Bye.

 

This is it. (But it's ok.)

I think the time has come. I think it's time to end this thing.
I read, recently, that R.E.M. has broken up - after 31 years. I have alluded, elsewhere in this blog, to the fact that I was a huge fan, in the early years. It's hard to believe that they've been on the scene for over 3 decades. And it was oddly sad to hear that they are no more. I immediately wondered how they knew it was time to move on. How can anyone know? It had to be a tough call.
Same here. I've only been working at TBOGL for a couple of years - but WHAT a couple of years it has been! It has easily been the most tumultuous time of my life - with my dead love life, bad health, depression and unemployment. But the blog was never JUST about those particular concerns. I tried to document what it means to be me - albeit in a condensed, and often homogenized, form. I attempted to cover a slew of eras, and a smorgasbord of emotions. I wanted to say, "This is who I was. This is who I am. This is what I think. This is how I view the world. And this is why."
I'm an Optimistic Melancholic. I experience the world through bittersweet lenses - as it were. If I had to sum up my life in a handful of words, I think that is as close as I could come. I see the beauty, but it's always tinged with an undercurrent of sadness.
My health has been a huge issue in recent years. I had a procedure, in August, that has propelled me into a new phase. It was rough going, at first, but now things seem to be smoothing out a bit. I know, from past experience, that it won't remain this way. As I get older, things will only deteriorate - but, as of today, I'm ok. I'm half the man I was - on a good day (much, much less on a bad day) - but I'm ok. This seems, to me, to be as good a place to conclude "The Bulbs of Glacier Lilies" as any. This doesn't mean I'll disappear completely. I fully plan to begin new endeavors somewhere online. And perhaps elsewhere.
The optimistic side of me wants to make clear the notion behind the name of the blog. There's a poem in the blog, somewhere, that's entitled, "The Bulbs of Glacier Lilies." It has a somewhat different take on the subject and doesn't truly convey the pure and entire message. I guess that's a bit confusing, but, as Frank Zappa once said, "Let me straighten you out." It's about HOPE. It's about those bulbs shooting up through the snow, year after year. That's the message. Hope may be inspired from without, but it blooms from within.
I am Jimmi Blue. I am a walking, talking contradiction. Of my many facets I possess an aforementioned optimistic side. This optimistic side deems it essential to close on a positive note. For anyone who has read this rambling journal, I wish you:

PEACE.
COMPASSION.
LOVE.
And, of course,
HOPE.

Chuck and I. Me and Chuck.

 

Everything (so far) in one place.

All 5 CDs and 1 DVD. I have enough songs for several more, but who knows if I'll ever be able to record again. With all the problems and mistakes, I'm still thrilled that we were able to document this much material. Special thanks to Rick, Bert, Jake and, especially, Chuck.

 

Up, Down, All Around.

 

When Two Worlds Nearly Collide.

 

"If I find that monkey, he's mine..." (Original version.)

 

Youth worshippers. (Painting by H. Flandrin.)

Is it any wonder that we romanticize youth? It is, after all, a time before our minds and bodies have become corrupted by age and knowing. No scars, blemishes or neuroses. Existing in a 99 44/100% pure reality. With a dose of High Drama.
LOVE.
HATE.
GOOD.
BAD.
YES.
NO.
Newly minted humans wear everything on their sleeves. Not knowing how to behave, they act like characters in songs and books and movies. They act as if they are invincible. Immortal. As if their actions have no repercussions. Life is Magic!
Perpetuating the sad/glorious cycle, musicians, writers, film makers and painters, will always revel in Flaming Youth. Just like you and I.
Doesn't that beautiful young man in the painting look as if his girlfriend just dumped him? I think he'll survive - and, in time, join the noble ranks of the emotionally and physically battle-scarred. The Disintegrating Inevitable, if you will.
Bitter-sweet? It breaks my heart...

 

Closing in.

I nearly ended TBOGL, recently, but I realized I had a few more things to post. The end IS nigh, I'm afraid - but that's ok. It feels natural. Organic.
I had a very productive day, yesterday. I reached a compromise with my attorney concerning his (I think) unfair fees. He knocked $512 off of the total and wrote me a check. My sister said he was still "ripping me off," but it felt like a victory to me. I also received my final Social Security back pay check. I actually went to the bank TWICE in one day! (This is after being totally broke for many months.)
I went back to Social Services, yesterday, to have them explain why I received 2 letters, on the same day, which contradicted each other. God, this stuff seems unnecessarily complicated. Then I found an agency that helps "people who fall through the cracks" (That's me!) get medical care and help with their prescriptions. They also assist with dental care, which is great because I've recently developed a tooth ache.
How am I doing, in general? Not counting the tooth, I've been feeling pretty good. I had a weird night, recently, when my blood pressure and heart rate dropped really low - but other than that...
Stay tuned for a for a few more items, and then... the big finale.

Up and down.

The last couple of days have been up and down. I've not been feeling well at all. My heart's been flip-flopping, for lack of a better description. My blood pressure has gotten as low as 83/46. Last night my heart rate dropped to 39. This morning, I woke up with a heart rate of 174. That was not a pleasant experience.
I managed to get a lot done today, in spite of all of my strange health occurrences - thanks to my sister. I saw my primary care physician and had some blood work done. He suggested I contact my cardiologist at UNC. I called and left a message. We went to our local Social Security office and straightened out some issues there. We then went to Social Services with a letter from Social Security informing them of my acceptance. According to the lady at the Social Security office, my acceptance there guarantees my acceptance with Medicare. We'll see. All in all we covered 3 counties.
But, hey, when I got home, there was a check in the mail! My first Social Security money. Thank you Jeebus! (I'm thrilled, even though they extracted $1000 for my lawyer...) I've had this notion in my head, for a while, that I might die before receiving any assistance. Guess I was wrong.
Still not feeling well. I'm gonna turn in soon.

Good news.

Quite a bit has happened in recent months. I have a new pacemaker device, I'm on new medication, I met an 18 year old boy who may be my son, and I've been corresponding with his mother (we lived together in the early 90s).
In the last week, I turned 51 - AND I finally got some positive news about my Social Security Disability appeal: I have been accepted!
My sisters came up with the idea to contact our congressman to see if he could help expedite things, in any way. Within days, I received a phone call telling me that there was a positive response to my claim. Whether this was a coincidence or not, I don't know. I wrote him a letter thanking him for any actions he may have taken on my behalf.
I can't get excited until I see some money (sometime in October), but I can finally see a light at the end of a long, black tunnel. Sure, I'll have to learn to live off of half of what I was making while working, but considering the state I've been in over the last year, it's a giant leap forward.
My health? It's been a bit bumpy. The changes in my meds are playing a part in this, I'm sure. And the new device may need some tweaking. I'll find out when I visit UNC in a couple of months. I'm just glad that I've gotten the procedure out of the way - and that it all went smoothly.
I complain a lot on here, I guess - and that's ok, because it's cathartic. Part of the reason for creating this blog was to have a release valve. It HAS been an extremely trying period of my life (and I'm sure there's more to come). As always, though, I want to document the times when good comes to the fore. I've had some good lately and I'm thankful.
I'm just happy to be here.

"You had to blog about it."

By Mary Nadler.

 

"Mortal " voice over 9.

I am not a religious person. I didn't come to this conclusion - this place - without due consideration. I have been struggling with the big questions since I was 12 or 13 years old. Here's what I do believe, however:
I believe in the golden rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I believe in karma. What you reap is what you sow. Whatever you put out in the universe is gonna visit you. What goes 'round, comes 'round.
Doesn't that make sense? Why do we need heaven when all we have to do is treat people the way we'd like to be treated? Let's have a little heaven now - here on earth, in the only existence we can be sure of.

"Mortal " voice over 8.

There have been some occurrences, in the last few years, that have slammed me face to face with my mortality. Maybe this happens to everyone as they get older - but it sure feels personal. All I can say is I now have a profound appreciation of life and death. Life is SO precious - and death is constantly lurking, ready to strike in an instant, rendering everything you were, everything you are, everything you hope to be or accomplish - moot.
Is it any wonder people cling to love?

"Mortal " voice over 7.

I love the line from The Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs" that says, "I am tired, I am weary. I could sleep for a thousand years." I understand that world weariness. I feel that way, sometimes - like I could take a millennium nap. Well, as I always say, "Sleep is the new sex."

"Mortal " voice over 6.

I'm a pretty serious person, but I do have a sense of humor. It may be subtle, it may be dark, but it exists. Take the time to get to know me and maybe you'll be able to detect it. Sure, it's bittersweet. There's a sadness behind a lot of it, but I do have the ability to find something to smile about in the human experience. I think that's a necessary tool for survival.

"Mortal " voice over 5.

I have within me, it seems, the ability to kill undying love. The proof is in my cache of old love letters, which are full of such sentiments as, "Nothing will ever change my love for you" and "I will love you forever." These letters were written by MANY different people. They all said that I, at some point, meant everything to them. But, not any more, of course - due to my peculiarly particular aforementioned power: The ability to kill undying love.
What a responsibility to wield such a weapon.

"Mortal " voice over 4.

When I was in my late 20s and early 30s, I was on fire. Inspiration was pouring like rain. Creativity was flooding me. I felt like a shaman. Really. It was like I was receiving messages from god that I was obliged to share with the world. I was overflowing with poetry and music. It just kept coming. Often, I felt as if I could not take credit for what was being produced - it came fully formed, like Athena emerging from the skull of Zeus, screaming a war cry. ART!! The fact that no one else was interested didn't matter. It was in me and it had to come out.

"Mortal " voice over 3.

I never finished high school. I got a GED. I was smart in school and had been enrolled in college prep classes, but I had no one in my court. No one encouraged me. I never went to college.
I got married at 20. I was divorced at 28. I threw myself into the club scene, sex, drugs, alcohol and rock and roll. Lots of everything. I ignored my health. I'm paying for that now.
The late blues man (Fat Possum recording artist) Junior Kimbrough had a song called, "Most Things Haven't Worked Out." That would be a great personal summation. Most things HAVEN'T worked out. Maybe, most things never work out. I dunno...

"Mortal " voice over 2.

I was practically an only child. My brother and sisters were so much older than me that I barely remember any of them living at home. Because I was alone so much, I developed a vivid imagination. I had 3 imaginary friends: Bam-Bam, Sootsie and Caca. When I was older, a friend explained to me what the word Caca meant. It figures. I was so naive.
Often, I would ask my mom if I was adopted. I even had dreams that I was. I just didn't fit in. Whenever my imagination would rear it's brightly plumed head, I would be hushed, knocked down, made to feel ashamed. Is it any wonder that I spent so much of my later life in a self-destructive rebellion?

"Mortal " voice over 1.

I was born poor, into a poor family. My parents grew up during the Great Depression and never managed to climb out of that abyss. As a child, you don't realize that you're poor, that you have nothing. It's just the way life is. As you get older, though, you venture out into the world and see what you're missing. I guess I never made it out of the Great Depression either, even though I was born 30 years later. It's funny, the things that shape you, mold you and sometimes cast you in stone. Theoretically, I could have gone in a myriad of directions - but, at this point in my life, it feels as if my fate was sealed. (And I don't even believe in fate...)

10 years.

It's hard to believe it's been 10 years since those planes crashed on 9/11/2001. I was working on a golf course. I was with some co-workers, on the 18th hole, when someone pulled up, in a cart, and said for us to go to the club house - something was happening. We stood in front of the TV, by the bar, and watched. No one seemed to really know what was occurring. We couldn't believe our eyes.
Today, on TV, I watched some of the commemoration ceremony at ground zero - the reading of the names of the fallen. It went on and on. So many people.
Everyone still seems to be grappling with 9/11. What? How? Who? Why? Meanwhile, religious intolerance runs rampant throughout the world. I won't get into that, other than to say that we are all in this together. We're on the same small planet, hurtling through space. If we could just show each other (if not love) a little respect, then maybe our experience here would be a little more pleasant. And a lot less deadly.

AKA Scooter.

His name is Scooter - but he has many nick-names:

Scooterini Alphonso Del Vecchio Vespoochie (Why he has an Italian name, I don't know...)
Scootaceous D.
Scoo
Cooters (taking the S off the front and placing it on the end), which leads to
"Mr. Cooters..." (Sung to the tune of "Mr. Crowley" by Ozzie.)
Coot
Jackson
Jackson Brown
Jack Rabbit Slim
Scooter Eugene
Scooter Ray
Buckwheat Zydeco
Buckshot Le Funk
Monsieur Dookie Head
Boogity Boo
ARRRGGGHHHHH! (As in, "ARRRGGGHHHHH, why did you do that?! I'm gonna twist your little head off!!")
And so on.

 

My home away from home. (Life on 3 Anderson.)

My first roommates, while I was in the hospital, were an older couple from Clinton, NC. He was the patient and she slept on a chair by his bed. Sounds sweet, right? They argued the whole time they were there. He complained about everything. He complained about his beverage and asked the nurse if they had any Cokes. The nurse said he would try to round him up a Coke. My neighbor said, "Bring me 4 dem."
I started taking notes towards the end of their stay. I wish I had started earlier. Here's an example of how this couple spoke:

"Wot jaw durrin?"
"Where dem at?"
"I don't like two cent milk. Two cent milk taste like water."
"She should ashed him hersef."
"See will he gib you $35."
"Get in dat bay-ed and wait fo dat nurse."
"When I woke up diz morn..."
"Kevin ain't got no TV! Dat my TV. I reprofess dat TV."
"Some medicines I been takin' I ain't be takin' no mo."
"Dat dey gray pe-ill?"
"My phone be day-ed."
"Y'all gimme dat?"
"Aight. Ahmo be downstays."
"I did too said ahmo use it!"
"Den he got go get..."
"Dey down to da chirren hoss-pe-ill."
"We's in 3719. Third flo."
"Here dat pitcher o' Rodney. Don't want jer pitcher?"
"Get up your ass off dat TV!"
And the old guys favorite expression:
"Sheee-it!"

They finally checked out and I had a peaceful night by myself.
The next day, a new guy moved in. He was from Zebulon (I love the name of that town). The doctor went through the long list of questions they ask a new patient. When he got to the one about drug use, the guy said, "Absolutely not. I worked 45 years in law enforcement." The doctor told him, and his wife, that he had a minor heart problem causing him to retain fluids. He went over some treatment ideas and told him not to worry. After the doctor left, his wife said she was going home and would be back in the morning. Later that night, however, after he had taken a test of some sort, the doctor came back in and told him that he wasn't 100% sure, but it looked as if he had something serious, rare and untreatable. He asked my new neighbor if he would like him to call his wife and talk to her. He said no. He would tell her in the morning. He was worried and alone.
I talked to him a bit before I was discharged. I'm not very good in these situations, but my heart went out to him. I gave it my best shot. I told him to wait and see if the diagnosis was confirmed. I told him he couldn't be in a better hospital. I couldn't think of much else to say.
I've had several of these kinds of encounters over the years, and they haunt me.

My heart.

I left home, at 3 am Wednesday, August 31, to make my 6:30 appointment at Chapel Hill hospital. Upon arrival, I registered, had blood drawn, and was taken to a mobile operating room - outside the hospital. It was the strangest thing. My family thought I was pretty drugged up (well, I was) when I was wheeled into my room after the procedure, and told them that I had been outside.
I'm now the proud owner of a St. Jude Cardiac Resynchronization Therapy Defibrillator, model number CD3231-40. My cardiologist said it was the Cadillac of CRT-Ds. Or maybe the Ferrari, he said. I prefer Ferrari. Installing this device required 2 additional leads in my heart - one in the top and one around the back. I have a total of 3 leads now, allowing total heart monitoring and synchronization of EVERY heart beat.
I have been taken off of the drug Amiodarone and placed back on Sotalol. This is a good thing. Because of the Sotalol "loading," I had to remain in the hospital for 3 days, for monitoring. I came through ok and was released late Friday night.
I have been doing ok, except for the usual soreness and the HORRIBLE dreams that Sotalol causes. Because this is my 3rd device - my second in the last 6 months - I know the routine: No raising of my left arm above my shoulder for several weeks, no lifting of anything over 5 pounds (try this...), no pushing of lawn mowers or vacuum cleaners, keep the incision area clean and dry, etc.
Thanks to Dr. Chung, the nurses and the rest of the staff at UNC, and my family, for everything they've done for me. I'm happy to be able to report in to TBOGL. I'm happy to be alive.
Sorry 'bout the pic...

 

To: Mrs. Rose Gugliotta, Teaneck, NJ.

I found this postcard/ad hoc bookmark in an old copy of Ernest Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms." It was postmarked July 19, 1975.
The back of the postcard says, "Doubleday Field. Cooperstown, NY. Annual baseball Hall of Fame game in progress. Sell-out crowd of nearly 10,000 fans watches. Game is attended by Hall of Fame members and baseball dignitaries. Ektachrome by Peter L. Hollis."
Ektachrome. I love it.
The note reads:

Dear Rose,
Hope Angelo is O.K. We are having a wonderful time here. My birthday yesterday + son Bob took us out to eat in beautiful restaurant overlooking Lake Schuyler - had prime ribs of beef but NO CAKE OR SUGAR. Will call you when we return.
Love,
Bobbie Daly

This postcard was mailed, 35 years ago, with an 8 cent stamp. I wonder how many of these people (Rose, Angelo, Bob, Bobbie, the crowd in the photo) are still living. I seem to be a bit obsessed with thoughts like that, lately.

 

So long, Irene.

This is an example of the worst of the damage in my yard. Having lived through many hurricanes, I have to say, this is not too bad.
It's still a bit windy, but Irene has moved on.

 

Here comes Irene.

After the usual amount of speculation (will it or won't it?), it looks like Hurricane Irene is going to hit us. It's raining now and the winds are picking up. The cable has already malfunctioned this morning, so I figure I'd better post while I can.
Here's hoping for minimal damage. I also hope those aren't famous last words.

And, as Alexander Portnoy may know, it's also good on liver...

In Philip Roth's book "Goodbye, Columbus," the main character, Neil Klugman, lived with an aunt who refused to cook with black pepper. She said it had no nutritional value and she didn't like the idea of giving it a free ride through the digestive system. That became a little joke between my friend Chuck and I. Whenever we would eat out together, I would ask him about the nutritional value of black pepper - as I dumped it on my food.
Well, guess what? Black pepper is good for you! It helps with diabetes, arthritis, and can assist in the prevention of colon cancer. It's packed with antioxidants and provides a healthy boost, overall.
That's good to know. Now that I watch my salt intake, I use more black pepper than ever.

 

DON'T PANIC.

I was reading about the String Theory, which is in the running for the theory of Everything. Now, I don't for one second pretend to understand any of it, but the idea is that the electrons and quarks in atoms are "strings -" one dimensional slices of a two dimensional membrane, which vibrate in eleven dimensional spacetime.
Got that?
I'm not too concerned with any of that. I already know that the Answer to the Question of Life, the Universe and Everything is: 42.
But, what is the question?

R.I.P.

Two great songwriters have died: Jerry Leiber (78), of Leiber and Stoller fame, and Nick Ashford (70), of Ashford and Simpson.

Jacob's Coats.

Coleus. My mom called them "Jacob's Coats." I've had a fascination with them since I was a kid. Sometimes I can grow them, sometimes not. Here is this year's version. My sister gave me a tiny plant and it took off.

I can feel Summer winding down. I don't like that feeling. I never even made it to the beach this year. Even though it's a relatively cheap activity, I can't afford the gas. I also worry about being alone, on the beach, with my health issues. What if something happened to me? How would anyone know, if I was just laying there to begin with? I could be dead and lay there all day, unnoticed.
I couldn't sleep last night. My heart was feeling funny (still is) and I had a LOT on my mind. I had read an article in the paper, yesterday, about Social Security Disability Benefits. It said that not only was the government running low on funds, but it could take over 2 years to receive any assistance.
I have been nothing but a burden on my friends and family. My bills are piling up and I have a medical procedure in 7 days. And there's no hope in sight. I'm between the proverbial rock and the proverbial hard place. All I can do is wait - on the Federal Government. Do you think they're in a hurry to hand out money in this economic climate?
Not only am I depressed, I'm embarrassed. I always took care of myself. I never had anything of value, but I got by. I'm in a mess now, and it shames me. I feel worthless and my situation feels hopeless.

My sister grew the Coleus from seed. I've never tried that. I think I'll save some seed and give it a shot next Spring.
How's that for hope?

 

HEY!!

Just in case anyone wants to know, the greatest rock and roll song ever written is "Rock and Roll Part Two," by Gary Glitter.
There, I said it.

 

What Else is There, Jarod Reactor?

What?
You think it's time to shut down?
Who's going to dispose of all of that energy?
What vessel will be used to store it?
Rise up, Jarod Reactor. Your time is not over.
See-sawing on the precipice of your day, you still have work to do.
Your time on earth WAS about extremes. You pushed until it pushed back.
Your time on earth IS about substance. What a wild ride this will be!
Nothing sugar coated here. No intoxicants to dull the edges. It's a rip-roaring thrust of an excursion, out of the thrill seeker's apartment. There will be thrills aplenty, though, I guarantee. Jarod - face to face with mortality. Who needs sugar, when that's as sweet as it gets?
Are the mountains moving closer or are you moving closer to the mountains? Either way, they are impending and will have to be dealt with.
This is the real deal, from an unstacked deck.
This is when you stand tall.
This is when the swirl that was your life comes into contact with the rocks of your foundation.
This is it.
No time for trivial monkeys or the black screeching birds of the vortex.
Life is no zoo!
It's time to whip out the flail and thresh! Wheat here, chaff there.
Grab order when you can.
What else is there, Jarod Reactor? What else is there?
You want heaven? CREATE SOMETHING!
Funnel your spinning energies into a forward force. Straighten that crooked sword - it may be useful yet.

The aftermath of a visitation.

I was visited by a ghost, recently. The ghost brought 2 "adult" children with her. She said the youngest was mine.
I find myself dealing with so many emotions, lately. I don't really trust myself with this responsibility. I'm not currently equipped to function smoothly in that capacity. Nor, I fear, will I ever be again.
The ghost stopped just short of saying that she would re-materialize, in my world, and assume a presence therein. It was as if she was waiting for me to say the magic word and the whole world would change.
What was that word? "Yes," I suppose.
It would have been rash of me to say that word. It would have been rash of her to act upon it.
She has begun to fade, again - drifting off, in a spectral fashion, the way ghosts do. Especially this ghost. She has re-entered her own realm and has begun to settle into its bosom, assuming her natural physicality. As it should be, I guess.
The child, her child - is he my child? I have begun to have my doubts. It's odd - I felt somewhat elated at the idea that he could be mine. I still do, in a way. Sadly, I can't completely give myself over to that notion. I've become quite the cynic in my old age. And I'm fairly certain that I will die alone, with no flesh and blood progeny to mourn me.
It was foolish to entertain thoughts of a new life - with my old life.
If you believe in pre-ordination, then everything is working out the way it was always meant to.
Me? I don't especially believe in fate.

Life is strange.

Jobs.

The first job I ever had was washing dishes in a small restaurant. My friend Tommy was working there, and got me the job. I was 15.
My first night, he came up to me, as I stood in front of the sink, and handed me a lady's slip. Where it came from, I don't know. He told me there was a shortage of aprons and the health code required me to wear one, so I should just tuck the slip into the front of my jeans. I was nervous, because it was my first day, so, as dubious as I was, I did it. Later, the boss came around and asked me what I was wearing. Then he and Tommy had a big laugh at my expense. You had to be on your toes around Tommy.
Tommy told me that he was once making a large tub of coleslaw, at that restaurant, and he accidentally sneezed into it. He was honest about it and informed the manager. The guy thought for a moment, shrugged, and told him to just "stir it up real good."
The next job I had was working in the mail room at our local newspaper. I ran a large machine that placed ads into the paper. This was back in the days when they still used the big press. It was always exciting when the press cranked up and those papers began rolling down the conveyor belt. I guess it's all done digitally, now.
At 19, I worked in a grocery store, in Portsmouth, Virginia, as a stocker. I recall having the flu and unloading trucks, outside, during extremely cold winter nights. My girlfriend and I were so broke, we lived off of 5-for-a-dollar generic chicken pot pies and Tater Tots. I would walk to work.
I broke up with the Portsmouth girlfriend and came home - and back to the mail room at the newspaper. I also had a paper route, that I ran 7 nights a week, after I finished my shift. I was employed at the newspaper when I got married - at 20 years old. In fact, my wife and I spent our honey moon night delivering papers on my route (sadly enough). I eventually got her a job in the mail room, too. We would get the paper out, then, at about midnight, collect the papers for our route. We had about 275 homes to deliver to - over a very large area. It happened to be the one of the worst routes there was. No one would pay their paper bill. Nowadays, you get paid by the newspaper. Back then, you had to collect from the customers. If they didn't pay you, you didn't get paid. And you still had to pay the newspaper for the papers. When I quit, I was owed $800. That was a lot of money to me in the early 80s.
One fond memory I have, of our paper route drive, was our (very) early morning radio ritual of listening to the Larry King show...
After the newspaper, my friend Russell got me a job as a stocker/delivery driver at an auto parts store. He had just quit and I took his position. The old man who owned the place was a dead ringer for Mr. Scrooge - in looks and disposition.
My next job was working at a wood preserving company. We made utility poles. We would scrape the poles, cut, drill, brand and tag them to order, and send them to the other end of the yard to be treated. Right after I quit that job, the wages shot up (of course).
I was extremely depressed during my mid 20s, and had a hard time maintaining employment. Eventually, my wife got me a job, as a dish washer, at the restaurant where she was employed: The Western Steer Steakhouse. As stupid as that job was, it helped turn my life around. I met the most amazing people there, and eventually began to come out of my depression. That's why I stayed with that company for 6 years - 4 at one location (until it closed) and 2 at another, across town (until IT closed). I eventually became a cook and a meat cutter.
During the Steer period, my wife and I broke up.
A manager from the Steer had a wife who managed a dollar store in the mall. After the restaurant closed, she gave me a job. I would unload trucks, stock the store and run a register. I did that until I met my friend Rick.
I was in a band with a waitress, from the Steer, and her husband. Our drummer quit and we auditioned Rick. He became our drummer and we became great friends.
Rick was running a golf course and he asked me if I'd like a job. I had recently met Rick's friend, and co-worker, Chuck. We had become friends. Chuck convinced me that golf course maintenance should be a part of my future. I took the job. I stayed in the golf business for about 17 years, eventually becoming maintenance supervisor. Unfortunately, that ended, in an unexpected, and quite nasty, manner, last November. I haven't recovered from it, yet.
On a bright note, after many years, I'm still friends with Rick. And Chuck? He became the friend I never dreamed I'd have as an adult. We remain best friends to this day.
I did take a year off, from the golf business (around 2005) to help my (then) partner run a vinyl graphics and T-shirt design company. I loved doing that, but the business, and the relationship, ended disastrously...

Adventures with animals.

When I was a kid, we always had animals around. We had a cow and lots of hogs and chickens. The rest were pets: cats, dogs, rabbits, gold fish, mice and turtles. I had to help with the feeding and watering of the animals. And, I collected eggs from the chickens' nests. I can remember squishing through the chicken pen, barefooted, to reach under the hens and snatch their eggs. Some of those hens weren't too happy about that. Being barefooted didn't bother me at all. I think when you're raised around animals, you're not as squeamish as folks who didn't have that experience.
One day, I fell victim to rebelliousness. I took some of the eggs I'd collected to the edge of the yard, where my older brother's wrecked '62 Impala was parked. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and I splattered that Chevy. I was scared, but I felt ALIVE!
We once had a pig who would suckle our cow, Bessie. He would plop right down under her and get his fill. Bessie? She didn't mind. It wasn't long before that pig was the fattest one in the litter.
We had another pig, named George. I talked about him in an earlier post - and supplied a photo of me petting him. He was raised with hound dog puppies and would follow me around like a dog.
Sometimes neighbors' animals would end up on our property. My dad would try to corral them and my mom would call around to see who was missing something. One of our neighbors, Mr. Price, always had escaping livestock. Once, I looked out my bedroom window and saw a horse looking at me. Often, it was hogs. My dad would say to my mom, "Call Julian. Tell him his hog is over here."
One time, my dad and I managed to corral a very large, white hog that belonged to Mr. Price. My mom made the call and soon he arrived, with a couple of his boys - and a bull dog. He turned that bull dog loose in our pen and he shot, like a bullet, towards the errant hog, and clamped his impressive jaws on its ear. The bull dog wouldn't allow the hog to budge. Mr. Price, my dad and the boys jumped in the fence and grabbed the squealing porker. The bull dog held firm. My dad asked Mr. Price how to get the dog off of the hog. Mr. Price said, "Hit him." My dad replied, "I'm not gonna hit him!" Mr. Price then knocked the bull dog up 'side the head, as it were. The dog let go. He and his sons picked up that large, unhappy hog, threw him into the small trunk of their car, and slammed the lid. The bull dog and the boys hopped in and they took off.
Whenever my dad would take hogs to auction, or to be slaughtered, it was a big day. I got to stay home from school to assist. We would get up very early and do whatever it took to get the hogs in the back of my dad's truck. He had built extra tall sides for his truck bed for that purpose. The auction and slaughter houses were out of town, so, for a country boy who never got to go anywhere, it was a nice little trip. And we always stopped for a Coke - and salted peanuts to dump into the Coke. My dad taught me that trick.
I can remember, one time, being at the auction, waiting for our pigs to come up. There were pens and pens jam packed with pigs and hogs. I recall walking on a wooden plank over a pen squirming with hogs. It couldn't have been over 6 feet off the ground, but to me, it was scary.
One part of the auction experience that I really enjoyed was the flea market. I remember buying several 45s - "Put Your Hand in the Hand," by Ocean, "Cloud Nine," by The Temptations, something by Spanky and Our Gang ("Like to Get to Know You?" "Sunday Will Never Be the Same?") and "I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten," by Dusty Springfield - for a dime apiece.
I first heard the Tommy James and the Shondells song, "Draggin' the Line," at the slaughter house. Now, unfortunately, I can't hear it without thinking of that place.
A few weeks after any pigs were born, my dad would risk life and limb to snatch them away from their mother, in a large wash tub, so he could break off their sharp little teeth and cut (castrate) the males. He would take them behind the house, so the mother wouldn't hear their anguished squeals. My job was to hold them while he performed the procedures. He would pull out a shiny new single edged razor blade, make two small incisions, squeeze out the testicles, and slice them off. Then, they would receive a shot of some kind of purple veterinary antiseptic spray. The teeth... that's the part that bothered me most. My dad said it had to be done, so the mother would allow them to nurse. He used a pair of pliers, and crunch, crunch , crunch - Jeez, I hate even thinking about it now!
Growing up around so many animals afforded me with adventures that featured rats, snakes, electric fences, soaked corn (you'll never forget THAT smell), large, sometimes irate, mammals - and crap. Lots and lots of crap...

The second and third grades.

The second grade went smoothly. I don't recall any extreme highs or lows. My teacher's name was Mrs. Knight. She was an older lady, also, but she wasn't small. She once told us a story about a kid she had taught. She had admonished him, telling him that he couldn't even spell "cat." At the end of the year, he could spell C-A-T. And that was the only word he could spell.
The 3rd grade started out fine, but about half way through the year things began to fall apart. Something traumatic happened to me. Whatever it was, I have suppressed it. I starting having full blown panic attacks at the thought of going to school. I threw fits - screaming and crying. My stomach would hurt. I would run away from school. My dad beat me. My mom prayed and tried to reason with me. Someone from the school system suggested I see a child psychologist. I did. I remember, once, my parents took me to the parsonage to spend the day with our preacher. We talked, read bible verses and prayed. He gave me a quiver full of arrows.
My dad beat me some more.
Nothing worked.
I have talked about this elsewhere in this blog. I just wanted to emphasise the effect this period (of nearly 3 years) had on my life. Kids made fun of me. People knew me as that boy who ran away from school. Of course, all of this exacerbated the problem. I was traumatized. Something had happened to me. I was a child, it wasn't my fault, but the shame and guilt I felt shaped me. It affects me to this day. I can't stress that enough.
I sometimes think about undergoing hypnosis, but I'm not sure I really want to know what I've buried.

First grade.

I started school in 1966. I was 5 years old and turned 6 a couple of weeks later. If there was Preschool or Kindergarten in our school system at that time, I don't remember it. I started out in the first grade.
I recall the very first day. After my mom left the room, I put my head down on my desk. But, I didn't cry! (I came close, though...)
No one had attempted to teach me to read or write or count, or even my ABCs, in preparation for school. I was a blank slate. And naive. Boy was I naive. The first prank that I fell victim to was trading my "little, dirty, old dime" for a "BIG, shiny nickel." That kid, who cursed(!), tormented me well into high school. (He AND his 2 brothers.)
But none of that mattered. I was smart. The smartest kid in my class. And when we started reading, I took off!
Our first grade class was divided into 3 groups: Bluebirds, Rabbits and Squirrels. The Bluebirds were the slowest. The Rabbits were in the middle.
Me? I was a Squirrel.
These were the days of segregation. My school was all white except for one little Mexican boy, who happened to be in my class. He lasted a week and was never seen again.
Our first grade teacher was legendary. She was so old that my brother and both of my sisters (12, 14 and 16 years older than me) had had her as their first grade teacher. Her name was Mrs. Naylor. She had silver hair and seemed to be about 4 feet tall. I vividly remember her acting out "The Billy Goats Gruff." Sometimes she would tell us a fairy was going to visit and we all had to put our heads on our desks and close our eyes. When we were allowed to look, there would be candy on every desk. Once, I peeked and was very disappointed to see Mrs. Naylor handing out treats.
Sometimes, older kids, from the second or third grade, would deliver something to Mrs. Naylor. When they entered the classroom, she would tell us, "This is one of my babies." We would look at them with respect and envy. A couple of years later, I was asked to take something to her room. She said, "This is one of my babies." A whole classroom of first graders looked at me with the same respect and envy. I was an 8 year old Mrs. Naylor alumnus.
Our school was built around 1928. You had to go outside the building to get to the restroom. The boy's room was on one side and the girl's room was on the other. Once, when I returned from the boy's room, a kid told the teacher that he had seen me, from the window, going into the girl's room. This was my first real experience with righteous indignation. Even though I protested, I got a beating - from that sweet, lovable old lady. Yeah, they beat us in those days - with a half inch thick, 20 inch long, wooden paddle, which sometimes had holes drilled in it. The holes were said to make the paddle "sting more" and cause blisters. Also, they improved the aerodynamics of the punishment device, allowing it to be swung faster. Our principle, whose name was Mr. Phipps, but whom everyone (behind his back, of course) called "Flipper," was rumored to be in possession of an electric model, which had holes AND nails. No one had ever seen it, though.
More righteous indignation ensued. Our teacher told us that she had visited Abe Lincoln's log cabin. She tacked a photo of it on the blackboard and asked us to attempt artistic representations of this historical dwelling. I forgot to sign mine. She collected them and stapled them to the bulletin board. About a month later, she took them down. She called each kid's name and handed him or her their drawing. When she came to mine, she asked who it belonged to. Me and the kid who had lied about the bathroom thing both raised our hands. She believed him. I was flabbergasted. I remember walking past his desk, later that day, on my way to the pencil sharpener, and whispering, "That's MY picture." He said, rather loudly, "Mrs. Naylor, Jimmi keeps bothering me!" I was reprimanded. Oddly enough, me and that kid later became best friends.
Once, on my way out of the building, a girl came up behind me and pushed me down the steps, shattering the glass that lined the Thermos in my "Gentle Ben" lunch box. Yeah, they lined kid's Thermos's with glass in those days. My PB+J was not the same, minus the chocolate milk.
Large cards were hung over the blackboard (which was actually black) and the bulletin board, in our classroom, featuring the letters of the alphabet. I remember that N was the nose tickler and S was the sound a snake makes. I could swear that we were taught that A,E,I,O,U, and sometimes Y AND W, were vowels. Does anyone else remember W as a sometimes vowel?
We said the pledge of allegiance each morning, hands on hearts, staring at the tiny flag jammed in the corner of the room. I could swear we said the Lord's Prayer, too - but I won't.

End Game

Here it is. This is it. I've reached the meat of it. Boiled down, grey and gristly.
This is the End Game. It has arrived on my doorstep. Things will be difficult from here on. I can sense it.
People can't help me now. They fear being dragged down with me.
I'm hard, I've had practice, but the level I've just entered will put me to The Test.
"Play time" is over. Look up. Focus. Look around. Everything in this new place wants me dead.
I see it.
I feel it.
I know it.
Something's about to happen.
All I can do is respond.

Now's the time. The time is now.

Waiting and waiting. Thank goodness I'm a patient man. (Does it count when you're calm on the outside and raging on the inside?)
One thing I've learned is how to Surrender. Be it going with the flow - or stalling in the stagnation.
It's amazing how disruptive a ghost can be - stirring up desire, need, love, remembrance, belonging, curiosity, confusion and exhaustion.
Rise with the tide - or be sucked down the drain.
Surrender.
When will it happen?
What is true? What's a lie?
Why, why, why?
Is this one OF me, or a thing separate? (How great would it be to know THIS?)
I face an uncertain future. Even cloudier than it was before. And, much shorter - and shorter, and shorter, and shorter...
Pushing to the brink - the icing of goodness, joy and wonder melting as I go. When I reach the precipice I will be but dusty bones. (Am I making myself clear, or just erasing?)

Love.
Devotion.
Surrender.

"Love is sweet.
Devotion is sweeter.
Surrender is sweetest."
(Sri Chinmoy)

Important: Do not confuse Surrender with giving up.

Are we related?

 

I need to start winding TBOGL down. (Up?)

About 2 weeks ago, I met an 18 year old boy who may or may not be my son. I'm trying to process the accompanying barrage of information, questions and emotions. I don't know what else to say at this time.

Last Tuesday, I saw my primary care physician. He changed the dosages on 2 of my meds - it seems my thyroid is over-active and my blood is too thin. My thyroid condition is caused by another drug I am taking: Amiodarone.
I saw my cardiologist at UNC, Thursday. He interrogated my ICD and found that I have had NO episodes of V-Tach since my last visit. This is very good. But I'm still having A-Fib. This is bad. Since I had had the cardiac ablation in April, and have had no V-Tach recently, I posited that perhaps I could be taken off of the Amiodarone and placed back on Sotalol - a somewhat less intense drug. The Doctor agreed. This is good. Amiodarone has some awful side effects. My cardiologist determined that I need to have a new ICD installed (even though I just had one installed in April), and I'll need 2 additional "leads" attached to my heart. This procedure will be performed on August 31. Because of the Sotalol "loading," which will occur while I'm there, I will be hospitalized for 3 days.
Yesterday, I began having some rather severe episodes of A-Fib. I nearly blacked out a couple of times. My sister took me to the ER. The doctor couldn't tell me what was causing this. It could have been the result of stress, food, heat, dehydration or changes in medication. Or (as usual) a combination of these things. Often, it's a mystery.

The only word I've gotten on my Social Security Disability Benefits Application Appeal is that it may be 3 months before I get an answer.
This last year has been one of the most trying periods of my life...

The Music Project. (Summation)

This list seemed impossible from the outset. I have been collecting records (LPs, 45s, 8 Tracks, Cassettes, CDs) for over 40 years. My collection is in the thousands, and my tastes are eclectic - everything from early rock and roll to old country to hard rock, new wave, punk, pop, classical, disco, jazz, ambient, glam... You get it, I love music.
I knew it would be difficult to pare things down for this project, but I didn't know how difficult. I feel as if I need to provide a list of vital artists I didn't mention. Not that this list will, in any way, be comprehensive.
Anyway, here we go:

Abba
Aerosmith
Chet Atkins
Avalanche
Beethoven
Bad Brains
Les Baxter
Black Sabbath
Brand X
The Carpenters
Chic
Patsy Cline
Chick Corea
Devo
Nick Drake
Electric Light Orchestra
Ella Fitzgerald
Foghat
Gary Glitter
Robert Gorden
Grand Funk Railroad
Merle Haggard
Heart
Richard Hell and the Voidoids
John Lee Hooker
Husker Du
Joe Jackson
Jethro Tull
Joan Jett
Rickie Lee Jones
Joy Division
King's X
k.d. lang
London Suede
G. Love and Special Sauce
Manhattan Transfer
Mother's Finest
Mozart
Gary Numan
Ohio Players
Michael Penn
P. Funk
Pixies
The Pointer Sisters
Iggy Pop
Pretenders
Public Enemy
The Raspberries
The Rattlers
Rolling Stones
Linda Ronstadt
Roxy Music
The Sex Pistols
The Shaggs
Shoes
Dusty Springfield
Ruby Starr
Steely Dan
Barbra Streisand
Matthew Sweet
Tchaikovsky
Thin Lizzy
Three Dog Night
Timbuk 3
Tom Tom Club
Vivaldi
X

There's plenty more, believe me, but I think you get the picture.

The Music Project, Pt. 13

In the very early 80s, I was shopping in one of the two small department stores in my home town. There was a little table up front with a few cut-out albums priced at 50 cents apiece. Being a vinyl junkie, and having very little money, I felt compelled to leaf through them. I didn't recognize any of the artists except for The Rubinoos. Not that I knew what The Rubinoos sounded like, I had just seen them in the Berserkley Chartbusters ads in Creem magazine (my all time favorite music rag, by the way). Berserkley was an indie record label that featured, along with The Rubinoos, Greg Kihn, Earthquake and Jonathan Richman. Anyway, I ended up buying 5 albums - mainly because they looked interesting. That's $2.50, before tax! This was one of the greatest deals I ever made, not just because of the small amount I spent, but because it introduced me to some amazing music.
Oh, I almost forgot - when I opened the Rubinoos album, it contained a Jonathan Richman disc! And since I have already mentioned him in this list, I'm going to feature the other four.
Elton Motello's "Pop Art" is a punk rock/new wave tour de force. It's leaps and bounds ahead of his first effort (even though that one featured "Jet Boy Jet Girl").
Roddy Frantz, of Urban Verbs, has a brother, Chris Frantz, who is the drummer for Talking Heads. Both bands have a girl bass player and were spawned in the same petri dish, more or less. I guess what I'm trying to say is, they have similarities. Now, while I like Talking Heads (I really do...), I have to say that I LOVE their off-shoot, Tom Tom Club. AND I love the space synth, feedback guitar, alienated vocals and tribal drumming of "Early Damage" by Urban Verbs.
Code Blue should have been HUGE. Ex members of The Motels, Mudcrutch and The Vibrators, they had a great live reputation, amazing songs and a big push from their record label. Some things just weren't meant to be, I guess. I'm awfully glad I found them, though.
Pearl Harbor and the Explosions had a great mix of 60s girl group pop, a little punk rock, new wave and rock-a-billy, and a guitar player who tossed in odd jazz licks. Headed by Filipino diva Pearl E. Gates (who was once married to Paul Simonon, from The Clash), this combination resulted in one fun record!
I searched long and hard to find these albums on CD. The only one I haven't been able to locate is Elton Motello's "Pop Art." If anyone has any information on this, PLEASE contact me. Thanks.

 

The Music Project Pt. 12

Ok, I've tried to maintain a semblance of order during this project, but this offering is hardly cohesive. Hey, it was bound to happen at some point.
My oldest sister, who is 16 years older than me, passed down some of her albums, when I was maybe 5 or 6. "The Golden Rock Hits of Jerry Lee Lewis" was one of them. I can not stress enough how much of an influence this thing was on me. The Killer actually went back into the studio and re-recorded these songs. If you compare these versions with his original singles you can hear the difference experience makes. Jerry Lee was at the top of his game - the playing and singing on this album is authoritative and incendiary.
Another album my sister gave me was "Surfing" by The Ventures. There has hardly been a day in the last 45 years that I haven't thought about these songs. I still love this album as much as I did when I was a kid. Highly influential.
I came to Leonard Cohen rather late, but once I did, I felt as if I had known him my whole life. His first album, "Songs of Leonard Cohen" is a must have for anyone who appreciates the art of songwriting. Kurt Cobain sang, "Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, so I can sigh eternally..." Leonard is the man!
I simply adore "Court and Spark." I don't know what else to say about this except that Joni Mitchell is a goddess and we should thank the big good thing for her.
I was a huge R.E.M. fan up until, oh, I don't know, maybe "Out of Time." Huge fan. I picked "Murmur" (their first release, not counting "Chronic Town," which was an EP) for this list because it was original, inventive and mysterious. What more can you ask for? (What was that Stipe guy singing about, anyway?)
I think the reason the Smiths weren't huge in America is because they were just so VERY British. "Louder Than Bombs," a compilation album, is packed with great songs. Moz and the boys had a firm grasp on teenage angst (Limey division).

 

The Music Project, Pt. 11

Ok. We're firmly in the 90s, now. These are four albums that restored my faith in Rock and Roll.
The first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit," from Nirvana's "Nevermind," I knew something new was happening. Sadly, it only happened for one more studio album after this one. But, what a legacy.
What a voice Todd Lewis has! He can go from gently melodic to BALROG! within a couple of beats. Great songs and fierce playing makes the Toadies' "Rubberneck" a must have.
Long live the Fountains of Wayne! Someone said that their debut album was "Almost better than anything, ever!" That's about the best blurb ever. And, I wholeheartedly concur.
Teenage Fanclub actually beat out Nirvana for Spin magazine's Best Band of 1991. I guess the buying public didn't agree. It makes no difference - "Bandwagonesque" is one great frothy, crunchy, power pop of an album. (If only they had featured some out-stretched arms on the cover...)

 

The Music Project, Pt. 10

It was difficult to pick a Cocteau Twins album for this list - I am such a fan - so I grabbed one blindly. "Blue Bell Knoll," like everything else in their catalog, is a sonic treasure.
Luscious Jackson's "Fever In Fever Out" benefited greatly from Daniel Lanois' beautifully moody production. Which is not to say that the girls didn't come up with some terrific material. Because, you know, they did... (Great T.Rex sample on the song "Don't Look Back.")
No one sounds like Stereolab. "Emperor Tomato Ketchup" is probably the most user friendly unit they ever produced.
The A and R from A.R.Kane are the A and one of the Rs from M/A/R/R/S. (Think 80s dance hit, "Pump Up the Volume.") Don't let that scare you. These guys play some very odd (in a good way), other-worldly, groovy, techno jazz pop. Or something like that. It'll grow on you (like reverb).

 

The Music Project, Pt. 9

Four of my favorite soundtracks:
I was in the first group of people to see "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" in my town, in the 70s. I already owned the soundtrack, so I knew the songs - but I couldn't hear them that night. The crowd at the theater was so rambunctious that I had a snowball's chance in heck of following the story. People were screaming and running up and down the aisles. Water was flying everywhere - two girls, in front of me, had a 30 gallon trash can full. Someone cut the screen. But, forget all that - this album contains some of the most fun music you'll ever hear in a movie.
The "Austin Powers" soundtrack was put together by someone who knew what they were doing. From Brasil 66 to Ming Tea, this stuff is shag-edelic, baby.
"Velvet Goldmine" is the story of David Bowie in much the same way as "The Rose" is the story of Janis Joplin. Imagine a glam rock soundtrack with no Bowie, though! (David wanted nothing to do with it.) That's ok, there's T.Rex, Roxy Music, Eno and a glittery host of others.
Ah, "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." This is one of the most original musicals of our time. I first saw this in our local 150 year old theater. C'mon everyone, take your wig down off the shelf.

 

The Music Project, Pt. 8

Thank you Jeebus for Nina Hagen! I'm featuring a double album containing "The Nina Hagen Band" and "NunSexMonkRock." An ex-East German opera singer turned Punk Rock/Dance Diva, Nina brings good vibes to the world.
Grace Jones' "Nightclubbing" was, for years, my getting-ready-to-go-out-to-the-clubs music. Getting ready to go out used to be almost as much fun as going out. Featuring Sly and Robbie, from Black Uhuru, this album is ageless. So is Grace.
I had Robyn Hitchcock's "Globe of Frogs" on cassette, way back in the 80s, when I worked in a steak house, cutting meat. I was in the back of the restaurant, in a sealed off, refrigerated room - so I cranked it up. It always makes me think of raw meat. I wish I had told Robin that when I met him. If he has ever written a bad song, I haven't heard it.
When I first heard "Blood and Roses" by the Smithereens, I got so excited I tried to write a "Blood and Roses" style song, myself. I still get excited by that song, and everything else on "Especially for You." (I came up with the idea to do a extended arrangement of "Blood and Roses"/"Suzie Q" with one of the bands I used to play in. It works!)
I have a list in my head of Good Things in the world. The B-52's are on that list, baby. I first heard "Private Idaho" while living in Portsmouth, Va. It was love at first listen. Everyone should own a copy of "Wild Planet."
I had been writing songs since I was a kid, but when I saw Elvis Costello on Tom Snyder's "Tomorrow" show (also while living in Portsmouth), he inspired me to write what I consider to be my first real song. All I had to work with was my 1966 Fender Mustang - and it was missing 2 strings. (I was too broke to buy strings.) Elvis is one of my heroes. If you don't like "Armed Forces" then we probably can't be friends.

 

The Music Project, Pt. 7

There will be a couple of stragglers later on, but for the most part, we're in the 80s.
The photo on the cover of "Dirty Mind" (not to mention the title) just about says it all. Standing half naked against a box spring, Prince has delivered a stripped down, sexy gem. The record company thought it sounded unfinished, but Prince knew what he was doing. He always does.
Junkie, punk rock poet, writer, friend of Patti Smith and Lou Reed, Jim Carroll left us with his amazing debut, "Catholic Boy." Jim's word-play knocks me out, every time.
I love Siouxsie and the Banshees' cover collection, "Through the Looking Glass." From the Sparks to Dylan to Disney, Kraftwerk, Roxy Music, Lady Day, Television and more, they make each song a Banshees song. Which is a good thing.
"Radioactivity" is my all time favorite Kraftwerk album, but because I already wrote about it in an earlier post, I picked "Computer World" for this list. It doesn't really matter. Just because I say one is my favorite, doesn't mean I like any of the others any less - if that makes any sense. I'm a huge Kraftwerk fan.
I love everything Tears For Fears has ever done. I picked "Songs from the Big Chair" because it's the one that first caught my attention. One of the most important bands from the 80s.
Another essential 80s band is The Church. "Hey Day" features a veritable buffet of drop dead gorgeous, psychedelic tinged, paganistic, atmospheric jangle-osity. Listen to "Columbus" at your own risk. (You won't be able to exorcise it from your mind.)

 

The Music Project, Pt. 6

The Ramones, Patti Smith and Television were all 70s NY staples. Jonathan Richman? He was from Boston, of course, but he was, for a short while, a busboy at Max's Kansas City...
The first time I heard the Ramones, I said to myself, "YES!" Were they serious conceptual artists or degenerate glue sniffers? Does it matter? They should have had 100 hit songs, but that's ok - they changed the face of rock and roll instead.
Patti Smith had been doing her thing in the NY art scene since the late 60s. Plays, poetry readings, drawing. It feels like she was close to bursting when she finally got the chance to record "Horses." Her energy is almost palpable. "Horses" was produced by The Velvets' John Cale.
Oddly enough, one of the least known bands to emerge from CBGB - Television - was arguably the most talented. And they literally built the stage at the fabled punk club. The Ramones, Patti Smith, Talking Heads and Blondie all went on to bigger things. Television? They recorded one of punk rock's most gorgeously jagged footnotes: "Marquee Moon."
Also produced by John Cale, the eponymously titled debut from The Modern Lovers is a rock and roll anomaly. In the era of hippie free love and drug experimentation, the Boston band's leader/singer/guitarist/songwriter, Jonathan Richman, was "straight." Short hair, no casual sex, no drugs. He was a vegetarian. He didn't even smoke. It took some time for (a few) people to catch on to what he was doing. In the meantime, the band recorded "Roadrunner," which was a stepping stone for the punk rock movement. After the original Modern Lovers broke up, drummer David Robinson joined The Cars (another Boston band) and Keyboardist Jerry Harrison joined Talking Heads. Jonathan remains a cult hero.

 

The Music Project, Pt. 5

I tried to explain KISS for 3 years before the kids at my school finally caught on. I picked their eponymous debut mainly because it was first. I love the early makeup: Ace with silver hair, Peter's elaborate cat whiskers - and look at Gene! He's never looked more wicked. And he's not even sticking his tongue out... Great hard driving rock and roll on this one.
God bless The Sensational Alex Harvey Band! Those boys could play anything - from 30s style cabaret jazz and show tunes to hard tribal rock - often in the same song. "The Impossible Dream" is an album that continually thrills me. VAMBO RULES! OK...
I couldn't decide which Queen album to use - 1 through 4 would have done nicely - so I went with the obvious choice, "A Night at the Opera." Roy Thomas Baker said the band stacked so many guitar and vocal parts on the tape that you could see through it. The end product was well worth their Herculean studio efforts, and as ridiculously baroque as it is, there is not a single gratuitous note on the album.
I think a lot of folks saw Brownsville Station as some sort of a joke band. I mean, they did have a great sense of humor, but they were one of the hardest working rock and roll outfits around. And in Cub Coda, they had a bonafide Garage/Blues/Rock historian - a keeper of the flame. "School Punks" featured "Kings of the Party," in which Brownsville professed to be "the baddest people alive." Not too far off the mark, if you want my humble opinion.