I'm Not Alone

Fans are truly something. Some want to see a show so bad they create the credits.

Yep.

A Slice of Life

Can a serial killer have a normal, happy home life?

This is the question that season four of Dexter asks.

We have been fans of this series from the get-go and renting this season has been bliss. Unlike some series where the coals begin to dim after season two, Dexter is on fire. The writing is perfect and the actors' characters ring true. I sometimes forget I'm watching the series where most of the time, I feel like I'm seeing it through Dexter's eyes.

It's creepy, smart and often shocking. Thats says a lot from an old jaded viewernaut like moi.

If you have not done the NetFlix thing yet with this series, do it goddamit!

Catholic School Boys in Trouble

So far kids, we have met Sir Charles and I have told some tales, all true, of our antics. I cannot reveal, for obvious reasons, all of those insane nights, but let me assure you that there are plenty more to tell. That is coming.

Since SMA was in the rear view, and The High was considered by my parents to be a den of sin and inequity (It was both.), Catholic school was chosen to be where I would spend my senior year. There was a catch: I was to wear a uniform once again.

But this was an easy uniform to wear: white shirt with blue pants. No starched collars, itchy and destructive wool pants or goofy hats. If this was all I had to endure, then it was going to be a cake walk. Despite the more-or-less structure of the school and my parents’ intentions, there were still a million ways to act out at a Catholic school versus a public one. You just have to have the wrong/right friends.

The group I fell in with was a perfect fit. They were cool, into music, smart and all were mavericks. Perfect. And basically none of them really were actively Catholic. Did I mention that they were pro party heads as well? Oh. Somehow I missed that.

Call Him Joe Kidd

Friendships run in cycles. There comes a time in your life when one person becomes your best mate and you are inseparable. Joe Kidd and I became such friends during this period.

Joe was observant, socially adept, funny, and had unnerving confidence. He had this way of smiling at you that could make you feel uncomfortable. As if, all the world was there for his amusement (Even my mom, who adored most of my friends, remarked about how Joe seemed to be so sure of himself.). I’m sure that wasn’t his intention, but rather it was his writer’s instincts of always standing just a little bit back to observe. This appearance of confidence was a useful tool as I saw it, especially with the opposite sex. While the rest of us were tongue-tied, confused or excited into silence, Joe had the knack.

One sure bond between us was music. Joe played all sorts of instruments: drums, banjo, guitar and whatever else he could get his hands on. Hours upon hours were spent in his basement with Joe on the drums or guitar and me on the Donny Lad guitar, making up songs and trying to learn covers. I remember us performing together at a party where we howled through Idiot Wind by Dylan.

Joe once called me, “The 24 hour musician,” meaning that I never stopped talking about it or wanting to play. I was young and hungry to learn. Plus, music was the only thing that seemed to "fit."The rest (family, school, girls-all the usual suspects) seemed very difficult for my teenage angst to endure.

Joe was obsessed with Dylan (Not without merit, Joe’s profile reminds me of Dylan’s Desire cover.). Goddam Dylan accompanied us everywhere we went in the family-business-bakery-van. At that point, I was annoyed by Dylan’s whiny nasal voice and found the whole thing primitive. After all, I was an aspiring guitarist and Dylan was not among the guitar gods. He was a folkie.

Kanawha State Forest was a place where we loved to go to hike for hours. One afternoon, perhaps a skip day from school, we decided to partake of nature’s wonders….and also enjoy the forest as well. Well, one psycho ranger decided that he didn’t like our looks and he might as well hassle us. And hassle us he did.

Psycho Nazi Ranger came up swiftly upon us, insisting that we hand over the nefarious goods. We knew that Ranger Rick was not the police and that his authority extended only to the confines of the forest, but also knew that once said contraband was confiscated, he would do his level best to get us busted. We, who loved and respected the forest and took pleasure the natural beauty and wouldn’t dream of leaving a beer can, were being given the business by this idiot who was acting more like a cop than a conservator of state land. He tried searching Joe who just deftly moved out of his way. When asked, “What’s in that pocket?” Joe would pretend to look and say, “Nothing.” This went on until Ranger Danger decided that he could not violate our rights any further with illegal search and seizure and gave us a stern warning never to return. I was a bit shaken by this incident and I believe Joe was as well, but stay away forever? Methinks Mr. I-wanted-to-be-a-cop-but-couldn’t-pass-the-exam must have been partaking of some of nature’s finest himself.

You know the fkg type.

My brother had experienced a similar run-in with a ranger. After climbing a steep hillside to find a perfect rock upon which he and his girlfriend could “celebrate” and make whoopee, a mad psycho ranger was perversely watching them. The ranger had used a fire road to come up on them from behind. Again, nothing could be or was proven, except that teenagers like to have sex al fresco.

T Bird

“T Bird” sounds like this guy was a rough-and-ready gear head: nothing could be further from the truth. T Bird was a bright, excellent student whom we all knew had the brains to become almost anything he desired. One hot and restless afternoon, while everyone was chatting, flirting and generally dying to get outside, Richard began writing a large scientific formula on the chalkboard. It was huge, stretching across two blackboards. He could have been, in part, showing off, but also actually working on a solution. I do not remember what I yelled out at him, but he buckled over with laughter. It was probably, “What the hell are you trying to do? We might suffer brain injury from that.”

The only thing that could scramble Richard’s mind was a girl named Stephanie. Evidently, his junior year, he had gone out on a date with her and it became legendary, monumental and also an impassable wall. The damn date stood like a block in the road and we all knew the whole story as he had told us all time and again. Hell, it sounded like a dream of a date to a young virgin lad, but the endless Neil Young songs, the dark poetry, the veiled references to suicide- all these pointed to the Stephanie who evidently refused to give him any more attention after that night. We’d be walking in the hall, she’ say hello and he back, and then endless rumination about why? How? What? She drove him insane and he was stuck on her. It was hopeless. He never did go out with her again. She could have cared less.

Dear Stephanie,

You fked up, girl. Richard now works for a major corporation designing missles. Yep, he's that smart.

When the cycle had come around for me and Richard to become best pals, we used to take his green Mustang out for hours. Not meandering mileage, oh no. We took detailed and planned trips that he had memorized from maps. No matter what little side road or alien neighborhood we drove through, he always knew exactly where we were in the plan despite any “impairments.” On those longs trips, the conversation was always dominated by girls: who might go out with us, who was hot but beyond reach, why we liked certain girls, etc. ad infinitum.

There was a period when Richard liked to wear a large leather hat. He looked ridiculous in it, but none of us ever said anything. There was also a time when he began to act very effeminate. He began wearing these musky-jasmine type colognes and his whole bodily affect was completely limp, gestures were exercises in femininity, etc. I began to get worried and confided in a few of our friends. Then, when it was group party time, he began to crawl off from the group and be by himself. We’d see him sitting all alone, the red ash glowing, hunched over like a large bird-hence the nickname.

Richard and I shared a loss of our fathers at an early age, mine by natural causes and his evidently just up and left. This causes a person to be damaged-the damage is for a lifetime and must be resolved, or you end up at the bottom of a bottle or worse. I see now that a drawing I did for him, which had a solitary figure sitting on a huge rock, no doubt inspired by Roger Dean, was a metaphor for the isolation one feels at that age. You have family and friends, yet the mood swings, hormones, an uncertain identity combined with an even more uncertain future can create this sense of isolation. Fking hell, we all feel this way at this time.

For as smart as Richard was, he was able to translate my mainly emotional-meets-music mumblings into sense. I don't think I made much sense back then. Of all my friends at the time, he was not one to jump on the peer sarcastic wagon. His was a more gentle and kind nature.

It’s Like the Finger Pointing at the Moon next

Betwixt, Between Pt. 1

Caught Betwixt and Between

“You don't know what's going on
You've been away for far too long
…
You're out of touch, my baby
My poor discarded baby
I said, baby, baby, baby, you're out of time”

That song and those words by the Rolling Stones. Damn. I remember sitting in my room and listening to that song and realizing how true to life it was. They burned with meaning. I was out of touch without a doubt.

In the summer, post Staunton Military School, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. Though I was home with all those creature comforts, home cooked meals and family support, becoming a normal public high school student after the strict rigors of SMA was going to prove awkward. No dawn reveille, uniforms, drills and parades- all that was gone. The senior year lay ahead.

Such was my state of mind, I woke up one morning and literally clawed the wall with frustration. The marks remained there for the time we lived there, serving as reminder of what it felt like to be a teenager.

First, my appearance was out of touch with the times. This was the roaring ‘70’s, a time for sideburns, mustaches and long, long hair. Mine hair was regulation short and for people who did not know me, they probably suspected I was a narc. Of course, my friends at first howled with laughter. They handed me a cruel nickname for a while, I just can’t remember what it was (soldier boy?), but it sure stung. When your pals laugh at you, that brings you down, down, down.

My chief compadre during this period was Charlie. Charlie made life bearable in that period. We were thick as thieves.

Charlie and I enjoyed a mutual sense of sarcastic humor, all kinds of music, a love of cheap kung fu movies, and getting blitzed as much as possible on the weekends. Charlie was smarter than me and could fit easily into the advanced classes, whereas I was not of that cut. We both viewed ourselves as outsiders as we weren’t jocks (though Charlie practiced karate), socialites, egg heads, nor real stoners for that matter.

Charlie and I would walk for miles up and down Kanawha City, looking for something to do. With no driver’s license, you hoofed it to get out from under the parental regime; free to be a stupid teenager. One night, we ended up in the local donut shop. (One note: I wore a blue wait jacket that looked like it was military. Added to the effect.) We were sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and stuffing down donuts, when Charlie noticed that an older man was eavesdropping. He started a conversation that didn’t make sense at first, but then I got where he was going. The gist of it went something like this.

“What are you gonna do, man?”
“I don’t know.”
“But going AWOL is a crime.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Mr. Old Perky Ears was beaming. He could not have been more obvious.
“But did you have to hit him?”
Pregnant pause and look of consternation.
“Yeah, I did. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
We both did our best amateur acting, keeping the affair serious.

It wasn’t until we were outside that we let down the façade.

One evening, we decided to share and be helpful, as it were, to our fellow KC residents. An open window provided us an chance to release a delicate fragrance (Generously provided by a plumbing elbow pipe nicknamed “Dillinger” because it released a two inch “shotgun” cloud. There also was a "Dr. Grabo" in use at one time or another.) into an apartment. Not a particularly bright idea, but it was amusing at the time. We also "perfumed" some one's jeep. We watched them get out and go into the drug store. Like the crazy bastards we were, we opened the door and gave the owner something fresh scent to contemplate when they returned. When the dude returned, I have wondered what went through his head.

Charlie tried to teach me karate or taekwondo in vain. I even took a class with him at a local church. It was a helluva workout. The thing is, I would try to practice this under strange circumstances.

There used to be a movie theater in KC, long before your multi-plexoramas were a bad dream in some corporate toadie's head. Some really awful kung fu movie was playing and we just had to go. We grabbed the front row, our heads leaning back just to get the full screen view. On this occasion, Charlie was the one with the greater sobriety and it fell to him, poor man, to keep me in line. When the Jaws trailer came on the screen, I about came out of my seat. In fact, I think I slid several times onto the floor. It was if I was deep in the ocean swimming with the shark. Yes, kids, I was very taken by this trailer. Charlie, acting as the patient adult, would ignore my behavior or reel me back in.

Once the kung fu extravaganza began, I kept sending karate chops his way throughout the movie. As he would tell it later, my pathetic attempts at the martial arts were so slow and sloppy that he blocked them and kept on watching the film. He could have smashed my face, but much to his credit, restrained himself.

I did break him up one during the film. The bad guy was having his way with a young concubine and after about five grunts, he climaxed. "What a great lover." was my only coherent comic aside for the day, but it was a direct hit and had him laughing hard.

One of our friends was working the concession stand and I said hello to him as I went into the bathroom. Evidently, I did some martial arts exercises in there- if you can just imagine. When I got back to my seat, Charlie asked, "Where the hell were you?" I didn't realize that I'd been gone that long. Time is relative after all.

When we were leaving, Charlie had a convo with the concession guy about me, claiming he kept hearing strange noises coming from the bathroom. He explained that the Kung Fu master had decided to practice in the bathroom. God knows what I did.

More fun to come.

Benefits Who?

I am the not the dude for benefits. That is, benefit gigs.

Call me jaded, cynical and just plain cold, but if you are looking for me to come and play free for your organization, I politely decline. I will play weddings for good friends. That's my only exception.

Got a call from a lady who had a cohesive sales pitch, but then it came to the portion I was interested in: when? and how much?

I explained that a noon to 2pm gig would cause me to have to take off work and I told her the truth: we, speaking for my fellow musician, do not play freebies. After much explaining, she ended with a poor choice of words: "You don't have to make any more excuses." "E-ouch," me thought. (Later, she apologized for those words. I accepted that apology fully. Most people wouldn't bother.)

Then the better half of the Dynamic Duo calls me and asks me to play a bennie on a Monday night. Really? The she launched into the deal which included minimal cashola and pizza. But this was no ordinary pizza, this was going to be Lola's pizza. Pizza made in heaven.

"What's the time?"

"Six to nine."

I'm thinking eeeeooooowwww. But then I start thinking about the food. She reminds me of the food. My musical partner knows me well. If I am treated with anonymity and generally disregarded by hootie snoots and the money is a joke, then food, by God, might just pull me in.

It did.

Instead of playing inside, we were told to play on the porch. We even got a close parking space. In short, setting up is far worse than the playing ever could be.

This is not so bad. I had resolved not to silently bitch about the gig.

All the spaghetti guitar cables in place, I test the THIRD member of the duo: My Digitech Jamman. Oh yeah. This little beauty has added a new dimension to out music. I can instantly record myself playing the chord changes and then zap-instant playback while Lisa solos. This frees us both. I don't have to play constantly and, more importantly, I get to solo. That is to say, I get a chance to practice soloing over complex chords in public. While I am not quite the jazz cat yet, the learning process is fun.

At one point, I was just adjusting levels on the unit and a man walks up, listens for a moment and then says, "Is that the Digitech?"

"Yes, it is. Listen to what I just made up." It was a quick seat-of-my-pants improv, but yet it had a certain je ne c'est quoi. I gave him a quick rundown of what it could do, but mostly how damn fast it is. "I'm getting one," was his answer to my impromptu sales pitch. I love the damn thing. Even Lisa, someone who does not embrace technology calls it "neat" and that's good enough endorsement for me. I thought she might find it a bit alien. I was afraid she would be annoyed by it, but I was really wrong.

With the Jamman playing the ersatz guitar player, I put guitar down and went out to listen. Hell, you can't tell the difference. I like the freedom baby.

We took a break and I shoved my face full of Lola's pie. Errr....That doesn't read well. I shoveled that delish pizza. It was like Pierre was bringing out plates of crack. I had to seriously try to exercise self-control. The food was worth the gig.

The sun had set and we could see someone walking down the hill. Well, it was Ryan. He had come to listen, but I felt like laying back and letting someone else play. That's the way I am anymore. Once I get my fill, I am more than happy to let someone else do the playing.

At first, he didn't want to, but I know how much he loves it. He lives it.

Soon, I was chillaxing in a chair listening to them play Agua de Beber, one of my all time fav Jobim tunes. This ain't bad. If only there was a place where soft guitars and flute play Brazilian music while the finest rum is served. A guy can dream, can't he?

And Lola's, God love 'em, let two pizzas and a salad go home with me without charge. I wasn't expecting that. God love 'em. They are good people.

For a "bennie," it wasn't a bad night at all. Not at all.