Driving Ma and Da to the theater; in the snow!

1/18/20 16:11 East Northport

It was an easy task.  Dad asked if I can check to see how long the play was.  I called the theater, it’s two hours and fifteen minutes the woman said.  Had her on speaker.  Dad made a comment that it will be dark by the time the musical ended.  Got it.  I took the hanging bait like a good son.  I offered to drive my parents to the theater in Northport, where they have tickets to see The Million Dollar Quartet.  It was a Christmas present.  It is snowing here and I thought it over, it would be better for me to drive them than let my eighty-year-old Dad.  The play started at 3 PM.  We live seven minutes away.  What time should we leave?  Dad asked and quickly answered himself, 2:30.  No, better make it 2:20 since we don’t know what the roads are like.  Dad was charging up his track phone.  I have plans to have dinner with Emma, and I asked, can I invite her over?  Of course, we love Emma.  But she’s getting over a stomach virus.  Ma said, I will wear a mask.  And she would.  Dad said, it may not be a good idea to have her drive all the way due to the snow.  We both know we’re only expecting an inch or two.  My first reaction, ever the controlling man, but this was out of concern for Emma Tess.  An hour before departure Dad calls up to me.  I was upstairs listening to a podcast.  “One hour before departure,” he said with a British accent.  Got it, I called down. I don’t like the accent and know he’s anxious.  I came down and he repeated what he said about Emma.  Got it. Yes, I will drive out there.  30 minutes before departure, the snow still falling, I was alerted to the time.  Not that I don’t have a watch or my phone can’t tell the time.  Got it, I called down and this was the way it was, but I did not come downstairs till five minutes before departure which was 10 minutes after the 15-minute warning call.  I was dressed and in the car, on-time. “Can you back the car out into the driveway so there’s not too much weight in the back and it clips the edge.”  Sure, I responded.  What did I get myself in for?  Ma sat in the front which is a crisis brewing.  Growing up the Lord’s name and all the saints and Mary’s would be exclaimed loudly if Dad or me dared to drive faster or hit a hidden pothole.  She’s a pack of nerves.  With good reason, she was in a deadly car accident when she was a teenager.  Got it, but it does not make it any easier.  And we get out of the driveway and I drive slowly on the snow covered street.  Ma suggests I take a left.  I go straight down the steep snow covered hill.  It’s just a coating.  I was mistaken.  The VW Jetta’s anti-lock or some safety device is not stopping the car and we were shimmering and sliding.  There was an oncoming SUV and it appeared we were slowly heading into an accident.  Ma was quick to remind me we should have turned left and added, “Like I suggested not renting a car when you arrived into Dublin.”  Passive aggressive comments and I was brewing while clutching the steering wheel.  Yeah, you’re right.   That drive in Dublin was the worst.   We made it on Main Street in Northport and Dad asked from the back seat, where do you want to pick us up?  Very good question, your father is always thinking.  That is true, we call that in business, being proactive, I said.  Ma adds, related to the word reactive.  I say, “If you are reactive you are reacting after the fact, proactive is what Dad is, he is making plans before I get there.  I will pick you up across from the theater.”  Just before we approached the theater, cars stopped and the car behind me jammed on his breaks and slid off, almost hitting me and a parked car.  I didn’t say anything.  Ma was shocked.  A blank expression.  She was silent.  Almost there.  Would you like me to pull over and you can cross the street? I asked.  Can you make a u-turn and drop us off in front of the theater?  I made my turn through a parking lot and was ready to boot them out.  Plans are to pick them up in front of the police station which is a two-minute walk from the theater.  I hope they enjoy the play.  I also hope there are no sexual innuendos or foul language since Ma may become offended, depending on her mood.  I’m not looking forward to picking them up at 5:15 or maybe I’ll show up at 5:20 or wait for Dad’s call.

Thank you for reading this.

  

A poem created while jogging through the woods

11/17/19 21:36 East Northport, NY

Exposing layers to her

Absorbing her light, casting out the darkness

Trusting her, knowing I can trust anyone for the first time, and not conjure a fictitious crime - when silence corrodes peace

She is my best friend and soon will be my wife

We share our compassionate hearts that have never felt this strange emotion,

this love

It is eternal and such bliss

I went running earlier, through the VA, but went further in and saw a white tail hopping and hiding behind some hedges.  There was a couple, older than me and we said hello to one another.  Meli and I will be like that, bundled up and taking a walk in the woods, finding the joy in nature although it is getting colder.  I ran in shorts.  Mom and Dad had the heat blasting in the house.  Mom wore a rope over her clothes for the rest of the day.

Amanda is off to France tonight. I sent her a text earlier, but she did not respond.  It is her choice.  I can’t control her feelings and yet I hope she does not revert back to not talking to me.  I will never say to her, don’t talk to me, I need space since I would not want her to say it to me.  Fact or fiction?  She is off to France, that is a fact.

Thank you for reading this

Back in Northport, I learned my favorite Barber passed away

10/25/19 17:49 East Northport

I have not taken a shower today.  My skin is feeling clammy, but it’s alright.  I will jump into a hot shower and head over to Patchogue to see Chick Corea and company.  The seats I assumed would be empty – one on either side have been sold to strangers.  It’s alright.  Looking forward to seeing this show since it’s the first concert in a few weeks, and the first on Long Island in months, maybe a year?  Who cares? 

Meli and I had a tiff last night.  By this morning, we were back.  She fell asleep without calling.  My imagination was creating a scene that is best left unsaid in this blog.  I feel like a commercial, “For the rated R version, go to my other blog…but this is it ladies and gentlemen.”  Like I said, this morning we were back.  She explained she laid down last night, pulled the covers over her since it was cold and rainy in Mexico City and was quickly off to dreamland.

Saw Lou today.  We had lunch.  I have sad news to share since my worse fear came to life.  My favorite barber, Jack passed away.  After lunch we walked over to see if he was there – to make an appointment.  The store was black.  There were signs on the window and letters from customers, expressing their condolences to his family.  Dried flowers were still in a vase. There were candles long seduced by the elements - extinguished.  We read the notes and the posts.  This was a man spent his life working and loving his family.  They were his life, and I know they will be successful since Jack was very proud of all of them.  They were all successful.  I will miss him and yet I was not surprised.  He was sick for a while and yet it was sudden.  The last couple of times, I needed a haircut I’d call Jack.  The answering machine would not pick up.  I knew he had passed.

Thank you for reading this.

Fourth of July 2019

7/4/19 11:18

Sitting in the back yard at my parent’s house.  Last year, on the fourth, I was living in Northport, down near Crab Meadow and paying too much for a small room in a cottage, but I was close to my family.  My parents were only five minutes away and three of my children, out East on Long Island in Port Jeff Station.  They were in the house that Ali and I rented.  The year before we celebrated the fourth in the Adirondacks.  It was our last vacation we took as a family, and I wrote about it in the blog. On this day in 2015, we flew back from California where we spent a week on vacation.  The year before on this day, my son had the courage to tell me he was bi, Joe was eleven at the time.  Life moves on and like a dream or a circle - we evolve.  Another analogy will be a river that carries remnants of soil and stones in its rolling water, pushing forward and dropping off what it carries in different parts on its journey. 

I’m living in Bethlehem, PA and I am engaged to a wonderful woman.  Ali is doing well on her own, having purchased a house and settling in.  This all took place within the past year.  On July 22, Ali and I will be separated from one another for two years.  A lot has changed in our lives, but instead of a general statement, I am grateful for the transition.  I battle with loneliness, of not waking up and seeing the kids in the morning or being a part of their daily lives.  I battle with the distance and yet while I was on Long Island, we would only see each other on the weekends.  They have their lives.  Yet, I am discovering more about myself and discovering love, strength and compassion. 

Joe graduated high school this year.  I was at the graduation ceremony and the week before, took pictures of Joe, wearing a beautiful dress and high heels, as he set off on his prom with his date.  For his graduation, I drove four hours in rush hour traffic from New Jersey, where I had a meeting that afternoon, but I made it.  No air conditioning.  Feeling light headed and frazzled, I stood behind the stands and looked down at the field and watched as my son sang with the high school choir - for the last time and watched as he walked across the stage, in high heels, to receive his diploma.  Afterwards, I walked down to the field and Joey gave me a big hug, you made it, he said.  Joe had a legion of friends come up to him and hug him, he was and is very loved and respected in most of the community.  Amanda was there from Boston and we hugged.  She looked amazing and wanted to get a family picture together.  Emma Tess, my quiet warrior, hugged and yet for my youngest, the pain is still fresh, Bella kept her distance from me.  It is alright.  She needs time and I will respect her space.  No family picture. 

I drove back to Bethlehem after the ceremony and once again the loneliness and sadness kicked in. My family were headed back to their new house and continued their lives as normal without me. Traffic was lighter.  It was night.  I spoke to Meli on the ride back and she said, what a wonderful father I am. I try to be.

   

I try to live in the moment with gratitude and live a life of integrity.  Like the river, I carry certain stones and stories and will discard of them, left to be in their places in the past.  I will move on through this life, discovering for the first time another realization.

Thank you for reading this.   

New fiction, living near the beach

9/23/18:

Working on this piece of fiction:

The ceiling fan was on slow, spinning under the dark ceiling, the fan he has used to settle his mind was turned off since it was chilly with the wind coming off the water.

           The beach is a five minute walk from the cottage.  Yesterday, he took a long run, fifteen miles to prepare for a half marathon.  After the run, he changed and walked down to the beach.  No one was in the water, it was chilly.  The water was dead low and he gingerly walked as far as he could, stepping over rocks, considering there could be shards of glass somewhere and a deep gash could be an emergency.  There were no broken bottles, but there were a lot of rocks and the further he walked away from the beach, the more rocks.  He assumed the water would get deeper.  It didn’t, staying up to his knees.  Looking out into the water, it appeared it was shallow for another 100 yards. Instead of trudging further out, he found a spot and plopped his body into the cool water.  The water was warmer than the air, and he wanted to stay in for as long as possible.  The tide was coming in, but it would be hours before he was able to run into the water and go for a real swim, perhaps the summer was over he thought as small waves crashed around his head. 

           This was supposed to be the place he could walk down to the beach at any time and get in a swim.  He could count on one hand how many times he went swimming over the summer, well maybe seven which is closer to the truth.  The sky was clear, the Connecticut cities across the Sound were clear, he could make out buildings.  He was the only soul in the water and to the folks walking on the beach, wearing jackets, Martin looked like a man desperately capturing the loss summer.  Typical for him.  Always clutching onto to the last bit of summer.

           Standing up, the swimming suit was cold against his penis.  The rocks he avoided were under his toes, and yet the water was clear enough to make out the dark objects under the salty surface.  He dressed quickly, walked back up the beach, found a broken Becks bottle of beer and tossed the shards into the sea grass, away from any unsuspecting foot or potential beach blanket. 

           Walking back to the cottage, he had one thought, taking a warm shower and yet there was the thought that the ever present homebody, Wayne the owner of the cottage where Martin rented a room would see Martin and jump into the shower.  It has happened frequently, Martin goes out for a run, who’s in the shower when he gets back?  Wayne had an hour to jump in, and yesterday, he had two full hours and even longer since Martin walked down to the beach. 

          The front door was open, music playing on his stereo and the bathroom door was closed, he called it.  Wayne was in there, either taking a shit of taking a shower.  Martin went into his room and heard the shower and gave him the finger.

Thank you for reading this

No Matter How Old You Are - You can be a Scofflaw. The Scofflaws play in Northport, LI as the day faded into the Night

8/23/14 19:40

It was a good week.  I learned on Face Book, The Scofflaws were playing in the park in Northport.  The park is pristine, and there is a classic bandstand set at one end of a long field.  The bandstand is the stage which I used to dream of playing with my band (The Few) in front of ten adoring fans.  That was thirty years ago and yet some dreams are so real, but frankly that one is like old stained glass, the allure catches the light whenever if ever shines on it.  So, I live vicariously through my heroes.  We have our poets and performers, and even the thieves who run reckless in the night causing chaos on our sanctified communities.  Yeah, Rude Boys, The Scofflaws were playing.  I even confirmed it with them on FB.   So, for the whole week I conjured up images of stomping in the grass as their ska music filled the night.  There would be a crowd there.  It was a great vision and on top of that, they were hitting the stage at 7 PM.  It meant there was time for the family to get there and home at a decent hour.  We packed ourselves in the minivan and headed out to Northport.  We even found a parking spot in the park’s lot – what are you kidding?  What luck?  We hauled out blankets from the trunk and barely noticed the grey haired couples in their beach chairs, sitting calmly and some eating their dinner and iced teas.  They can watch their show of a barbershop choir or whatever lame music was playing...there...way back there.  Let’s get this started!  There was Sammy with his van.  He looked confused.  Hey, Sammy!  Like I said he looked confused.  We get into the park and look back at the sedated couples on their chairs.  Could it be there?   Way back there?  The spot with the microphones and little lights and what does it say on the chalk board?  The Scofflaws, 7 PM Tonight.  Really? Here?  In front of them? We drove all this way from Port Jefferson.  Deep breath.  Calm…calm thoughts, enjoy this summer night with the family. So, we played in the park, swung on swings which look the same when I was there almost fifty years ago and took pictures, walked on the dock since if you are ever in Northport you must walk on the dock.  The familiar scent of tar, the green oxidized copper caps on the posts, the cracked floor boards and there in the distance is the boat yard that has been in operation for over a hundred years, maybe two hundred and then it was time to head back to see the show.  The kids were not really interested, although Ali and Amanda liked it.  Yes, Emma as well.  Eileen brought her boys down and we bumped into my father’s friends and we caught up.   We are all Scofflaws no matter how old or young you are.  Little kids were dancing.  Couples were twirling and shaking it.  All of this was taking place in front of the park, even the bikers in their black leather were there to see the band; we are all Scofflaws after all.  They played Boots, Daniel Ortega, Batman theme.  By the end of two encores, Sammy was a sweaty mess.  They were playing another gig later that night in Greenlawn; "The rated R version," Sammy said  They always give it their all. Before the night was over I had to get a pint in at Gunther’s.  I wish Frank Dentrone was with me, but he was in Vermont with his family.  Gunther’s is the sanctified establishment which has brought back so many memories, pitchers of beers, cigarette smoke stuck in clothes and hair and the scent washing out the following morning in the shower.  Seeing Vance Brescia and The Eggmen, Cliff Gardner and his wild dancing, Charlie and Chris, cheers Jon…cheers…cheers and I was there.  I drank my beer while my daughters looked at me, making fun of their weird Dad.  They could not understand what old movies were playing in my mind as I looked across the old bar.  May you discover your own phantoms!

Mariah Carey was a skinny fifteen-year old kid with red hair...hanging with Pete Engelmann after all of these years

1/18/14 15:21 Home

I just came back home after having lunch with a good old friend Pete Engelmann and his wife Michele for the last twenty years.  When was the last time we saw one another?  It could have been the book signing I had for Killer Commute back in 2001; at Gunther’s in Northport.  Pete hasn’t changed very much; well there is the extra weight and the wrinkles around his eyes which didn’t fade away so easily after smiling. Michele and I pulled out reading glasses to read the menu.  There was a lot of smiling and laughing.  What brought us together when we were kids, a mutual friend; Fred Hyatt, who I was close to when I attended the illustrious bricked Bellerose Elementary.  Fred was involved with his church’s youth group and that’s where I met Pete.  I heard many stories of Pete before meeting him and vaguely remembered playing with him in Little League; I guess he was not that good of a player.  We hung out and he had a positive and destructive… but more - a lasting effect on my life.  Pete was the ringleader for the group of us; there was Mark Johnson, Jim Duke and I remember the younger kid who was my height Charlie Pellagrino, Fred Hyatt and some kids from Harborfields will join in as well.  There were others in the circle as well as the girls.  They will remain anonymous at this juncture to avoid any adverse implications and mischaracterizations.  But it’s true Pete dated Mariah Carey, I recall her when she was a skinny red-head fifteen year-old.  So, over lunch hearing the stories again brought back some intense times which involved… well for the sake of drama….illegal activities which are typical for teenage boys… who become men and who drifted aimlessly till they find the love of our lives. And we wake up one morning married and a father.  Those friends drift off to someplace else and far back into the past with each passing year.  We were boys and now we have responsibilities.  For most men, we have a very difficult time maintaining the relationships we had.  For some, we’re just not social creatures and prefer to be locked away in our caves.  I’m envious when I hear my father-in-law tell me a story about his old friend from somewhere; high-school or college… and they get a lunch or dinner and catch up.  What happened to my pals?  In the men’s group at my church we discussed just that, losing our friends, losing all contact we had with them and instead focusing on our tasks.  I understand.  Some live in a secret battle with the neighbors and try to outdo one another and at the end of the weekend, Monday morning rolls around and we begin the routine, start the work week.  It’s a vicious cycle.  So my task for some months was finding Pete.  It was like a calling.  We’ve always been different –meaning he’s conservative – I’m sorry, Christian conservative and I’m a progressive Christian who attends an open and affirming church.  The conversation started with our churches and I’m happy to say we left that topic early and carried on with other stories.  Like when I refused to make out with my girl-friend since it was Sunday (It was the Sabbath) having BB gun wars in the woods, riding motorcycles and horses and getting into fights with one another.  Drinking beer and shooting his .22 rifle…what happened to the men who led their lives in different directions? Some include writers, sales, the president of a oil company, real estate, cop…they are out there and it’s up to us to get together with them and reminisce.  There is nothing wrong with it as long as it stays in the past.  Old friends can become new friends and Pete said he wants to keep this going, let’s get together for dinner, he said…next weekend…Saturday?  We can’t, Michele said, since their son is going back to school on Sunday and they want to hang out with him.  I understand.  Pete looked at her, then the following weekend?

Thank you for reading this 

When a train friend passes; the commute will never be the same

10/11/13 19:46 Home

Last Sunday Craig Mawdsley passed away.  He was a friend who I tried to avoid when I first saw him. Eventually I had the pleasure to share many rides over the past few years on the train.  I say avoided since I could tell what kind of character he was.  When he was on the platform he spoke out to whoever was listening or whoever was around.  He grabbed your attention like a bear hug and wouldn't let go.   I admit I tried to avoid him, buried my nose in a paperback and let him spew whatever he was saying to whomever; but when I finally looked up - he nailed me.  He had a contagious smile when he was in the mood which was not all the time. Craig reminded me of my younger brother though he was a few years older than me.   He was heavier and for year or so grew out his hair.  He said he wanted to grow it as long as possible and donate his hair to charity.  Yet he drank heavily and did not eat very well.  There were times when I was in Philadelphia at a trade show and he’d call…”I’m taking the Five Twenty Seven, want some cold one’s for the ride?”  Did I want some beers and more often I had to decline.  I have been on the wagon and off and reluctantly shared those dry rides with my friend.  Die hard Ranger, heavy metal fan who told me, “At my funeral, I want them to blast highway to hell.”  Yesterday was his funeral and I doubt that song was played at St. Anthony’s in East Northport.  It was a day like today, grey and cool…and my friend was taken and buried.  From the platform outside our building in New Hyde Park, I won’t hear, “Myyyiiiikkkeeee….Commmissshhh…” Like commissioner Gordon from Batman.  His cooling bottles of beers would be clanking in the layers of plastic bags with melting ice cubes which made a mess in the train.  So many times we shared beers in Mineola.  When we first took the train we had a few minutes to make the connection to Port Jefferson and would hustle over the bridge and get a couple of tall boys in the stationary store and maybe a Slim Jim for him.  No more.  No more trying to beat the fair…NICE he would say when we made it which meant we pulled out of Huntington.  I haven’t taken that train or the Ronkonkoma train in months.  My schedule changed you can say.  The last we had any contact with Craig was in August when Alisha who I work with saw him on the platform. He broke the news to her prostate cancer and category four.  But he said he was going to fight it.  He was keeping positive and wanted to see his daughter graduate high school.  So Alisha told me and I was shocked, but like all of us we file the bad news away.  When I heard he died on Monday it came roaring back.  I should have called to check in.  To say good bye.  But with death you contemplate the life.  His dream was to work for the LIRR.  He loved the trains and knew the schedules better than some of the conductors.  He worked for the Post Office and was not happy with his choice of careers.  He resented it.  No, he was very bitter about it and each day if the mood was right the toxins would spew it out…in his mind there was a connection between working for the Post Office and insanity.  With the proposed changes the government was making, I believe the possibility of losing his job became real and this struck a chord of fear.  Thinking of our knuckle bumps when he’d get off in Northport and us making plans to see each other some other time.   He’d ride his bike home from the station. Sometimes he’d look at me from where he stood on the platform in Northport and we’d wave, he may point out a beautiful woman he eyed and he’d smile and give me a thumb’s up.  He was like a teenager in a man’s body.  I have to say Nolan’s funeral home was packed on Wednesday night for his wake.  I had to park my car near the Junior High and walked in the darkness to the funeral home, eventually seeing some faces I knew from the Post Office in New Hyde Park.  There was a long line to pay respects. I met his wife for the second time though she did not recognize me.  I looked at the wedding pictures and the black and whites of Craig when he was a wide eyed boy in Queens.  The faded picture of when he received Holy Communion, his head lowered over his clasped hands.  The Rosary Bears draped around his hands in the casket.  I touched him.  His arm under his baggy suit was thin and stiff.  My friend; what happened to you?  The next time I take the train his absence will strike me again and perhaps each time I take that train...I will be reminded of Craig.  May God Bless your soul.  Rest in Peace brother...

  

When REM played in a Roller Skating rink on Long Island

2/17/13 17:16 Home

A couple of months ago my Dad brought over some boxes that contained some of my things when I lived at my parent’s house almost 30 years ago.  There are notebooks and sketch books, water colors and an endless stream of songs especially the lyrics.  When I was eighteen my dream was to make it in a band.  I got in the band and the box has the evidence from those years when I was sending the band’s tapes to IRS records, Warner Brothers and whoever else I thought may be interested in giving us a shot.  The name of the band was The Few.  It was a high school band.   We played the variety show in High School, in fact opening the show with U2’s I will Follow.  I still know the lyrics since we practiced the song a million times.  There is the evidence in the box as well of the original name of the band, GS/G9 which is/was a German military branch or that is how I remember the other singer telling me it stood for.  For a few months he was the singer of the band, but I persuaded the group the kid couldn’t sing and he was out.  We changed the name and played The Police, Driven to Tears, REM’s 1,000,000 and The Clash’s Brand New Cadillac, The Jam’s That’s Entertainment, Led Zeppelin, Joe Jackson.  More often we practiced original songs that Bob Miller wrote.  Not many people heard these songs expect for Scott’s parents where we practiced in his room, and the twenty or so at the audition for the variety show.  I should add we played two gigs. Gallagher’s in East Northport, August 9^th 1984 and Sparks also that summer.  If you notice the picture attached, I included the Sparks flyer which we passed out.  The more kids that showed up with the flyer for your band, the chances were better - not a guarantee - the band would play there again.  Being underage was a big strike against us.  Gallagher’s was an empty restaurant and Sparks barely had what I would call a…crowd.  Sparks was the place to play in Huntington.  Vance from The Mosquitoes was there.  I was petrified; my nerves forced my voice to become hoarse by the second song.  I sounded like shit, tried to push through the set with constant squirts of Chloroseptic pain medicine behind the amp.   I can still remember the commercials for the throat relief medicine.  A heavy set actor with a distinct lisp had a sore throat, struggles to swallow.  He takes a couple of squirts, signs and says, ahh, Chloro…OH…sssseptic!”  The band eventually kicked me out.  It was my best friend who took the initiative.  Bob Miller thought it would propel me to go to college and stop dreaming of being a rock star.  Since those years I met a few wannabes like the kid who was pumping gas at the Hess who liked my Clash T-shirt.  He said he was going to sing in a band.  I told him I had the same dream.  But he looked at me; I was the kid who quit before making it and he said defiantly, “Yeah, but I am going to do it.”  Go for it, but give me five dollars of regular for the beast.  I drove a real beast - Chrysler Satellite station wagon.  Take a look at the other image, although Dad had the 8 cylinder animal - sporty with cool hot rod rims, but I felt like I was driving a whale.   Getting away from the band here…back to the music and the box of memories.  So I start pulling out pictures of me playing little league - The Dukes at Larkfield Little League.  I vaguely remember their names in the picture.  There was the kid who always had egg residue on the corners of his mouth, the other kid who had a thin moustache even at nine years-old and we all inspected the thin shadow with an odd mix of fear and trepidation.  Music.  I included pictures of a fanzine the Bob Cuomo published, Crisis.  His brother’s band The Service had a decent article.  I remember one of their songs, It couldn’t happen here….I saw them play in CB’s…the brother was cool and treated Bob and I very well.  I saw their drummer years later after a Joe Strummer concert, one of his last in Brooklyn and he couldn’t believe I recognized him.  What I wanted to write about was the night I interviewed REM when they played Good Skates or the Music Hall in Setauket as it states on REM’s postcard they sent to fans to promote their Little America tour.  This was when Reckoning was out and the hit, S. Central Rain or better known as…”I’m sorry.”   The band was making it.  Their video was on MTV.  If you don't know this song it begins with the lines, “Did you ever call?”  I wrote about The Smiths previously and this was the same time.  That summer – 1984 - I was invited to attend summer school since I failed English.  It was my rebellious time and I did not care about school.  One day I wore my REM t-shirt to summer school and one of the teachers made a comment to me like, “Hey, you know they are playing out in Setauket.”  No I didn’t.  “My wife and I are going and we can take you and a couple of your friends.”  Who was this guy?  July 17^th…So, Bob Miller and my brother Dave catch a ride.  “There’s a six pack in the back,” we can split, he tells us and enjoy.  Don’t tell your parents or else I can get fired.  I wanted to meet REM.  This was my opportunity, so I made up a fake press card and brought a tape recorder.  I gave the kid my ticket to what was a roller skating rink? I asked where I can interview the band.  “Press?”  Yes, I said press.  Go out that back door there.  I walked out and bumped into Bill Berry who thought I was someone else since he was really happy to see me.    I interviewed the whole band and they signed that faint piece of paper on top in the picture, Stipe drew a snake since I asked him to sketch.  I thought I lost this and seeing this after all of these years brought back memories of that night.  It was the first night they played Hyena.  You see me and Michael Stipe there?  Can’t believe those faces are the tired and old men we are today.  After the interview with REM I interviewed Dream Syndicate and then went back out to the venue and saw Stipe and introduced my brother and Bob to him.   Dave took the picture. Turns out Stipe had a few tokes of nature before the pic was taken.   I found a lot Del Lords posters and set lists and articles from Newsday.  They had such promise; I’d like to see them make another attempt.  There is a flyer from a Secret Service show.  There will be more entries on the local scene at the time.   When I was removed from The Few and tried another attempt with a band The Dharma Bums, Bob played guitar and we had a different band that never played a gig.   There are some black and whites pictures, one in the frame of the DJ’s from WNPT radio which played the music in the commons in Northport High School.  Some of the kids from that picture are no longer alive like my partner on our show, The M&M show – Mike Abrahamson.  He passed a few years ago.   Then there is my best friend Bob Miller who went missing after fishing in San Diego on a clear calm day almost eighteen years ago, never to be seen again.  Our music remains in this box and stored in my distant recollections.

 

The past is ripe with possibilities and regret.

Thank you for reading this

That's Paul Wetserberg from the Mats who signed this for me back in 85

A Mid Life Crisis that slips towards darkness

. I ran ten point seven miles today and thought I broke the eleven mile mark, but no. It’s amazing how close I was to ten point six from two weeks ago. I’m feeling beat. I can’t imagine how I will accomplish 13.1 on Saturday but with some coffee and will power I can do it. It was so warm today I ran without a shirt on. My back is feeling a little tender from the sun. Midlife crisis, I looked at the CD’s I bought and most are punk bands from the eighties. I remember Ron Phillips and his collection which I’m slowly putting together. The Germs record I lent to some kid back in the late eighties that I’d like to get back, maybe this is my Rose Bud moment? The collection consists of albums I’d never purchase before for instance Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and The Misfits. I know more about Black Sabbath, but the Misfits have always been a mystery to me. Margo Scwardon had a rare 45 of The Misfits back in 1884, the colors of the eyes were colored with magic marker. But the sense that they are evil and like Black Sabbath and AC/DC is an issue I have wrestled with for years. When I was an impressionable young teen my brother and I watched a Christian program. The speaker was young and looked cool and we could relate to him. His message was clear, there are bands that are evil and we shouldn’t listen to them. AC/DC for instance stood for Anti Christ and Devil’s Children. KISS, stood for Kings In Satan’s Service. Rush was evil and so was Van Halen, Running with the Devil was his example. So, my brother and I lived sheltered lives. Walking home in junior high I listened to Back in Black with John Zuenges on his hand held ghetto blaster, disturbing the neighbors as we slowly walked past their sedated homes. Ozzy was evil and I saw the effects on the impressionable minds in my youth in the opposite direction, there was a gang of kids in high school, Knights of the Black Circle who had painted pentagrams on the back of their faded blue denim jackets. Later that summer there was a murder in our town. I knew both the victim and the killer who committed suicide in jail. While he was high on angel dust and stabbing the victim, he told the dying boy to say, I love you Satan. Before he died he sat up and said, I love you mom. That was a summer that changed my life and saw how the power of drugs and evil can corrupt an impressionable mind. The town became synonymous with the killing and for years held the stigma. I will listen to the music without judgment. May Gary rest in peace.