigor mortis is settin' in!" I feel like if I'm warmed up and ready, the guitar will almost play itself. I'm hoping.

South California Purples

Every young aspiring bodybuilder wants to go train in Southern California.
The area around Venice and Santa Monica has been a hotbed of bodybuilding for years. This is the place Arnold Schwarzenegger and Franco Colombu longed for while in their respective countries. I too wanted to go there and train twice a day so I could become Mr. Olympia. It was in my future for sure. Daniel Shea, professional bodybuilder. There would be a whole line of booklets people could order in the back of all the bodybuilding magazines.

How To Build Huge biceps by Daniel Shea

Build A Back That Looks Like A Sack of Boa Constrictors by Daniel Shea

Cannonball Delts by Daniel Shea

How To Get Ripped by Daniel Shea

The catalog went on and on. These booklets would all be collectible and going for lots of money on Amazon by now. I would be retired from making action movies and working on becoming the Governor of Michigan.

My career began in the dark dungeon like basement of the Y.M.C.A. on Eleven Mile Road in Royal Oak, Michigan. When I outgrew that, I moved to the original Powerhouse in Highland Park, Michigan. After a guy was found beaten to death in a dumpster behind Powerhouse (the murder was believed to be linked to the gym), my training partner, Wayne and I decided to move over to The Motor City Barbell Club in Madison Heights, Michigan.

Don and Doug Dowe were brothers from Jackson, Mississippi who had relatives in Michigan. They had come there to open The Motor City Barbell Club.
A nice place without any dumpster problems.
We worked out there just about every day. One day, Don was going through mail and found an interesting brochure from a guy that was running a contest for bodybuilders. The lucky winner would move to Venice, California where he would room with another bodybuilder and they would train to be the next Mr. America. The winner would then be a professional bodybuilder. It would all be paid for by Father David Wright, an ordained priest for The Church Of Universal Life. My Dad would later refer to it as, "The Church Of What's Happening Now."

I couldn't wait to send my pictures in. My Mom shot a roll of black and white film in the dining room(I had moved all the chairs out). I went through all my poses. Double biceps, the crab, side chest, front lat spread, stomach vacuum and my best ab poses. Then, since I couldn't wait for the film to be processed, I went downstairs and processed the film myself and made a bunch of 3.5x5 prints and sent them off to Father David Wright who also worked for a place called Tri-Star Electronics.

I continued to bomb and blitz as they used to say. I made gains, ate a dozen eggs and drank a gallon of whole milk every day. This food was courtesy of Machus Sly Fox and Fox And Hounds. The two restaurants where I worked.

Before too long, I received a package from Father David Wright. It was a thank you letter and a small sized yellow tank top with blue piping. It featured images of bodybuilders lifting weights. It said, "Venice Beach."
A SMALL tank top! It was a total outrage. I only wore extra large shirts. Had he not seen my pictures? Was he out of his mind?
His letter informed me that I was in the running in the contest.
I sent the shirt back and explained the horrible mistake he had made. He sent an extra large right away.

Father David Wright and I communicated by mail a few times. He explained how it was all going to work. He then sent me a multiple choice questionnaire. He explained that it was totally confidential and not even my parents could find out what my answers were. Everything was safe with Father David Wright. The questionnaire had many odd questions. Do you get queasy at the sight of blood? If you were home alone on a Friday night, would you, A. read Shakespeare, B. visit a male friend, C. visit a female friend, D. sleep.
There were quite a few questions dealing with homosexuality. I answered all of them very honestly.

After reviewing my questionnaire, the Father called me to set up a phone interview. It was imperative that I should be all alone for this interview. He wanted me to be able to answer all of his questions as honestly as possible.
Bob Corbin and Ken Sylvester, two of my strangest friends were there on the day of the big interview. Ken was very creative and could draw really well and Bob was just totally weird. He would blurt out one syllable words in a crowded mall or on a busy street. "TOYS!", "PAINT!", "ICE!" Nothing was off limits with Bob.
Tell him, "be cool, my parents are home", and he would be screaming immediately.
If he had car problems with his AMC station wagon, he would get a hammer and beat on it. So, these friends were going to help me concentrate during the interview.

The phone rang at three pm as planned. The Father needed assurance that I was alone. I told him I was. Ken and Bob were ready to distract. The Father described his master plan. He wanted someone to come train for Mr. America.
Someone who would not be part of Joe Weider's (guy who ran professional bodybuilding) world. It all sounded fantastic. He would get me a job as a limo driver and I would be registered to carry a gun. Make $30 an hour. But, there was another job. One that paid much more money. $150 an hour. I would be a "male model." Interesting. I imagined posing for an an art class somewhere. Guys wearing berets would be sculpting me. And the girls would be real excited. I imagined Arnold doing something like this on his way to the top. Then, it seemed really cool. By this time, Ken had started on drawings of a huge bodybuilder with a tiny priest at his feet. Worshipping. Bob added a caption of the Father saying, "bend over and let me fondle your grapes!"
They showed me. I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing. The Father didn't understand what was going on. I told him I was just really excited.

Then the whole posing for artists image was shattered when the Father explained that I would be a male prostitute. For men only. I told him I wasn't really interested in that line of work. He explained that Arnold had done it when he first came to America. He also explained that if I let a guy perform oral sex on me or if I were to administer anal to a man, that I wouldn't be gay at all. I remember thinking that this was Father David Wright, ordained priest of The Church Of Unified Life talking here. By this time, Bob was making gestures of fellatio and there were more drawings. I couldn't stop laughing. I told the Father I would think about it. We would talk next week.

I found the story really entertaining and funny. I talked to a few friends. I asked them how can this end? You know, on a high note. Don had the best idea. I decided to go with it.

Father David Wright, high priest of the Church Of Unified Life, part time Tri-Star Electronics employee and part time pimp of male prostitutes called me one last time. On this day, I was alone. He explained that it was down to four bodybuilders, except one was married and he had backed out. So it's three.
He asked me what I had decided. I told him, "Father David Wright, I will do whatever it takes to get to to the top of the bodybuilding world." There was a long silence. Finally, the Father proclaimed, "Dan, I think you.................are THE WINNER of this contest!" He was overjoyed and told me that he would be sending a one way plane ticket right away. Of course my roommate would be none other than the Father himself. He sent many letters and the plane ticket. His letters described all of the great times ahead as well as vivid descriptions of his small apartment on Venice Beach. A blender for protein drinks, many inspirational bodybuilding posters on the walls and a double bed (hope it's big enough for the two of us).

I tried to cash the plane ticket in but it was non-refundable. The Father finally realized that I was not coming and he threatened to turn me in. I didn't really worry too much about that. Maybe twenty years later, I was visiting Don and Big Mike in Southern California. Don had decided to become an actor. I was driving in Venice and saw Tri-Star Electronics. I had to wonder if the Father still worked there.

Up on the roof, down here on the ground

As I turned the corner to head west on Leland Ave., there was a very angry man. He was yelling down the alley. "Hey, you guys just dropped a brick right next to my head!" He was addressing what looked like the crew leader of a bunch of Mexican workers on the roof. There were close to twenty of them and they were looking over the edge of the Mission style three story building to see what all the fuss was about. The crew leader was not really paying attention to what the man was saying much like the brick dropper hadn't been.

The angry man was a hipster of sorts wearing a stingy brim and clear plastic horn rimmed glasses. He talked very articulately, was about 6 foot tall and fairly thin. 

"You guys just dropped a brick right near my head!" Finally, the crew leader perked up and yelled right back. What? Like he was really bothered.

"One of your guys just dropped a brick this close to my head." He used his thumb and fore finger to show a distance of about two and a quarter inches.

I immediately crossed the street. "Do you want me to call the city?" The crew leader just stood there. "What are you guys doing up there? Are you playin'?"

Still no reaction from the crew leader. "Do you know how to do the job? Are you playin' up there?" The crew looking over the edge were smiling and chuckling. It was a comedy act performed by a hilarious gringo.

"Do you want me to call the Police? Are you playn' up there? Do you know how to do the job?" Everything stayed the same. When it was obvious this was it, the angry man walked east shaking his head in disgust. The comedy routine was over. The crew resumed their roof work. Now knowing exactly how to spice up a dull day.

September 10, 2010

Too marvelous for words.
Maybe I'll just hum.
Make someone happy,
and you'll be happy too?
I don't know if I believe that.
Smile, even though your heart is aching.
Good morning heartache.
Bom dia, tristeza.
These came out of speakers big and small
and rattled around in my head for days.
They turned Billie off and put on something horrible.
It's true that nothing is sacred. I wonder why.

Words

Seems I have too many words.

Cut things in half?

Someone once told me,

Listen twice as much as you talk.

That's good. Maybe.

I had something with a lot more words.

I've painted myself into many corners with these.

Moose Lodge

Ron wanted to stop at the liquor store to purchase a case of Budweiser Select. It was closed. He pulled into the Moose Lodge right next door. I thought he was just turning around to get back to the main road. There were quite a few cars in the lot. I said that it looked like there was something going on at the Moose Lodge. Ron parked the truck and said, "there's always something going at the Moose Lodge." I followed him into the lodge. He had a key card that he had to swipe to get in. That place was really secure. Just inside the door to the left was a huge stuffed moose head mounted to the wall. Underneath it was a small table with a book where guests had to be signed in. Ron signed me in and put an "honored guest" sticker on my chest. A sign on the table read, "guests are not permitted to purchase items from the Moose Lodge store." I guess if I had really wanted a Moose Lodge sweat shirt, mechanical pencil or key chain, Ron could have purchased it for me.

As we approached the bar (which was about half full), a few older men greeted Ron and either nodded or smiled at me. We sat down. The bar tender put a Budweiser Select in front of Ron and asked what I wanted. Miller Light.

As we drank these cans of beer, A guy about sixty was talking loud enough for most people on our end of the bar to hear. He was complaining about Obama.

He had been in a branch of the service. "He's not my commander in chief!"

Most of the other guys seemed to agree with him. "He'll never be my commander in chief. I didn't vote for him." Then, he told a story about a guy he knew in the service that was a total prick. He told him that if he ever came through his town, he was going to kill him. He ended that story by saying, "I told him, that's not a threat, that's a promise!" An older guy with gray hair and a pony tail sitting next to him exploded in laughter. These were the best of times at the lodge. Then, he told about taking care of JFK's plane and how JKF came and shook every body's hand. He really liked JFK. Maybe if Obama could just shake his hand. The beer was gone and it was time to leave. Ron said his goodbyes the guys nodded or smiled at me and we walked through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke to the door. As we were driving off, I asked Ron what the story teller's name was. He didn't know. I told him that I thought he looked like Ted Koppel.

Ron laughed in agreement and said, "yes, he did."

There's always something going on at the Moose Lodge.

Walgreen's

me: What's the difference between baby powder and talcum powder?
stock girl: Baby powder is for the babies.
me: Thank you.

Clark and Diversey

An older homeless man in white patent leather shoes stared at a telephone pole covered with handbills. He was particularly interested in a square blue one. He held onto the bottom of the dangling sheet and read it aloud. "Archers Of Loaf." He then tore it down and let it fall to the ground. Thomas said, "hey, 'sno littering!" The man looked at him and said, "snow littering. Snow. Get a haircut." Then, the homeless man joined a crowd of people walking south as Thomas crossed to the east side of Clark st.

Speak Low

Speak Low sounds like burning hot July nights

where all was still except for trees swaying gently in the breeze

the absence of the sun painted everything in black and white

I remember those nights and the quiet lonely feeling as I hear the sirens

The Tune Up

Duane was my first guitar student here in Albany Park. He'll always have a special place in my heart. He came to me with a charming personality, quick wit and a willingness to learn about music. I had no choice but to love him.

That being said, I've wanted to murder him at least once a week since our initial meeting.

One night he called me and asked about the fingering of an A minor 9 chord I had written out for him. He said that he had been practicing and he was going to surprise me next time we got together. That sounded fine to me. He kept talking and I wasn't really sure he was getting at. He was talking about paying me for two or three lessons or something like that. When the conversation felt like it was coming to a natural end I just said, "all right, I'll see you Wednesday." Then Duane said, "I guess I'm not making myself clear, I need to borrow $10 and I will pay you back on Wednesday when we have my lesson. I told him that I would love to loan him the money, but I just couldn't right now. He understood.

The next lesson was Wednesday at 6 pm. I called and got no answer. I went over to his apartment only to see a Mexican guy grilling some chicken out on his balcony. I yelled up to him and asked if Duane was there. The guy went and got him and he buzzed me in. They were getting ready to eat. Duane said he couldn't afford a lesson right now. After having me tune his guitar, answer some questions and demonstrate a few techniques, he pretty much had one anyway.

The following Wednesday, I didn't hear from him. I tried to find him to no avail. A girl I've seen with him told me he was helping a friend move.

A week later, I was walking down Lawrence avenue and there was a well dressed man off in the distance. When he got close, I saw that it was Duane. He was coming from his 16 year old nephew's funeral. All he said was "yeah, they shot him." I told him I was leaving town for a few days. He thought I was leaving for good. He was shaking my hand and wouldn't let go. I told him I would be back soon. I was happy to have run into him.

This past Sunday, he called and said that he needed to go to the far south side to pick up $200. He just needed to borrow $10 to get there. I told him I would loan him my CTA pass. He never came to get it. A few days later, I saw him walking down the street and he asked if I could tune his guitar. I told him that I would meet him in 10 minutes. When I went down to meet him, No Duane. I went again in another 10 minutes. No Duane. Then, I went one last time and he was not there. Frustrating.

Today, he called and asked if I would tune his guitar. I said I would be down in 15 minutes. He showed up this time with his little sunburst guitar. He handed it to me and I saw that the neck had come loose from the body. The strings were about an inch from the neck. I told him I could repair it by putting a drywall screw through the heel of the neck into the block inside the body.

I told him I would have it by tomorrow. He asked if he could borrow one of my guitars. I told him it would be like loaning him my toothbrush.

I called Joe who told me exactly what to do. It took 15 minutes. I tuned it up and called Duane. His wife answered. I asked her to tell him to meet me outside.

As he was walking toward me, I did some of my best Delta Blues. He smiled ear to ear. I handed it to him and told him it sounded better than it did before. He began to laugh uncontrollably. He was so happy and he played his A minor 9 chord. It sounded good. He gave me a big hug and squeezed real tight. His ear touched my cheek and it was really cold.

He said he'd be all set with money in a few days and he would see me next Wednesday. Sounds like a plan.

Big Mike

Big Mike ate baked beans out of the can so he didn't have to get any dishes dirty. I watched him eat a pear once and he ate all of it including the core and seeds. He loved peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches and would eat an onion like an apple. Big Mike cherished two magazines that featured nude celebrities. He wouldn't even let me look through them. He once set my tri-pod up in a corner like it was a decoration. Big Mike was the first person I ever knew that used pick up lines at a bar. His lines were, "just think of me as an object" and "hey, would you like to touch me?" Big Mike would talk to girls for hours and when he got nowhere, he said he was "laying ground work." Some of these girls were average to ugly. When questioned about that, he claimed to be working on his rap. Big Mike was proud to have been in the Marines.

He kept Milk Bones in his van to give to the dogs that guarded the premises where he worked. He was loved by women everywhere he went. Big Mike had a very deep and loud voice. He had a fantastic sense of humor and smiled constantly. Big Mike was ten years older and I idolized him. Big Mike lost his way one day and I will miss him forever.

In the photo from left to right: Big Mike Ruff, Dan Shea and Don Dowe. Photo by Doug Dowe.

Hi Ho Silver Lining

A friend of mine is no fan of my idol worship. I can't change who I am. A musician changes my perspective on music or just generally blows me away, I'm bowing down. I always have.

April 2009 was easily the worst month of my life. My partner of over six years changed the locks on the doors (sounds like a song, right?) and that was it.

April 16th in particular was difficult. I received an e-mail from her that was nothing short of excruciating. I'll spare you the details. It was same day that Jeff Beck would play the Park West. Quite the intimate venue compared to all the other places I had seen him. Tim and I met Linda there.

We sat close enough to see everything nicely. It was great. Jeff played unbelievable guitar, the band was good and the volume was just right. Not too loud. He even played "Over The Rainbow" as an encore.

After the show, we went outside and just talked to some people in front of the Park West. Terry from The Guitar Works was there. We talked to him a little and for some reason, Tim and Linda got into a discussion with a few geeky super fan types. Linda totally missed Seeing Tal, the bass player board the tour bus. Although we weren't trying to meet anybody, we were right near the bus. Cynthia Plaster Caster walked by with a tall normal looking guy who seemed to be very tired of her talking to fans about ..........plaster casting. He just stared into space while she answered all the usual questions. Then, they walked away.

All of a sudden, things just felt weird. Something was going on. The front door of the Park West had opened and a really fat bouncer came out walking real close to a medium sized bouncer. As they walked our way, I figured out what was happening. These guys were creating a human shield for JEFF BECK! He was in between these guys. They were walking him out to the bus. Here I am 47 years old, and I felt like a teen-aged girl at a Beatles concert. I was able to get past fat boy and stood right in front of Jeff. This was literally a childhood dream. To meet the one of the main people who had inspired me to play guitar.

I said, "Jeff, I've been listening since I was 13. Thanks for all those years of inspiration. I love ya, baby!" He looked right at me and gave me a huge smile, we shook hands and he got on the bus. I thought his hands were really soft for a guy who spends more time working on hot rods than playing guitar.

Tim and Linda had missed the whole exchange. We then went to get some food at a restaurant across the street. We talked about the show the whole time.

So, in a way, one of the worst days of my life was also one of the best days of my life. I have always thought that it was too bad that she would never know this story. She would have liked it.

My Foolish Heart

Sister Joan is one of the sweetest people I've ever met. She is a retired nun. One Sunday a month, she hosts a spiritual get together in her apartment. Most attendees are older women. They talk about all kinds of things and they pray.

I happened to be there helping her install something on her computer while one of her meetings was in session. Her computer was in the kitchen, on the other side of the apartment from where the meetings took place.

When the ladies took a break and came into the kitchen for some refreshments, I was introduced to everyone as a musician and computer expert. Like I said, sister Joan is very sweet.

One of the ladies named Gladys told me that her husband had been a full time musician throughout the midwest for many years. She casually mentioned that Bill Evans had been a friend of theirs. In the early 60's, Evans had asked her husband if while he was playing in the Chicago area, he could use their piano to practice.

Gladys said that one time Bill was practicing in the living room and she needed to run some errands. She asked him if he wouldn't mind keeping an eye on her three young children. When she returned home none of the kids greeted her at the door. She went to the living room and found them sitting close together on the floor, mesmerized by the sound of Bill Evans.

The picture of that in my head is priceless.

Keep it quiet? (music of the mind)

I listened to a piano player being interviewed on NPR a few years back. He was not well known. He said that while he was in the early stages of learning his instrument that his teacher had really pushed him to memorize as many standards as possible. He had learned hundreds of tunes. Years later, when he began to explore composition, he found every idea he came up with was usually one of those memorized songs.

Jimmy Webb recounted two separate occasions where he was with well known composers and invited them to his house. They were very reluctant to go. He wondered why. The truth was that they had both been afraid that Webb would being playing music while they were there. Composers actively working on projects don't want any outside musical influence.

I have gone through periods of constant listening. I felt like that was a good thing. I have listened to music while I was sleeping. Sometimes the same song all night. Lately, I am listening mostly to sirens outside my window. That and silence. It has left my mind open to new ideas. I hope those are original.

Berimbau

In 1983, my cousin Steve and I took a trip to southern California. I had been there once before. He had never been. I was interested in working out at World and Gold's Gym. He just wanted to have a fun trip. Both of us had grown up in Royal Oak, Michigan. A suburb of Detroit. The thing that attracted me to the Los Angeles area was diversity. Where we came from, there was a real lack of culture. We had never eaten at a real Mexican restaurant. Chi-Chi's was it as far as we were concerned. Hearing anyone speak Arabic was always cause for alarm and an openly gay guy usually got a chuckle from most people. Southern California was a very open and interesting place.

On our third day there, we had been out walking around in Santa Monica. As we walked back to our room, we passed a little guy with an Afro. He was carrying an attache case and something that looked like a bow. Something you would use to shoot an arrow with. Not a fancy bow. Like a kid would make. Steve and I didn't really discuss this guy, but we had both noticed him.

About an hour later, while we were in the room talking, Steve said, "did you see that guy with the bow?, I think it's some kind of weird instrument." I had thought the same thing. He had been holding a wood stick that looked like a chopstick. Steve went on, "yeah, it looks like he hits the string with that chopstick and that's how it works". We laughed. Honestly, we just thought he was some odd character.

The next day, I was out taking a few photos by myself and I saw this guy again.

He was waiting for a bus in front of the motel where we were staying. He had his bow. I now noticed that it also had a round bowl attached to one side of it. I really wanted to know more so I walked right up to him and asked him about this "instrument" he carried.

He told me it was called a berimbau and it was from Brazil. I asked him if he would demonstrate it for me. He held it upright with the metal string facing out. He started hitting the string with the chopstick which sounded really cool. He held a small round stone in his other hand and placed it at varying locations along the string. Basically, it was a movable fret. It changed the pitch of the note.

Then, he swished the chopstick on the outside of the bowl. That too was a great sound. The bowl's main function was to act like a resonator for the string's vibration. The opening of the bowl faced his stomach. He could keep it open and let it ring loud and clear or hold it close to his stomach and deaden it.

We talked for a while. He was from Brazil. I noticed amongst a bunch of stickers on his attache case, that one of them read "Royal Oak Music Theatre".

That was really interesting. I asked him if he had been there and he said that he had been a special guest on tour with someone. Who? Pat Metheny!

He said, "my name is Nana Vasconcelos". I asked him if he had played on Pat's song, Are You Going With Me? Of course, he had. I loved that song.

As I got more into Brazilian music, I realized that Nana was nothing short of a legend. He had worked with Milton Nascimento, Egberto Gismonti and Gato Barberi just to name a few. Our "odd character" had turned out to be quite special. See what I mean when I say lack of culture?

A very non-Irish St. Patrick's Day.

After making a couple of attempts at finding a job, I felt like I deserved some of the sun that was shining onto my front porch. I got a guitar and sat down to practice. I had only been playing for a few minutes when a man and woman walking by looked up to see where the music was coming from. The man was very interested and asked what kind of guitar I was playing. We talked as his friend waited. He said he had a guitar but it needed a new high E string. I told him that I would put one on for him. He asked how much I would charge and I told him he could have the whole set for $5. I only ended up changing the one string and still gave me $5.

His guitar was from a little electronics store in the neighborhood. It was a 3/4 size sunburst model. I tuned it the best I could. The intonation was really bad. It was impossible to get it totally in tune. But he was happy. He said, "I love chords". So I played a series of chords on his guitar. His reaction to each chord was not unlike someone watching a fireworks display. I played a B minor7 and he went "oooh", A minor9 "ahhh", C major9 "hey". Finally an E minor11 and he said "aw, you're killin' me".

We talked for a while. His name was Duane. He lived three doors down. He invited me over to drink some beer on the balcony of his third floor apartment. On the way there he asked how much I would charge to give him lessons. I told him $15 for a half hour. He said that he needed a tuner and "one of them things that keeps time, a methadone". He had forgotten his keys and began ringing the doorbell a bunch of times. A woman yelled from the balcony "who's ringing that bell like that?"
Duane said, "I'm sorry sugga wugga, I forgot my keys". She buzzed us in.
This woman turned out to be his wife. He introduced us and she had this look like, who is this guy you're bringing into our apartment? He said, "Dan's my guitar teacher we're going to play out on the balcony". His wife said, "I hope you don't drive all the neighbors inside". Duane said, "are you kiddin', we're gonna bring 'em out!"

Once we settled in on the balcony with a couple of cans of Icehouse, Duane played me a few things he knew and gave me an idea of what he'd like to learn. He looked at his watch and said, "ok, the lessons start NOW". It was 6 pm. He gave me a $20 bill and I gave him his $5 back. I wrote out some nice chord progressions and showed him how to play the voicings. He was really excited. At 6:30, the sun was going down and we were done. He brought out a calender and marked down his next lesson. March 24th. He gave me a fresh Icehouse for the road.

Sometimes, you just gotta listen.

Several years ago, I was very excited about route 66. The newly de-certified route 66. De-certified because interstates made it redundant. It was in vogue to travel the old road. It wasn't like you could just get on in Chicago and drive for four days and be in L.A. anymore. De-certified means little or no maintenance and plenty of dead ends. You had to really want to drive this road. There were a lot of detours and you got lost often.

The route 66 society of Illinois planned a road trip on the stretch that ran from Chicago to St. Louis. It lasted a weekend. Saturday night there was a block party for the participants of the road trip. It took place in downtown Springfield, Illinois. I met an older couple that had been dancing in the street. The woman told me that her and her husband had been in a Western Swing band in the 50's and that they had played many roadhouses along the old route 66. I asked her what Gallup, New Mexico was like. I had never been there and that name Gallup just sounded cool to me. I figured great things happened there. Nat King Cole made it sound important. I'll never forget her response. She said "Gallup is all drunk Indians".
I couldn't believe it. All I could think was that these were some serious rednecks who didn't know anything. Me with all of my culture would surely find all kinds of wonderful things in Gallup.

A few years later I drove the old road through New Mexico. When I got to Gallup, the main drag was very lit up. I found a motel and pulled into the driveway. There were some people off in the shadows near one of the rooms. I didn't pay too much attention to them. I parked. As I sat in the car for a minute, I looked in the rear view mirror only to see that these people were two Indians lifting a third very drunk Indian off of the sidewalk.

Tonight, I decided to go out and sit in at a bar I had heard about but never been to.
Let's just call this bar Snuckles to protect the innocent (and me). A review on the internet said, "white trash, convict and crack-ho heaven!" I thought no way could it really be that bad. First off, a little white trash never hurt anyone. Convicts? How would a person even know? Horizontal black stripes on a white outfit? One of those ball and chain deals hooked onto their ankles? And lastly, I think some people just love using a cliche like crack-ho. It sounds real hip. How many actual crack-hos do we ever really see?

I walked in with my amp and guitar and sat down near a window. The house band members were all fooling with a Casio keyboard. It sounded awful. A guy began playing The Entertainer. You know, maybe a keyboard player would play a few bars of that and there would be a chuckle or two and the joke would be over. This guy played the whole tune with fervor. And one of the worst keyboard sounds imaginable. It was like a slow death. This band could have been called White Trash. Then I overheard two guys talking (yelling) to each other about a mutual friend that was doing five years in the big house. They seemed to be delighted. One of these guys had one of those truck driver kidney belts on and a special harness that held a CD player right in the middle of his lumbar region. When it was shift change time, the new bar maid walked in with her poorly died dark red hair. As she walked past, she smiled a semi-toothless smile at me. She looked like I would imagine a "crack-ho" to look like.

I left before the house band started to play.

News Boy's Blues

Being obsessed with guitars and music in general by the age of twelve, I needed some form of income. There were two ways for a kid my age to make money. Get a paper route or become a caddy at the Red Run Golf Course. I chose a Detroit News route. I subbed for a kid on vacation who never came back. My route consisted of a large apartment complex with multi-unit buildings and individual units that were connected together, part of a busy street and two quiet streets. Papers were picked up in a little dark room in the rear of the G&P Market. My Dad and I found a Red Schwinn Heavy-Duty Bicycle in the Tradin' Times newspaper for $60. There was a broken weld on one part of the frame that Dad said Tommy Adams could fix. Tommy Adams was a little guy that worked on Corvettes. He looked like he would have made a great jockey. My Dad told me that because he was so small, that he was the perfect Corvette mechanic.

Tommy welded the frame with great skill while I played with his bulldog and Dad looked on. This was going to be some bike. It had 105 gauge spokes. It was made for a paper route. Dad bought original Schwinn replacement parts, primer, black spray paint and even decals at Powers Bike Shop on Washington Avenue. He sanded it, sprayed it with primer then sprayed several coats of the black. Sanding between each coat. Very professional. When everything was finished, we put it together and it looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line.

I delivered The Detroit News everyday. Monday and Tuesday were light days. Thin papers. Wednesday was a big paper with two sections that had to be put together at the paper station. Thursday, Friday and Saturday were normal sized papers. Sunday was huge and easily the worst day of the week. Some customers received the paper every day. That was $1.20 per week. Some people only wanted the paper on Sunday and that was $.50 per week. You needed to collect from each customer every week. Each carrier had a little book in which we kept track of our collections. Collecting could start on Thursday. The bill needed to be paid on Saturday morning at the station. If you paid it on Sunday, the manager, Mr. Budrey would get angry.

The main reason for this route as far as I was concerned was to raise cash for records. The Wholesale Record Outlet was only a mile from the house and I went all the time. Everyone that worked there knew me by name and I knew them by theirs. There was Ed, Mae, Dianne and Steve. I bought lots of records. This is where I got my first Jeff Beck, Hendrix, Cream and Deep Purple records. The list could go on and on.

After about six months of delivering The Detroit News,I learned that if I really needed cash for some great record, I could collect from a few customers on Wednesday and get what I needed. Eventually,I would even collect from some customers as early as Tuesday. Some paid without any questions. I told The ones that wondered why I was collecting so early that my family was leaving town for the weekend and I needed to get a jump on things. They believed me.

Then,one day a fairly new customer who I hardly ever saw approached me and said "hey, I'm almost always gone and I want to pay up through the next eight months. Is that O.K.?" I told him that I thought it was a great idea. He gave me about $40. I went straight to The Wholesale Record Outlet and spent all of it on Django Reinhardt albums. He recorded a lot of material and I wanted all of it. I was in heaven and listened to him non-stop.

Tragedy struck about two months later when some couple who lived in the complex but were not customers informed me that this guy who paid me for eight months had MOVED!
He had asked them to talk to me about getting the money I now owed him. I told them whatever I had to to keep them at bay for a while. And I told them something new and different each time they asked me. After a while, they got kind of pricky. And I already had an attitude about them because they were not customers of mine. What were they doing trying to get money from me? And on top of that, they just seemed weird.

Finally, quite a while later(like a year or more)this guy who wanted his money found out who I was and he went to see my Mom about it. I wasn't home. But she paid him the balance. She was only a little upset with me, but thought the guy was a total dork.
He kept telling her "I could have his job!" As a thirteen year old kid, I didn't understand exactly what he meant by this. I wondered how if he was already gone all the time, he going to keep up with doing my route. Was he going to want my bike too? Tommy Adams and my Dad would really be disappointed with me. They had worked so hard on it.

This story concludes twelve years later in the Meijers Thrifty Acres parking lot in Royal Oak, Michigan. As Teresa(my wife at the time) and I walked toward the store entrance, I noticed this guy with a woman. It's the guy. I don't know why I recognized him. I just did. I asked him if he had ever lived in the Rochester apartments and he said "yeah, a really long time ago". I reminded him of the whole incident and he acted like he barely remembered. That's old age for you. Or maybe just embarrassment.

Cowboy Eddie Okroy

My Mom,Deanna and myself used to go to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints every Sunday. This was 1971 and my Dad would drop us off. He didn't have time for the Lord. He spent much of his time at Carney's gas station over on eleven mile. It was owned and operated by Al and Keith Carney. Father and Son. They also did body work. Dad would often quote Al Carney saying, "you cain't bump one out". He was from the south and believed in using bondo. Dad would hang around with Al and Keith and maybe a few other neighborhood guys and they would drink RC Cola and eat cashews from one of those glass topped vending machines. This was real livin' down there at Carney's. More fun than church.

Even though my Dad normally just dropped us off and left, he couldn't help but noticing one parishioner that stood out from the rest. "Cowboy Eddie Okroy" Dad would say with a smile. The reason Cowboy Eddie stood out was because in the suburbs of the Motor City, everyone used cars to get from point A to point B but Eddie could only be found riding his burgundy Rollfast bicycle. He would pull up to the church on it dressed in a powder blue western style suit with a yolk across the back, black cowboy boots, horn rimmed glasses and a cowboy hat. He would then lock the bike to a small maple tree using one of those chain covered in see through vinyl tubing, four tumbler bike locks. There was certainly no one else like Cowboy Eddie Okroy in Royal Oak. Remembering back, I would say that he looked a little like Buddy Holly(with a cowboy hat). I used to listen to a 45 of Holly's That'll be the Day around that time, but I never really noticed the likeness.

Years later, Deanna and Jeff (her high school sweetheart) got married in that church and I read something from Proverbs out loud. Today, it is one of those 10 minute oil change places. Can they even do that? I wonder if Cowboy Eddie Okroy knows about it.

Greyhound Station

Charles stepped away from the ticket window and walked toward the exit of the bus station. As he walked, he said "So Long Michigan!" in a loud voice to no one in particular. An elderly woman looked up from her Detroit Free Press for a moment but then went back to reading. As he neared the door, he said it again "So Long Michigan!" No one seemed to wonder what he was talking about. Then, he began his explanation. "I'm going down to work at my Uncle's tool and die shop in Atlanta". He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. They were not. He went on. "I'm gonna get me a brand new gold wrist watch, and some Black Sabbath and Jimi Hendrix tapes. Then, I'll go back to the Pontiac rescue mission and tell them to look at me now!"
I imagined the faces of the people at mission once they saw his tapes. By this time, a tall thin southern guy was becoming interested in Charles' story. They began talking about how Detroit was the most horrible place. The southern guy took the lead. "You know, Detroit once had an excellent street car system and Henry Ford sent it off to Mexico". It was nice that these two people had found each other.