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.

Faded Gories

I love George Romero. That's why it pains me to put on my big boy pants and realize that his best films are behind him.

We recently rented Survival of the Dead, the latest of the dead series. While it was not nearly as disappointing (and dull) as Diary of the Dead (a DVD I bought unseen and truly regret), it still wilted on the vine.

The story was ok, it just plodded along very obviously. Zombies looked more funny than scary and seemed to be present only for the perfunctory head shot or the clever kill. The "living" characters were not engaging and there's your

stopping point. We have to care about the characters (and the acting has to be passable as well. Sorry.). Not real bad, but nowhere near previous glories. Or should I say, gories???

What hath gone wronge with the king of the Zombies?

The problem is that Romero made three films, now considered to be the "Dead Trilogy" by the 1,756 avid zombites at Home Page of the Dead, early in his career: Night of the Living Dead ('68), Dawn of the Dead ('78) and Day of the Dead ('82). If you go to the link I provided in this paragraph, you will read in the forums grown men argue (sometimes to the threat of bodily harm) the merits and demerits of these films. One dude even bragged that he watched Dawn over a hundred times, had a Dawn birthday cake, numerous versions of the same film on VHS, T-shirts, and once finished an argument with, "No way, dude. I know this movie." In short, they are obsessed and passionate about these movies. Considering the current rage for zombie films, they are not alone. AMC, right? Right.But despite their absurd devotion, one thing is evident: these early crude horror classics struck a nerve with a helluva lot of people.

Tell us whye, oh great master.

The Dead Triology occupy a unique place in horror history. While George Romero may not have made the first zombie movie, he created the modern version of the zombie. Since then, many have copied him and there have been many sins committed in this genre; the horrid The Return of the Living Dead series to be sure. But when these films first played in theaters, no one could have calculated the effect. Roger Ebert writes of the initial impact of Night: "The kids in the audience were stunned. There was almost complete silence. The movie had stopped being delightfully scary about halfway through, and had become unexpectedly terrifying."

Amen to that, Roger. When I saw Night on local late night TV, it freaked me out. Ditto when I was in college and saw Dawn in the theater. It was simply shocking for its time. And there's another point, my friends.

We are so jaded, so inundated with violence that almost nothing on film can scare us. So while Romero continues to make social commentary within his story lines and his beloved walking dead are merely perfunctory gore, his films have lost any hope of scaring anybody. Rumor has it that he wants to shoot two more. I'll stick with my DVD copies of his best. Diary was my last purchase.

Yesterday, at the local Blockbuster, I was turning in Survival and the cute girl behind the counter asked me if I liked it.

"Not really."

"Yeah," she ruminated for a second, "I think I'm done with zombies."

"Maybe so." I had to agree. It's been a bummer.

Maybe AMC can do something that will thrill. I'm hoping.

Bon Appetit!

It's here.

A full-length zombie series is finally coming to a serious network: AMC. This is the same network that gives us the compelling Mad Men.

Here's the trailer. Methinks that this is going to be the stuff.

http://www.amctv.com/originals/The-Walking-Dead/video?bcpid=86227333001&bclid=88963904001&bctid=593569611001

Zombies are metaphors for the worst impulses in us or the darker angels of our nature, but at least we know what they are. It's the survivors of the apocalypse we have to watch out for. Oh yeah.

Premiering on Halloween.

Higher Learning

FRom the Robert Fripp diary:

Establishing a stable personal presence in a relaxed & engaged state, alternatively expressed, the quality, quantity & intensity of our personal energy field, has been the primary focus of our work in Guitar Craft over its period of 25 years.

[ "A stable personal presence." How many do we know that do not qualify? How many times, uncountable, as a young man was I so uncomfortable in my own skin? I sure could have used these words so many years ago. Today, I see their wisdom.]

A very brief practical introduction to this, which is a life-work, addresses three points:

Eliminating leaks.


1. The most expensive of these are anger, boobyism & twitching, and unnecessary talking. That is, all automatic, habitual & unintentional behaviour.

[Anger is an obvious one. Anger is a fire that distracts us from our true selves. "Boobyism" is a Fripp term that he uses when people have no idea or mindfulness of their physical presence. Think of people who come to the movies and kick the back of your chair. etc.

Unnecessary talking. Amen. Automatic behavior is wasteful.]

2. Attracted attention. Sex, as in advertising; cf the advice given to young male GC students when walking past newspaper & magazine kiosks. Forms of negativity, such as in mainstream media. Negativity is a form of control.

[Negatvity is a form of control. Oh yeah. There's an A-hole who emails all the time about my programming. He seeks attention and control.]

Conservation.

Efficient functioning. Honouring necessity & sufficiency: Do as much as is necessary & as little as possible.

[As a player, sometimes I tell myself, "Just play the damn notes."]

Generation.

This is a subtle area. On our retreat here in NYC we have been addressing intentional breathing & “eating air”. It is also possible to “consciously borrow” from reservoirs & accumulators of finer energies, knowing that, when we die, we can take with us nothing that is not ours.

Different "Strokes"

ORIGINAL STORY 8/8/10
KANAWHA COUNTY, W.Va. (WSAZ) -- A man is behind bars for committing "lewd acts" with a mannequin in a public park Sunday morning.

According to the Kanawha County Sheriff's Department, 61-year-old Eddie M. Campbell from Belle was caught at Booker T. Washington Memorial Park in Malden with his shirt off and his pants around his ankles.

Deputies say Campbell was sitting on a park bench with an armless mannequin on his lap, holding it with one hand -- pleasuring himself with the other.

When the deputy identified himself, Campbell stopped, pushed the mannequin off him and pulled his pants up.

All of this happened in a residential area and close to a church, according to Deputies.

Campbell has been charged with indecent exposure. He gave up his right to have an attorney represent him during arraignment

Campbell is in the South Central Jail on a $2,500 cash only bond.

From the News, In the Lens

Blogger's note: I go through and notice which posts get repeated hits and oddly this one keeps coming up. Is it Jessica's pretty face or the creepy story? I can't say, but it gets hits from all over the world.

According to a Dateline I saw, these type of threats are the TV industry's biggest hidden secret. Imagine how this poor gal feels after finding out about this.


http://www.wvgazette.com/section/News/200705153

May 15, 2007

Man accused of making school threats

MADISON — A Boone County man is accused of threatening to shoot people at a school Thursday.

Roger Shabdue was arrested and charged with threats of terrorist acts after sending a letter to Channel 3 WSAZ-TV, said Boone County Sheriff Rodney Miller.

“He sent a letter to the television station making some demands that they get rid of a reporter there,” Miller said.

In making those demands, Shabdue raised the possibility that he could go into a school and begin killing students, Miller said. No specific school was mentioned, he said.

Shabdue, 54, had become infatuated with WSAZ news anchor Jessica Ralston [pictured], Miller said.

“In his mind ... there were some phrases used on the air that were offensive and directed personally at him, and that kind of sparked the letter,” Miller said. “I think it was more of an infatuation thing and he had decided that she was making comments that were directed specifically to him.”

According to family members, Shabdue has had issues with mental stability in the past, Miller said. [Not to be cruel, but "Do ya think?"]
The sheriff’s office learned of the letter Thursday around 6 p.m. and had Shabdue in custody by 11 p.m., he said. [That might be the swiftest incarceration in Boone County history.]

“We worked with school board officials up until we took him in custody,” Miller said. “In light of recent events, we didn’t want to take any chances.”

Miller said he didn’t feel that anyone was in any direct danger from Shabdue before he was in custody.
“I don’t know how parents feel about hearing about something like this. Having a spouse and kids in school myself, it is certainly something we take seriously,” he said.

Shabdue is incarcerated at the Southwest Regional Jail and bail is set at $20,000, Miller said.

Kinda Sorta Maybe Happy Gigster

Last nite, the Dynamic Duo played the annual Governor's Volunteer Service Awards.

Years past, we have drug our equipment through the doors, only to be met by clueless staff who don't know anything about musicians playing. We have stood there, waiting, wasting time, asking for a large cart to carry in our equipment. This year, I was determined to streamline everything.

My contact for the gig was succinct: "You start playing at 6:15 in North Hall." Well, clear as an unmuddied lake under an azure sky of deepest summer.

The usual displeasure of loading, putting on the monkey suit, feeling too fat, didn't warm up enough, etc. - all these things are de facto before gig feelings.

It took me six trips of walking to and from North Hall, before I was ready to sit down and tune up. By this time, sweat fell down my face like raindrops. This truly is one of those gigs where the hassle lies within the equipment load in. We need a flat dolly. What I have is grossly inadequate.

Although this is the Governor's award event, the man himself did not show. Neither did the lady Governess. Only being the hired help, I haven't any info as to the no show, but I would have to say that the people who traveled from all over state to get their award and to have their picture taken with the Gov had to be sorely disappointed. There was no announcement of this fact nor apology.

One thing I like about being a Happy Gigster is that I often get an insider's look at social events. At this gig, the tables are already set with salads, desserts and water glasses-all of them wet with condensation. It is also interesting to watch the staff and to hear the passing commands of those women who are in charge.

One thing I hate about it all is the ubiquitous treatment as a second class citizen. People, I have said this before: despite your social status you may believe you possess, once you get slated as the musician, you are treated as the hired help. (When I retire, I will enjoy the fact that I no longer have to be treated like shit for playing an instrument.)

Even the waiters ignore you sometimes. Last night, no less than two rude waiters ignored our requests for water. One waiter was asked and he said "Sure, " but then kept on walking. One, who had her hair up so high that we called her "Pebbles," just went about without a hint of acknowledgement. Sure, it's tough being in the food service industry and they get rotten treatment as well, but I'd figure there would be a little camaraderie among the hired help. Finally, a kind soul recognized that that we were, in fact, two human beings and not merely props that make noise. We just wanted water, FFS!

Every now and then, equipment goes squirrelly. It just happens. Perhaps it's temperature, the shaking from moving or perhaps those delicate electronics just go haywire sometimes. Kinda like really intelligent people, ya know?

Last night my brand new tuner and my third string had a schizophrenic battle over who was more insane.

Tuner: "You're sharp!"
String: "I'm not!"
Tuner:"You're in tune!"
String: "@#$% you. I'm in tune."

Upon checking said string against the others, often it was out, way out. This went on all throughout the gig. It didn't help that the bottom three strings were new and reacting to the air conditioning.

When we began, it was like wet noodles: limp, out of tune and nowhere near our level of playing. This continued for a few pieces until we both realized the tuning situation had to be resolved. I kept tuning between songs. Lisa didn't feel like herself. In fact, she said she felt like she could play the gig seated. This is something she never does. Never.

We decided to switch styles over to jazz. Finally, it sounded like us. I kept getting a little feedback, but all was well.

I told her bluntly, "Despite how well we play, we still get paid." Blunt, but true.

Entrees consumed, speeches underway equals time to scooby. Now, in defense of the wonderful person who gives me this gig every year, we are recognized from the podium, by name, by the MC. We are even given a round of applause for our efforts. That, my dear and few readers, is a rare, rare thing.

The speaker had a voice which was like railroad spikes to my head, soooo I loaded everything I could onto the inadequate dolly and we exited as quickly as possible. Reaching the exit doors, there was caution tape causally strung in front of the most convenient of exits. It was so awkward, that someone asked, "Do you need help?"

Any reasonable person would have just walked over and helped, but Mr. Helpful chose merely to inquire and not do anything useful to help someone struggling with about 70 pounds of crap in a doorway in which the heavy door refuses to stay open an inch.

These things are what made me retire from the playing scene during the 90's. I had had enough of the low pay, the mercenary attitude of most musicians, the constant hassle and the indignities of second class Three Stooges citizenship in the so-called elite ranks of musicians.

In the ever growing personal jargon of Robert Fripp, he writes about the...

Four Qualities Of Musicianship.

Genius

Professional Master / Mystery Musician

Happy Gigster

I will be never be under Genius, nor Master/Mystery Musician. I think of myslef as a Professional, but last nite, all things considered, I was a humble

Happy Gigster (who complains about near everything).

West Lib Stories: Near Suicide is Not Really Painless

There is one tale that must be told from the West Liberty catalog. One that involves near suicide.

One night I was just hanging out in my dorm room. That would be the roach infested, frat boy drunken haven known as Bartell Hall. Bar-hell, if an accurate moniker was to be chosen.

My frat boy roomie, Tom, or as he liked to refer to himself "T" was a total ass kissing wanna be and teller of tall tales. I tried my best to get along with him, but our values were not even within the same solar system. I didn't understand his need to fit into a rigid and unforgiving guy world social structure anymore than he understood my contempt for it nor my desire to be an independent. I would listen to his sage advice on girls and his tales of self-glory.

One fucked up night, two fellow music majors showed up. Not a good idea considering the outright anti music major sentiments displayed by my fellow lodgers. Something else: one of them appeared to be really intoxicated.

Me thinks: this is not going to go well.

And for fuck's sake, it turns into a continuous disaster that lasts the whole evening.

For the sake if anonymity, even after all these years, we'll call the two dramatis personae, A and W.

Well, it's W who is so messed up, that he instantly begins to stumble around the room. The door is open and the frat music is blaring from all the rooms. The testosterone is pumping and the drums beating hot. Shouts of "Faggot" has already graced the air several times of that tender domicile as the mob mentality begins to bloom.

W decides to amp things up a bit and fall into Ts golf clubs. T then must save face in front of his frat pack and T flies into a "I'm going kick your ass rage." Even his frat bros laugh at his false chest pounding, declaring it null and void on the machismo scale. What is a fight with a music faggot major? Nothing. Not a challenge.

I decide that W and A are playing a dangerous game and best we head out to anywhere but this butthole of a place. Shouts of "faggots" bid us farewell as I take them down the stairwell as best I can. W decides to race down the stairs as fast as he can. He is hell bent on hurting himself.

The rain is pounding down as we chase W past the track and up the hill. We tackle him. Now, A is a strong and wiry boy from Mullens. We both have trouble getting W under control and to stay on the ground. In fact, he successfully extricates himself several times before we bring him down. Meantime, the rain pounds us. We are muddy, soaked and run ragged from Mr. I'm Gonna Offit.

I look up and see his roommate, Jeff Nugent, walking up the hill with guitar in hand. I call out to him. Surely he will want to help prevent W from his path of self-destruction. He ignores me and has an expression of contempt and annoyance. He going off to fucking practice while we try to get W to not shuffle off the old mortal coil. Make no mistake, cartooners, Mr. Nugent heard me loud and clear and saw what was happening. I never saw him in quite the same light again.

W promises to be a good boy if we let him up and like the dumbasses we were, as soon as he was let free, he tears off like a shit storm towards the dorm (Reports were that earlier he had been in the music department tearing things off the bulletin board. W was known as an outstanding student. Luckily, no one of importance saw him in his condition.).

He bolts up the stairs like he's jacked up on speed (what combination or drugs he was on, I have no idea). He makes to his dorm floor, out onto the balcony and tries to climb over the chest high brick wall to do himself in.

Well, we struggle here and then into the hallway. By then, some people have begun to help us with him. All the while he has been yelling that he wants to kill himself. Total circus by this point.

Eventually, we get him into a room and onto the floor. There's a couple of guys now, all trying to get the motherlicker to stay still. He wrestles us, we wrestle him. It's a goddam amateur wrestling hour by now.

I distinctly remember at one point, having him on the bathroom floor (fuck knows how we got there) and him raising up and banging his head on the pipes several times. Like an enraged dumb animal, he just didn't notice.

Finally after hours of this, whatever he was on began to wear off and the old W began to come back. I can't remember what was said nor do I remember any tearful thanks, but I wasn't about to let someone kill themselves over West Liberty frat boys, politics, music department professors or whether or not it was an old fashioned broken heart. I just don't remember.

I had seen other self-destructive actions by W before, but this one really took the proverbial cake.

Years later, A and I were talking about this and he said he felt bad about dragging me into the situation. I have no regrets.

W was always the teacher's favorite and I think finally the pressure of being Mr. Perfect broke the seal of sanity and he just wanted out of the whole game.

Happy ending: W settled down, got himself a hot girlfriend the next semester, evened out and his attempts at killing himself were no more.

Last I heard, he was teaching school somewhere in Ohio.