Category: Thought and Opinion

1980's, Childhood Memories, Dreams, Life, Thought and Opinion, Watercolor

Birthday Reflections at 55

October 5th, 2024 – My 55th birthday.

This is the fourteenth entry in my series of annual birthday reflections. Something I started doing shortly after I began my writing journey in the fall of 2011. As I sit here now, drinking coffee on this beautiful fall Saturday morning, it’s hard to believe that I’m exactly half-way through my fifties.

It seems like it was only yesterday I was the youthful teenager driving my pals around in a beat-up 1973 Toyota station wagon, hauling my guitar to lesson every week, going to the Palmer Park Mall on Friday nights after school, pouring millions of dollars worth of quarters from summer lawn mowing money into video game cabinets, having my fill of Orange Julius and wishing I could somehow muster up the courage to go over and talk to the cute girl who was standing with her friends outside of the Listening Booth record store. 

Wasn’t I the one who was able to go to rock concerts and stay up until the wee hours of the morning? Sitting in some dingy downtown diner deep into the night; chain smoking cigarettes, eating french fries smothered in imitation cheese sauce and drinking gallons of coffee. Talking with my friends about our plans to take on the world and make all of our dreams come true. And who could possibly forget singing ̶h̶o̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ beautiful three-part acapella versions of Eagles songs in the parking lot until 2 a.m. until we finally called it a night. Then to get home and lay there alone in the dark, listening to the whirring sound of a portable fan and feeling excited about the possibility of everything we’d just talked about coming true, before finally drifting off to sleep. These days, I’m lucky if I can stay up past 10 p.m.

There’s an odd sense of immortality you have when you’re young that makes you believe time will always stand still. One that pulls you close and then whispers in your ear, telling you that you’ll never be as old as your parents. But then one day you take a nap and unknowingly wake up in their role and realize your parents are gone and time waits for no one. 

To give you some perspective, my father died twenty-seven years ago this month at the age of 51. As of today, my birthday, I’ve outlived him by four years. My mother died in March of 2020, almost five years ago. This year, one of the friends who made those many coffee and cheese fry runs with me has been gone for ten years, and I recently heard the news about another classmate I knew quite well who had passed away unexpectedly.

A few years ago I stumbled upon my Easton Area Middle School student ID card. It was hiding beneath a pile of old knick knacks and memories in the crawl space of my basement. Why I decided to keep it all these years I’ll never know, but seeing it reminded me of the day the teacher handed them out in the fall of 1980. It was the first time I ever received a photo identification card of any kind, and although I didn’t much care for my fresh-faced goofy grin photo on the front, there was something printed on the back of the now worn, laminated card that had immediately caught my attention.

There among my bus route and home room numbers were the words, “YR GRAD-87.” It was the first time I saw the year of my future high school graduation (1987) and the first time I believed it was so very far away. To this shy eleven-year-old boy, seven years seemed like an eternity. The very idea of a youthful me not only seeing the year 1987 but eventually living in the year 2000 and beyond was the equivalent of having a starring role in The Jetsons or a Star Wars movie. It was inconceivable for me to even comprehend living in the space age. My parents were both very much alive at the time as well as both sets of grandparents and all of my classmates and friends. I didn’t have a job, or any roles and responsibilities for that matter, and the only things I looked forward to back in 1980 was Pizza Friday at school, my birthday, Christmas and summer vacation. As far as I was concerned, seven years away could’ve been seven hundred. 

Fast forward and here I am now, sitting on a couch with a scruffy gray beard and a bit thick in the middle, celebrating the double nickel birthday thirty-seven years post high school and twenty-four years beyond the year 2000. It’s mind boggling to think that we’re almost 25% of the way through another century. Back in 1980, I thought I had all the time I’d ever need, and now I often find myself feeling the urge to make the most of the time I have left. 

As many of you know, I suffered a bimalleolar ankle fracture back in February. It was the first time I had ever broken a bone in my life and had to have surgery. One of the worst and scariest things to ever happen to me. I was laid up for what felt like an eternity, so when the doctor finally looked at the x-ray of my healed bones weeks later and told me to get up and walk, the emotion I felt was almost Biblical. I’m so grateful to be back walking, although my ankle does make a point of reminding me nearly every day about what happened. The doctor said it will probably take up to a year before things get back to “normal,” whatever that is. I’m thankful for everyone who took the time to wish me well, bring me over a coffee or mow the lawn while I was laid up in the cast and boot. As a side note I will say that, in addition to the wheel and central air conditioning, the knee scooter is one of the greatest things ever invented by man.

Now that I’m back on two feet let’s finish this birthday post by talking about what’s going on now, in the present day. In addition to continuing to do interviews—hopefully, you’ve read a few of them over the years, I’m still writing and doing watercolor painting. Both of which have been great forms of stress relief. 

I think I may celebrate this day by spending some time at an old-school arcade in Allentown. One targeted to Generation X that still has all of the retro game cabinets. There’s no need to drop quarters into the machines anymore – it’s pay one price for unlimited play, which is a good thing considering I’ve been out of practice for the last forty years. And while I’m being annihilated by the invaders of Galaga and Zaxxon, I’ll reminisce about my friends who’ve moved on as well as the coffee and cheese fries—especially now that I’m eligible for the 55+ discount menu! I’ll also think about the plans and dreams we made that came true, and the ones still left to find.

In the meantime, I hope this day and my next trip around the sun brings all of us a newfound sense of hope, peace and most of all, love. 

Jim

Life, Stories and Writing Prompts, Thought and Opinion

Remembering My Pap

August 13th, 1984. A day I will always remember, and one that I’ll now mark on today’s 40th anniversary.

My story about Pap (Willard Z. Appleman or “Woody,” or “Brother Will,” as he was known to most grown ups) isn’t one of your usual “grandfather takes grandson fishing” types. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I really only had that kind of a bonding relationship with Pap for the first five years of my life. And even then fishing wasn’t one of the things we did. In fact, there was only one activity I remember vividly, but more on that in a moment.

When I was born in October of 1969, my family had been living with my grandparents in their small turn of the century house on the south side of Easton. Pap had already been working as a dyer in a silk mill for many years, although I was too young to remember him ever going off to work. To me, my Pap was just too good to be employed by someone else. In fact, the only way I found out he even had a real job at all was by reading his obituary when I was a teenager. But even though he too worked for “the man” that didn’t diminish his “superhero” persona to me.

Pap was one of those meticulous types who loved to take care of his yard. If he wasn’t chopping down some tree or weeding he was mowing the few acres of land he had. All with one of those old school hand mowers. I can still imagine him taking an entire Sunday to do yard work every week in the summer, and this after having worked a full week in the mill. I have no doubt he enjoyed every minute of it.

When I was five and could actually start remembering the time we spent together, Pap often asked me to take a ride with him down to the Seiple Hardware store across town. I’d immediately drop my Hot Wheels cars and run outside to jump in the front seat of his green Rambler.

Those drives are what I remember most about my days with Pap. It seemed like we’d be driving for hours to get where we were going, but in reality the hardware store was only about a few miles away. Youth has a way of making good times seem to last forever.

I don’t have any fun tales about what we talked about on the ride, although I certainly wish I did. It was just me driving to Seiple Hardware with my Pap. The drive was the only thing I remember, but that was good enough for me.

From what I was told growing up, in addition to being my grandfather, Pap was also a scientist. I heard many stories from my great aunts and uncles about how he used to cross-pollinate azalea plants and make a new variety, or even how he invented a cure for baldness that really worked. Looking back now, I wish he would have passed the recipe down to me.

About the only thing I didn’t like about living with Pap was his dog – the most obnoxious chihuahua you’d ever want to meet. His name was Butchie and all he did was growl if you came within ten feet of Pap, but Pap loved the hell out of him.The dog was loyal to him, hated everyone else and had no problem showing it. I still cringe to this day when I think about that hell hound.

In 1975, around the time of his 65th birthday, Pap suffered a major stroke. Suddenly, the man who had worked tirelessly all his life and was getting ready to retire was unable to walk on his own or feel anything on his left side. It just didn’t seem fair and as a 5 year old boy, I couldn’t understand why something so bad could happen to my Pap. Especially because I just thought Pap went to the hospital for a checkup and would be home soon. At least that’s what I had been told.

When Pap did come home he obviously wasn’t the same. He couldn’t walk on his own or talk anymore. Anything he said sounded like something a baby might say. When I first saw him come through the door in a wheel chair with my grandmother pushing him I knew right away the days of riding shotgun in his Rambler to the hardware store were over. And to add insult to injury shortly after Pap came home, Butchie suddenly died. It was as if he knew that his master would never be the same.

Over the next nine years we all adjusted to Pap being… well, Pap. He would spend most days sitting upstairs in the parlor watching TV with my grandmother. At mid day my grandmother would help him walk back to his bed to take a nap and afterwards, right back for more TV.

If he ever needed something when someone wasn’t sitting with him, he had a bell he’d ring to alert us or he’d yell out and someone would come tend to his needs which frequently, became the need to help him light his cigars.

One of the things I always admired about Pap was his artistic ability. I had seen quite a few oil paintings he had done over the course of many years. Sadly, the paints were put away permanently by the stroke but yet he was able to find another outlet for his love of art. He always liked to draw horses with his bum hand. 

I have to admit, in the beginning they looked like something someone from kindergarten would draw and rightly so. Pap pretty much had to learn how to do everything all over again. But soon enough the drawings became more defined and we loved to watch him create his masterpieces.

Pap’s oil painting (above) and my watercolor impression of it.

Every summer we would have a big picnic on the patio. Relatives from all over would gather and we would wheel Pap down to enjoy the company. And Christmases were just as fun as we’d put up our fake tree in the parlor with Pap being the architect of the project.

He would sit there and tell us when a ball looked out of place or if the garland wasn’t running just right. You couldn’t understand a word he said but we always knew what he meant. Good times.

By early 1984 his condition began to worsen. My grandmother’s advancement in age would no longer allow for her to take care of him alone so inevitably, Pap went into a nursing home. On August 13th of that year he passed away at the age of 74.  With his passing my grandmother lost her husband of 51 years and I lost my Pap. Sadly though, the worst was still to come.

A few days later we went to Pap’s funeral services. I could not tell you what was said or who all was there. Pap had many friends and relatives I had never met. He was also going by nicknames like “Woody” and “Brother Will” and I was confused as to who called him what. To me, he was always Pap.

Then the time came to say the final goodbye and I think you know the one I mean. The one where you file past the deceased, out of the room and the casket is closed for good. I thought I would make it out unscathed. I had relatives die before and never thought much about it. Then again, I never went to any funerals either. Even one of my great aunts died around the same time Pap suffered his stroke but I was too young to even bat an eye. But just as I was leaving I watched my grandmother fall to pieces.

She was sobbing over the casket and saying how much she was going to miss him and that’s when it really hit me. The tears began to flow and I suddenly realized how much I was going to miss him too. That day still haunts me.

I’m sitting here this morning drinking my coffee as a 54 year old man and still finding it hard to believe that it’s been forty years since he left this world. So I decided to take a look at one of the old family photo albums I have.

While reminiscing about Pap I stumbled upon his obituary from the newspaper clipping we had saved. I’ve probably read it dozens of times over the years but after reading it this time, a smile actually came across my face.

The date of Pap’s funeral service, my grandmother’s breakdown over the casket and me crying my eyes out and saying goodbye was August 16th, 1984. Seventeen years to the day after that horrible event, my daughter was born.

Coincidence? I’m not so sure.

God bless you, Pap. I know that whereever you are God has you taking care of his yard. Whenever I see azaleas I always think of you and still miss you terribly.

Oh, and if there’s any way you can send a message from the great beyond, I could still REALLY use that cure for male pattern baldness.

Books, Childhood Memories, Life, Thought and Opinion

The Little House Prophecy

Author Virginia Lee Burton died in 1969, the same year I was born. I think I was in second grade when the librarian at my elementary school first read us her Caldecott Medal-winning book, “The Little House.” A story the author said was based on her family’s own little house which they moved from the street into a field of daises with apple trees growing around.

The story centers on a house that was built at the top of a small hill, far out in the country. Her builder decrees that she “may never be sold for gold or silver”, but is built sturdy enough to one day see generations of his heirs living in her. The house watches the seasons pass, and wonders about the lights of the city, which grow ever closer. The years slowly pass.

Then one day a road is built in front of the house. This is soon followed by gas stations and more houses, which are eventually replaced by apartment buildings, an elevated railroad and skyscrapers. Now rundown and finding herself standing in a large city, the house is sad because she misses being on the small hill in the countryside

One day one of the heirs of the builder sees the house and remembers stories that her grandmother told about living in it. She arranges to have the house moved out of the city and back to a hill in the country where she can live happily ever after.

I remembered being enthralled with the story. How roads, food stands, cool cars and trains would be right outside your front door! How naive I was.

Burton denied “The Little House” was a critique of urban sprawl and instead wished to convey the passage of time to younger readers. Personally, I think, perhaps prophetically, it was both. Hear me out:

About a mile from my Pennsylvania home there once stood an eighteenth century farmhouse. A home with a deed dating back to William Penn. A home which stood on the exact same spot of land for more than 300 years where it overlooked acres upon acres of rich farmland.

One day a developer decided he wanted to build a massive industrial warehouse on the exact same land where the little house stood. But rather than demolish it, the developer decided to uproot the house and move her hundreds of yards away in order to build a warehouse next to it. A warehouse that is surrounded by other warehouses, including an Amazon fulfillment center. A warehouse that will most likely remain half occupied. This is what you call progress?

You can read more about it here.

This 18th century farm house (circled) once stood where this warehouse is currently being constructed.
The Little House

Virginia Burton wasn’t just an author, she was a prophet.

Childhood Memories, Life, Thought and Opinion

Birthday Reflections At 51

October 5th, 2020: My 51st Birthday.

This is my eighth entry in this series of birthday posts. Something I started shortly after I began my writing journey in the fall of 2011. 

To be honest, especially with everything that’s happened over the course of the last twelve months, I didn’t feel like posting one at all. But instead of rehashing all the gloom and doom about viruses, failed leadership and elections, I’ll try to remain upbeat about it. So here goes:

Birthdays are the one day where we, collectively, celebrate the individual. And by that I mean we don’t use the day as a reason to inundate social media with over the hill jokes, pay for lavish lunches, or give someone a number of spankings equivalent to their new age, plus an extra one to grow on–although I do remember that was the best part about attending birthday parties as a kid in the 1970s, so long as you weren’t the one on the receiving end.

No, the real reason people blow out candles, consume large quantities of cake, receive greeting cards (hopefully, with a few greenbacks in them) and open whimsical presents is to commemorate the day you arrived on Earth.

You’re alive, and that’s reason enough to celebrate.

For me, it seems like it was only yesterday that I was a youthful teenager; driving me and my buddies around in a beat-up, 1972 Toyota Corona (honest, I’m not talking about the virus. There really was a car called a Corona). Going to the mall on Friday nights after school, pouring my hard-earned, summer lawn mowing earnings into video game cabinets and drinking gallons of Orange Julius. Wishing I could somehow muster the courage to go over and talk to the cute girl who stood with her friends outside the Listening Booth record store. Ah, youth.

Wasn’t I the one who was able to go to rock concerts and stay up til the wee hours of the morning? Sitting in some dingy diner; smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee while talking to friends about what would happen when we took on the world and made all of our dreams came true? Now, I’m lucky if I can stay up til 10 p.m. most nights.

There’s an odd sense of immortality you have when you’re young that makes you believe time will always stand still and that you’ll never be as old as your parents. But then, one day, you take a nap and wake up in their role.

I promised I would keep things upbeat for this post so I won’t rehash the past. Instead, I’ll talk about the future. In addition to continuing to do interviews, I’m also heavily in the writing process of my next book. Something that has been put off for quite a while but something I am extremely excited about. I am giving myself to the end of the year to finish. More on that in the months ahead.

I’ve also been dabbling a lot in watercolor painting. Not only has it been a great stress reliever but it’s something you can do that doesn’t cost a lot of money and where you can literally see your progress every day:

I called this one “The Road Beyond 50.” If you visualize yourself in it, the painting is a metaphor for life. You can’t see where you’ve been (the past) or the scars that you carry. All you can see is where you’re standing now and the road to what lies ahead of you. As in life, there is beauty all around us and a brave new world just waiting to be explored. 

I hope my next trip around the sun, and walk down this path, brings us all a sense of hope, peace and love. 

 

Childhood Memories, Life, News, Thought and Opinion

A Different Perspective: Why You Should Take Covid-19 Seriously

Whether I’m out walking my dogs from a safe social distance or driving to pick up much-needed groceries, I can’t help but see members of my community assembling in large numbers at places like parks and shopping centers, despite government and medical professionals advising us to the contrary. It’s become apparent that a vast majority of people are still not taking the Corona Virus (Covid-19) seriously.

Perhaps there’s a reason for this disconnect, because I’ve also read dozens of news articles and listened to a bunch of so-called experts bloviate their opinions. Casting blame for this “virus” pandemic we’re experiencing on everything from a person in China eating a bat, to a biological weapon experiment gone awry, to the new 5G frequency that’s being used for our smart phones. Some are even suggesting that it’s not a virus at all and that the whole thing is nothing more than a crude hoax. In every case, the misinformation given is being shared through various social media outlets where many recipients, who are already unsure and in fear, eagerly accept it as fact without bothering to research it on their own.

The reason I’m writing this is not to fuel debate or cause heated tension. Quite frankly, I’m in no mood to argue. I’d just like to share with you a story that I hadn’t really thought much about until my mother passed away on March 7. I’ll preface what follows by telling you that my mother died of a stroke at the age of 73, and not from Covid-19.

My mom’s mother, Helena (Lyons) Appleman, was born in Easton on April 19, 1914. She was one of eight children from a relatively poor family who grew up to become a wife, mother, seamstress and homemaker, before spending the last nine years of my grandfather’s life being his primary caregiver after he, ironically, also suffered a severe stroke.

Shortly after my brother was born in 1967, when my newly married mother and father had nowhere else to go, my grandparents invited them to move in with them into their small, three-bedroom turn of the century colonial. I came along two years later and was followed by my sister two years after that.

My connection with my grandmother during my formitive years growing up remains my most treasured memory. For, in addition to taking care of my disabled grandfather 24/7, she was also the one who cared for me and my siblings whenever we were sick because our parents were away at work. I remember those days fondly because she’d always have me lie on the soft lumpy couch underneath a mountain of warm blankets; feeding me hot chicken noodle soup and sitting with me to watch shows like “The Price is Right” and “The Joy of Painting,” while getting a much-needed respite from my grandfather, who was taking an afternoon nap.

Every day, unless she was feeling under the weather, she would make supper for my family and would always have extra for any of our friends and relatives who happened to straggle in while we were eating. If I think back now, I can still smell the Sunday roast beef and the Thanksgiving feasts she used to prepare.

My grandmother loved everyone and would go out of her way to do anything to help someone in need. In short, she was the foundation of our family and I remember sitting in wonder as she told me all kinds of stories about what life was like during The Great Depression and World War II. Things I’d give anything to be able to hear from her again because I miss her dearly.

The stories part is where I’m going with all of this, because there’s one story she never told any of us. One that she kept to herself her entire life, and didn’t reveal until she was on her death bed in December of 1996.

One evening, not too long before she passed, my cousin’s husband was at the nursing home visiting her. At the time, he was taking an English course on interviewing and was asking my grandmother pointed questions about her life. Things she always discussed openly. I’m not sure if it was because she was fully aware of her own mortaility, or because she just wanted to get something out that she’d kept bottled up, but she used the opportunty to reveal a little more with one of the questions that was asked.

The question was this: “What was the worst moment of your entire life?”

Without hesitation, she answered. “The day of Clara’s funeral.”

“Clara?” he asked, curiously. “Who’s Clara?”

My grandmother explained that Clara was one of her sisters who had contracted the Spanish Flu during the pandemic of 1918 and died shortly thereafter. Clara was ten-years-old at the time and my grandmother was four. We all knew that my grandmother had lost a sister at a young age but were never offered anything beyond that. She never told and we dared not to ask.

My grandmother then went on to tell him that because the funeral parlors were full due to the large number of deaths, they needed to have Clara’s funeral service inside their home. For some reason; one that even I can’t begin to understand, they were unable to get Clara’s casket out of the house after the service, and several men had to work together to lower it through an open window in order to take it to the cemetery for burial. So, in addition to already being grief stricken over the death of her beloved sister, my grandmother had to witness this entire emotional scene of despair and confusion play out in real time.

Let me say this again in a way that’s more easily understood. My grandmother, who was four-years-old when her sister died, lived almost eighty years after the pandemic of 1918. She lived through a Great Depression, a World War, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Vietnam and many other horrific things in our world, in addition to having to be a caregiver to my grandfather and taking care of my family. Yet the absolute worst day of her entire life was when her sister died of the Spanish Flu. The Pandemic of 1918.

So when I see people, a century later, not taking what’s going on seriously, it’s very concerning. My grandmother’s generation never had access to all the information we do today about what’s going on. Even something as simple as washing your hands thorougly and keeping a safe social distance. In 1918 there was no radio, television, smart phones or social media. Heck, you were lucky if you had access to a newspaper. All you had to rely upon was hearsay. Which is why I can only imagine how scary it must have been for her back then, not knowing what was going on.

The truth is you can believe all the hyperbole and conspiracy theories you want because you have that right. But you’ll never be able to convince me that what we’re going through right now is not something to take seriously.

Here’s a little epilogue to take with you. Something that happened on the night of December 31st, 1996. The night my grandmother died.

My grandmother had shared a room for the last month of her life and, on the day after her death, my mom was talking to my grandmother’s elderly roommate.

“Can I ask you a question?” the woman asked my mother, sounding a bit confused.

“Of course,” my mom answered.

“Do you know anyone named Clara?”

My mom looked at her with concern. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Clara was my mom’s sister. She died when my mom was four.”

“Oh, maybe that explains it,” the woman replied with relief. “Because last night, I kept hearing your mother calling out that name in the dark. She said it over and over, and then she was silent.”

Books, Entertainment, Life, Music, Thought and Opinion

Birthday Reflections at 50

October 5th, 2019 – My 50th Birthday.

I’m sitting here in a daze, trying to comprehend what I’ve just written. It can’t be true, can it? A whole f#cking half century? WOW!

I liken it to the same feeling I had twenty years ago, when the calendar was getting ready to change over to the year 2000 and the eventual dawning of a new millenium. I vividly remember, when I was growing up, that year seemed like it was a lifetime away. I’m talking futuristic, meet George Jetson style distance. And yet, not only have we reached that year, but we’ve now gone almost twenty years beyond it.

The past 365 days have been some of the best and absolute worst days of my entire life. It started in January when my very first interview, with Dan Donegan from Disturbed, was posted in the pages of Guitar World magazine. I will NEVER forget the day I walked into the shopping center on a misty gray afternoon and saw the new issue sitting on the shelves. It was like when Indiana Jones first saw the golden idol in “Raiders of The Lost Ark.” Or the feeling I had when I opened it up and fumbled through its crisp white pages and saw that my name had been printed under “Contributing Writers.”  Knowing that this magazine would be in stores all over the world was surreal. Thinking about it now still gives me chills. I went on to do three more interviews this year – one with Jim Heath (Reverand Horton Heat), one with Vivian Campbell (Def Leppard, Dio) and another with Alan Parsons.

Another monumental event that took place this year was my daughter’s high school graduation this past June. One that, when I think about it now, really puts the big FIVE-OH into perspective. I still remember putting her on the school bus for her very first day back in 2006. Back then, I was on the cusp of turning 37 and thought to myself, “Wow! She will graduate the same year I turn 50. That’s so far away.”

And now here we are.

Still makes me think about my own tenure in the hallowed halls of education and the day I received my first student ID card. This was wayyyy back in 1980. I looked at the reverse side of that card and saw “Year Grad – 1987” printed and thought THAT was a lifetime away. Realizing that by this time next year the card will be 40 years old is simply unbelievable to me.

This past year was also the one where I had to say goodbye to the best dog I’ve ever had — just three days before this monumental birthday. To say that I was devastated is an understatement, but a wonderful tribe of family and friends have made the burden a little bit easier.

So, what’s in store for this next journey around the sun? Well, I’m hard at work on two new books. The first is a prequel to “Neapolitan Sky,” which takes place thirty years before the events of that story. The other is another thriller based on the whole ancestry concept. There is a lot of life left to live, art to create, books to write, interviews to be done and most importantly, love to give freely.

This song always makes me stop in my tracks whenever I hear it. Does it do the same for you?

There’s an odd sense of immortality you have when you’re young that makes you believe time will always stand still, and that you’ll never be as old as your parents (my father died at the age of 51)… but then you take a nap and wake up to find yourself in that role.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few days of my 40’s is that it’s no longer about the years left in your life. It’s about the life left in your years.

Childhood Memories, Life, Thought and Opinion

Birthday Reflections at 49

October 5th, 2018. My 49th birthday.

I look at those words on the computer screen, with the cursor synchronously blinking, and find it hard to believe it’s even possible. I can’t help but think about my father who, when he was this age, had only two years left to live.

Seriously, wasn’t it just yesterday that I was the youthful teen driving my beat-up, 1973 Toyota to the Palmer mall on Friday nights after school? Pouring every last cent of my lawn mowing allowance into video game cabinets at the arcade while drinking gallons of Orange Julius and wishing I could muster up the courage to go talk to the cute girl who stood with her friends in the Listening Booth record store?

I’ve grown accustomed to listening to the creaks and cracks of getting out of bed every morning, and the inevitable gray or missing hairs I see whenever I look into the mirror. Reading glasses have become the norm for me now, and summers are often spent resisting the urge to tell young children to get off my lawn.

But these past twelve months have really been something special. I finally realized my lifelong dream of writing a novel, and after six years of interviewing and writing articles for a half-dozen websites, I was invited to write for Guitar World magazine. What’s more, I submitted my first article, which should appear in the January 2019 issue, three days before my 49th birthday.

And now, the countdown is officially on. In 365 days I will officially be a half-century old. As I look to that milestone with both fear and uncertainty, I find myself going back to that 12-year-old me, and the day I received my very first student ID at school. On the back of the plastic, laminated card were the words, “Year of Graduation – 1987.”  A year that seemed a lifetime away, just like the year 2000 did… 18+ years ago.

This song always makes me stop in my tracks whenever I hear it. Does it do the same for you?

There’s an odd sense of immortality you have when you’re young that makes you believe time will always stand still, and that you’ll never be as old as your parents. But then you take a nap and wake up in that role.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years of my 40’s it’s that it’s no longer about the years left in your life. It’s about the life left in your years.

1980's, Childhood Memories, Entertainment, Life, Music, Things I Think, Thought and Opinion

Things I Think: My Favorite Songs from the 1980’s

It’s been a while since I posted a blog article on “Things I Think”, so I decided to go back and revisit a bunch of my favorite songs from the 1980’s. I’ve listed a bunch of them here, in no particular order of favorites.

These songs all remind me of growing up in the MTV generation. A time when going to the store to buy an album and then running home to listen to it alone in your bedroom was an experience. If you didn’t listen to an album in its entirety from first song to last (even if the hit was song #3) you weren’t doing it right. You listened completely and as you did, you made sure you read every lyric, liner note and thank you that was written on the sleeve. NO exceptions!

So grab an Orange Julius and Bavarian pretzel and put the quarters for Pac Man and Dragon’s Lair to the side for later. Here’s my list with a little commentary on why each song was so special to me. Let’s have some fun with this!

Ready? Let’s go.

“Africa” by Toto (From the album, Toto IV – released in 1982)

There are very few songs from my era as a teen that I will listen to whenever it comes on the radio, and this is one of them. Let’s be honest, how may writers do you know who can put the line, “As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti” into a song and still make it fucking cool? The song is from the band’s Toto IV album, which won six Grammys, including Album of the Year. It is the band’s first and only #1 song (“Rosanna” was also a monster hit but only reached #2 on the Billboard Hot 100).

“Kiss On My List” by Hall & Oates (From the album, Voices – released in 1980)

“Kiss on My List”; along with The Buggles’ “Video Killed The Radio Star”, were the first two songs I vivdly remember listening to as the 80s began. The only reason the latter song didn’t make this list is because it was released in 1979. “Kiss On My List” was Hall & Oates second #1 song (“Rich Girl” was their first; four years earlier). I still remember listening to it on the radio in the summer of 1981, when I recorded my own “Weekly Top 40” countdown on a beat up cassette recorder. Of course, this song was always #1.

“She Dont Know Me” by Bon Jovi (From the album, Bon Jovi – released in 1984)

“Runaway” was a big hit and, of course, there would be a ton of other songs to follow, but this song from the band’s debut album will always be my favorite. The very first concert I ever saw was on June 16, 1984 when Bon Jovi (on their very first tour) opened for The Scorpions in Allentown, PA. It was a magical day. This track is also the only hit that wasn’t written by Jon and Richie Sambora. It was actually penned by Marc Avsec, who also wrote the song, “Ah! Leah!” Because it wasn’t written by the band, it was essentially dropped from the set once Slippery When Wet became a smash in 1986.

“Cum on Feel The Noize” by Quiet Riot (From the album, Metal Health – released in 1983)

It was during the summer of 1983. My Dad was driving me and my siblings along a rural stretch of Pennsylvania back road when the drums kicked in on the radio, and my immediate instinct was to yell, “TURN IT UP!!!” “Cum on Feel The Noize” (actually Quiet Riot’s verion of a Slade song from ten years earlier) was the first song that, as a teen, I said was “my song”. A roaring combination of guitars, vocals and groove.

“If She Knew What She Wants” by The Bangles (From the album, Different Light – released in 1986)

I’ve loved these ladies ever since their 1984 debut, All Over The Place. They collaborated with artists like Prince and even opened for Queen on their 1986 Magic Tour. This was a tough one for me, because there are actually two Bangles’ songs from the 80’s I adored. And although I loved “Manic Monday” and “Walk Like An Egyptian,” my favorite track from their album, Different Light, was their infectious cover of Jules Shear’s “If She Knew What She Wants”.

“Downtown Train” by Rod Stewart (From the album, The Best of Rod Stewart – released in 1989)

I may take some heat for this one, but that’s ok. As far as the 80’s go, “Young Turks,” “Infatuation,” “Some Guys Have All The Luck,” “Forever Young,” and “My Heart Can’t Tell You No” all spoke to me. But THIS track, actually a cover of Tom Waits 1985 song, wins the day. I just love Stewart’s arrangement; particularly the guitars in the bridge and the squealing hammond-synth sound as it goes back into the chorus. Gives me chills every time. On a side note, check out Waits intriquing, original version of the song, which sounds nothing like it.

“Say It Isn’t So” by The Outfield (From the album, Play Deep – released in 1985)

When you think of the 80’s, most folks gravitate toward The Outfield staple, “Your Love” from their 1985 debut album, Play Deep.  Others will consider the anthemic, “Since You’ve Been Gone” from their 1987 album, Bangin’. For yours truly, I’m going with the first single from Play Deep, and my first exposure to The Outfield – “Say It Isn’t So”. I love the intro to this song and the infectious harmonies of Tony Lewis and the late John Spinks. Do yourself a favor – fast forward to 1:50 of this video and listen to them harmonize on the bridge portion of the song. Especially the line, “I see right through you”. Killer!

“Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper (From the album, She’s So Unusual – released in 1983)

Rob Hyman from The Hooters wrote this song with Cyndi, and when I interviewed him about it, he told me Cyndi’s inspiration for the song and title came from when she was reading TV Guide and noticed the 1979 film “Time After Time” was coming on. The song orignally was much faster, but the two ended up slowing it down to the masterpiece it became.

“And We Danced” by The Hooters (From the album, Nervous Night – released in 1985)

Speaking of hooters… well, The Hooters, this is another track that makes me wanna move. This song reminds me of summer time, and I’ll never forget the first time my neighbor, Mike, exposed me to this band out of Philadelphia. Thanks, dude!

“I Can’t Hold Back” by Survivor (From the album, Vital Signs – released in 1984)

This track holds a special place for me. The entire Vital Signs album, actually. This was one of the first videos I remember seeing on MTV when it finally went mainstream, and a song that spoke to a fifteen year old kid who was looking for love. It was also one of the very first songs I ever learned how to play on guitar. The Vital Signs album I owned then is still with me to this day, and is now signed and framed on a wall in my office. Needless to say, it’s sentimental.

“Heat Of The Moment” by Asia (From the album, Asia – released in 1982)

It was June of 1982. I was in seventh grade music class sitting in an ungodly hot room during one of the last days before summer vacation. As an end-of-year gift to the class the teacher, Mr. Brobst, allowed students to bring in some of their albums to listen to while we cleared out our desks. That was when a classmate named Danny put this album on the turntable. As needle met vinyl and the crackling hum and hiss began, it was the first time I heard that now infamous guitar riff and opening line: “I never meant to be so bad to you. One thing I said that I would never do …” I don’t think I have to say anything more.

“(You Can Still) Rock In America” by Night Ranger (From the album, Midnight Madness – released in 1983)

Gotta give kudos to Mike again for introducing me to these guys way back when. Every Friday night during the school year required a mandatory visit to the mall. And it was on one of these occassions, as Mike’s mother was chauffeuring us over in this super-huge station wagon, that Mike dropped Midnight Madness into the cassette deck. If you could’ve seen my eyes when the first sounds of this track came through the speakers, they were as wide as saucers. It was something I had only heard glimpses of with Boston and Thin Lizzy, but it was also something else. Something insatiably magical.

“Eternal Flame” by The Bangles (From the album, Everything  – released in 1988)

I couldn’t end this list without giving another shout out to The Bangles. “Eternal Flame” was released as a single in 1989 and would go on to become the band’s second #1 hit (“Walk Like An Egyptian” was first). Without a doubt, this is my all-time favorite Bangles song. But when I hear it now, some thirty years later, it’s almost melancholy, because it reminds me of the end of the 80’s.

By 1989, I was already two years out of high school. The Friday night hang outs at the mall; the pep rallies and bonfires; and the cruising of the strip in my souped up ’74 Torino were over. All the friends I had grown up with were either half way done with college, entering the workforce or joining the military. As for me, I was still struggling to determine where I fit in with the big mystery called life.

The days of childhood innocence were over, but this song will forever hold a special place in my heart because, at least for me, it officially says “goodbye” to that decade.

Whew! Ok, there’s mine. Let’s hear some of yours! Drop a line in the comments below!

Life, Music, Thought and Opinion

Stryper Celebrates 30 Years of ‘To Hell With The Devil’ With Music, Memories in Stone Pony Performance

thwtdFirst, a little bit of perspective.

It was my senior year of high school in March of 1987 when rumors surfaced that Christian rockers, Stryper were coming to town. The band, which had already been generating a healthy buzz in both the Christian and secular/MTV worlds with the songs “Calling On You,” “Free,” “Honestly” and the title-track from their ‘To Hell With The Devil’ album, was out on tour supporting the release and would soon be rolling into The State Theatre in Easton, Pennsylvania.

My hometown.

Easton is a small town that borders the western end of New Jersey and lies somewhere in between the metropolitan cities of New York and Philadelphia. With a population of 26,000, the highlight of a night in Easton in 1987 consisted of listening to the freight trains rumble through the downtown or hanging out at the local McDonald’s on South Third Street.

Needless to say, when word got out that Stryper was coming to town it was a pretty big deal. And for a seventeen-year-old punk who had his own visions of rock stardom, it was also a dream come true. I had already worn out my cassette copy of THWTD learning it at guitar lesson, and now I had the chance of seeing the band perform it at a place within walking distance from my home. I immediately scrounged up every last dollar of lawn mowing money and the loose change from the sofa cushions and camped out in front of the venue. My reward? A single, front-row ticket to the show!

Stryper - Easton, PA 1987
Stryper – Easton, PA 1987

I remember the band’s performance that night was amazing. Stryper– Michael Sweet, Robert Sweet, Oz Fox and Tim Gaines—wore their classic yellow and black uniforms, threw bibles into the audience and sang songs about positivity with soaring vocals and an infectious dual guitar attack. That show and tour remain one of the biggest highlights of my teenage years.

Fast-forward thirty years. I am now a middle-aged man, but still a punk-kid at heart. Dreams of rock stardom have been replaced by coffee, deadlines and a word processor. I may be a little thick in the middle now and my hairline may have receded, but my love of guitar and all things metal is still overflowing. So much so that last night I drove two hours outside the safe confines of Easton to catch Stryper performing the 30th anniversary of ‘To Hell With The Devil’ at The Stone Pony in Asbury, NJ.

Photo courtesy: Dale Wilson
Stryper – Asbury, NJ 2016. Photo courtesy: Dale Wilson

Oh sure, I’ve heard the band perform many of the songs from ‘To Hell With The Devil’ over the years –including most recently last April at the famous Whisky a Go Go in Los Angeles, but never in a celebration-style format of the entire album being performed in its entirety from front to back by those same original members, and I was not disappointed.

From the opening sounds of The Abyss (which kicks off ‘To Hell With Devil’) to the title-track, “Calling On You,” “Free” and “Honestly”, it was a time capsule of youth and music. Some of my other favorites from the album included “Holding On,” “More Than A Man” and the always emotional, “All of Me”.

As if seeing the band perform their biggest album in its entirely wasn’t enough, Stryper also went into an additional set of songs from their 33-year musical arsenal. Tracks like “Yahweh,” “God,” “Soldiers Under Command” and “Caught In the Middle” were fist pumping and magical, while the band’s infectious versions of Black Sabbath’s “Heaven and Hell” and KISS’ “Shout it Out Loud” were met with equally enthusiastic response.

The band ended their two-hour performance with the dual encore of “Reach Out” and “Makes Me Wanna Sing”, both from their ‘Soldiers Under Command’ album and capping off a celebration that included a little bit of everything.

In fact, about the only thing missing from Stryper’s Stone Pony set was their monster hit, “Always There For You” from their 1988 album, ‘In God We Trust’. But after experiencing the band many times over these last thirty years –both from small towns to the big cities–I can honestly say that it made no difference.

For me, Stryper will always be there.

Stryper Set List (Asbury Park, NJ)

Abyss (To Hell With The Devil)
To Hell With the Devil
Calling on You
Free
Honestly
The Way
Sing Along Song
Holding On
Rocking The World
All Of Me
More Than A Man
Battle Hymn of the Republic (pre-recorded)
Yahweh
In God We Trust
Heaven and Hell 
(Black Sabbath cover)
Shout It Out Loud 
(KISS cover)
God
Revelation
Caught in the Middle
Surrender
Soldiers Under Command

Encore:
Reach Out
Makes Me Wanna Sing

Life, Thought and Opinion

Adventures in Hollywood Part One

LosAngelesIt’s 4:00 am and I am sitting in a hotel room somewhere in the heart of Hollywood, California. It’s a small room with an even smaller bathroom next to it. One with no more than a stand-up sink and shower with the barest of essentials.

There is no food in this hotel room to speak of and the only drinking water is what comes from the bathroom spigot. An option even the most renegade of Hollywood notables would want to reconsider. It’s a private and cramped space to spend the next few days but one that will do very nicely.

After all, it is only me.

For the better part of the last hour I’ve been seated at a round table next to the door listening to the sounds of an empty, portable refrigerator hum its docile tones while outside, the beeping from a garbage truck with its transmission in reverse welcomes in a new LA morning.

I’ve spent most of the last twenty-four hours either in the air, on a bus in highly congested LA traffic (what they say about it is true) or walking many miles as a junkie East Coast tourist just taking it all in. In between checking emails, sending texts, running to baggage carousels and Flyaway buses as well as finding time to eat, the day was a complete whirlwind.

During this trip I will finally meet a few of the people I’ve been conversing with online for the past several years. Amazing people I’ve interviewed and written about several times during that span, but ones who’s own existence is known to me only through emails and telephone conversation. It’s going to be exciting and surreal at the same time.

Of course, somewhere along the way I’m also going to find time to write, which is another one of the main reasons I’m here. This trip is a nice retreat to catch up on some articles I’ve been meaning to get to while at the same time getting into the real meat of a few new stories! I am looking forward to sitting in a Hollywood coffee shop and letting others hear the sound of my laptop keys clicking away while I busily write down my thoughts and emotions.

And right now there are certainly a lot of them!