Magic Bus

In Copacabana I bought a Milton Nascimento compilation CD. The next day I took a bus from Rio de Janiero to Angra dos Reis where I spent three days. It wasn't until the bus ride back to Rio de Janeiro that I discovered Travessia. This song is from Milton's 1967 album of the same name. Travessia means journey or crossing. It is interesting how a song can "find" you. I'm sure I had heard it while I was in Angra dos Reis. But it didn't really strike me until the ride back. I listened over and over. I didn't understand the Portuguese lyrics but loved everything about this song. Milton Nascimento had written the music, Fernando Brant the lyrics and the arrangement was by Luiz Eca. The way he arranged the strings and horns is what really got to me.

This is what got me hooked on Milton Nascimento. Now I've heard most of what he has done and was fortunate enough to see him in Chicago with The Jobim Trio in 2008.

There is something about that bus ride from Angra to Rio. There was another significant bus trip in my life. My friend Bob and I had flown to Los Angeles in 1981. We only had enough money to take a bus home. The complete details of this bus trip will have to be told in another story.
I will never forget waking up at about 4:30 AM and looking down the aisle of that bus out the front window at one of the most beautiful sunrises I've ever seen. I am pretty sure that the driver and myself were the only people awake for this. The feeling that I had comes back to me quite often. There was no soundtrack for that moment.
I piece things together sometimes and I have a good imagination. I spend a lot of time driving lately. This is when I remember these things. The sound of Milton Nascimento sometimes places me back on either of these buses. It comforts me to be back on there with him providing the soundtrack.

Por Favor

These kids are a lot like homeless adults you would find in any city in the U.S.

Take a walk through the square in Cusco and you will see them all the time.

If a small cute kid with a dirty face comes up to you to beg for money and you indulge him or her, you've made a big mistake. As soon as you show any sign of interest, six or eight more will be on you. No matter how much you refuse to give them anything, they will keep begging. They say, "amigo, por favor" in the saddest voices. They hold their hands out and tug at your clothing and if you have anything sticking out of your pockets, they may try to take it. It goes on and on. "Amigo, por favor, amigo, por favor." You say no and try to get away and they follow you. It won't stop until you go to a place where they are not allowed. I walk, they beg. The intensity builds. Then I reach the hotel and open the big, heavy door and walk inside. Just as the door is about to close and the kids are sure they won't be getting anything, I hear, "fuck your mother!"

I really like those kids.

Cats And Amps

A small female Bengal cat got out of the house one day and got pregnant. A few weeks after the kittens were born, Gaby came out of her Step Mother and Father's house carrying a woven basket with five of the most adorable kittens you've ever seen. They were all crying and it was real high. There was no getting out of adopting one of these. Gaby picked an all black male. When we were coming up with names, she didn't like any of the ones we (the adults) suggested. You know, names like, Deepak, Wes Montgomery, Martin, Dewey, Jimi, Erastus H. Sipperley and Topo Gigio. Just normal run of the mill cat names. She liked Jangle. So, that was it. But we just called him Django. And that's how we spelled it. So Gaby never knew that her Jangle was really Django Reinhardt, legendary French gypsy guitarist.
Django was real smart and lovable. Always sweet and curious (most kitties are though, right). He would scratch through a bag of cat food or kitty litter and spill everything all over the floor. I finally started keeping these bags in a closet under the basement steps. The closet door was old and falling apart. He used to scratch strips of wood from the door and moulding, trying to get at those bags. He never got in. When he got to be about a year and a half old, he got really sick one day. He just laid around all day. He was taken to the veterinarian the next day and they said that his kidneys were failing. He had to be put to sleep. When I came home from work, there was a feeling the same as if a human had died. That night, I went down to the closet and picked up all of Django's strips of wood and put them in a Ziplock bag. I attached the bag to the back of my music stand with a clothespin (where it remained for years) and cried just as hard as I would have for any human.

Very soon, Gaby wanted another. A friend of a friend gave her a little Tortoise shell kitten. She was named Issa. Issa was also a very sweet kitty. The fourteen year old Tabby, Willie took a liking to her. He would groom her every day. She would just lay there and enjoy it. Then, they would wrestle. All in fun but, it sounded like they were killing each other.

Issa grew, but never got too big. She loved to be around while I was building guitar amps in the basement. I always liked to be working in the early hours of the morning. The routine was always the same, I would listen to WNUR (which played very interesting music at 3 am) and build these cool amps, with Issa always within arms reach. She mostly just laid around, but every now and then, she would meow just to let me know she was there. Or, she would walk across the bench over all the resistors and capacitors and I would have to grab her before she got burned by the soldering iron. It was also really nice to take a break and pet her for a while. These are very comforting memories. I'm considering borrowing someones cat to help with my next project.

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.