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.