Life

My Fine Feathered Friend

I have a routine I follow every night with my pets. It’s habitual and one that never changes.

I always make sure everyone is fed, the cat litter box is clean, the fish tank is free of algae and that fresh water is always available. The routine itself is mundane as I’ve done it thousands of times over the years with a variety of different pets that have come and gone.

I had just finished placing the contents of the litter box cleaning into the garage and proceeded over to the next task at hand which is feeding the bird. This daily ritual involves giving fresh food and water and hanging a new millet spray.

Usually, unless I’m in a hurry to do some other “life” event, I’ll whistle to him to get his attention while I serve him dinner. He’ll reciprocate by whistling back affirming his satisfaction of my efforts. It’s a form of communication we’ve established over the years and a job I’ve done so many times I think I can even do it now with my eyes closed.

Today was one of those days where I was in no hurry so I whistled to him. He greeted me back with his own wolf whistle which always gives me a chuckle. You know the one, the whistle you watch men do when they see a pretty girl. This bird has that type of whistle down pat.

By now you should know from reading my blogs that sometimes, without warning, doing the most mundane of tasks seems to trigger memories in me from times long past. And today was no exception.

It was 1986 and I was getting ready to begin my final year of high school when Dad brought him home. He was a grey cockatiel that after much deliberation I decided to name Pokey.

I already had big plans for him. Pokey was going to talk, shake his head and dance. He was going to be my buddy and get me through my senior year. Yes, I had it all planned out.

The first few months were a bit of an adjustment. Pokey and I would feel each other out. Sometimes he wanted to come out and fly to the highest point in the house. Other times he wanted to just stay in his cage and no amount of coaxing would get him to jump onto my finger and come out.

As time wore on we became accustomed to each others habits. He would go on a tear with wolf whistles for no reason until I would scream at the top of my lungs telling him to “SHUT UP!”.  Silence would follow for about five seconds at which point the process would begin anew. As angry as it would make me sometimes, especially if I was trying to concentrate on a TV show or be reading while he was doing it, I always knew he was pushing my buttons and just messing with me.

The revelation of old memories really hit me as I was changing his water today, in 2011, for this bird has been with me now for over half of my life. Sadly, he never did learn how to shake his head or dance but does know how to say “Pretty Boy” (thanks to my grandmother’s patient teaching) in addition to his wolf whistling ability.

Has anyone ever had a pet for a quarter of a century? Usually, our animal companions don’t stay with us long at all. A few years at best for a turtle or fish and if we’re lucky 16-18 years tops for a dog or cat. Most of the pets we had as a youth are forgotten memories unless we see pictures of them in old photo albums. Then the joy we had while they were alive is rekindled for but a moment.

And yet, here I was cleaning a cage for a bird that is twenty-five years old and thinking about all the things in my life that he’s actually experienced along with me:

  • Graduating high school
  • Getting my first job
  • Moving into 7 different apartments and houses
  • Being around for all the bands I’ve been involved with
  • Getting married
  • The birth of my daughter ten years ago
  • The life and death of the three dogs and three cats that I’ve owned since my father bought him home.
  • The deaths of my father and my grandmother
  • The beginning of the 21st century

Pokey has been there for every one of these events and more. Been there even before my wife and daughter. He was there when I was doing homework and going to Canada with the choir in high school. And he’s still here now when I come home from working a full time job that I’ve held for over 21 years. To say that I’m blessed is an understatement.

I sometimes wonder to myself how much longer he has left. Most books and websites tell me he is well past the age for his life span so any day could theoretically be our last one together.

I do have mixed feelings though about how I’ll feel when he does go. I mean, it’s not like he’s a dog that is around you constantly. And it will be less of a burden to not have to clean up seeds on the floor every day.

But still, I think I’ll shed more tears for him that day then for a dog because it will feel like a bigger part of me will die too.

.

Music, Thought and Opinion

Musician Available

I haven’t been performing live on the music scene for about five years now and am beginning to get the itch to get back into it. I’m pretty versatile when it comes to my music. I’ll play guitar, bass, keyboards. I’ve done modern country, oldies, classic and modern rock and even my own original music. The problem I’m having is trying to find the right situation.

I don’t think I’m asking for much. I just want to get into a band to perform, have fun and get paid for it. I also don’t believe my requirements are anything out of the ordinary. In fact, outside of everyone in the band obviously getting along, for me there are only two things that must exist in any band I would consider joining. So with this in mind, here’s what I’m looking for in a cover band:

Number one:  A band that will do classic to modern rock from 1970’s through today.

Number two and even more highly important: A band that under no circumstances will play Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd

I am so sick of big wheels turning that at this point I refuse to even play it. Quite frankly it gets me upset that I even have to tag this blog with the title. And by that I mean I will not perform it. If we’re at a bar and a beautiful drunk woman comes up at the end of the night and requests it, well we call her a cab. I’ve even abruptly ended my tenure in bands before it even began when the song is suggested. Here’s a classic example:

I once auditioned to be in a classic rock band with a bunch of cool guys I knew from school. I lugged all of my equipment into the rehearsal space and slowly but methodically unloaded it from my car and pieced it together.

I configured my amps, my guitars, unwound cables, ran effects pedals out the wazoo. I tuned up my Les Paul, turned the Marshall stack on ten and stood at the ready. Ready for the first song of what was surely to become the next Aerosmith or Def Leppard. And that’s when it happened.

The singer looks at me and says, “Uh, I dunno, wanna start with Sweet Home Alabama?”

Without saying another word I un-did everything I mentioned two paragraphs ago and hastily made a twenty-three skidoo. They never heard from me again.

True Story. Well, maybe.

Anyway, it seems as though finding the right fit for me is proving to be almost impossible. I’ve been searching but so far haven’t been able to find anything.

Quite honestly, the more I scour the “musicians wanted” listings the more and more depressed I become. Please tell me if you see anything of value that looks appealing in the following legitimate listings:

1) I am 20, been playing lead guitar since i was 13. I want to start a band with musicians that have chops, good improv skills and creativity. Age range-17-35. The originals I have at this point revolve around progressive funk and hard rock, think chilli peppers meets STP meets Slash. Please only serious inquiries only. No pay. Band is a serious project but for the music foremost. Email me if you’re interested

Interesting combination. But seriously, no pay?…Dude, you CRAY-ZEE

2) CLUTCH tribute band I’m a drummer looking to start a CLUTCH tribute band. If your interested, and have the chops, then hit me up. Looking for people who love CLUTCH and have their own equipment and NO DRAMA, Otherwise don’t waste my time.

I did not even know who CLUTCH was and had to look them up.  They definitely don’t seem to be the kind of band that would warrant a tribute.

3) Guitar led trio needs drums and bass for Satriani influenced cover band playing mostly instrumental music from others as well like Jeff Beck, Frank Marino and Stevie Ray Vaughn as well as a lot of Satriani material including surfing cd the crystal planet and most of stuff from the live at Anaheim dvd. serious players need only apply.

If you can name one venue that will pay money to have you perform this type of music at then I have a bridge I’d like to sell you.

4) Hey whats up everyone! We’re looking for an experienced rock drummer from ages 17- 25. Check out our facebook page and listen to our music if you might be interested. We just started recently but is number 5 on the phillipsburg Alternative Charts. We just released our first demo and are writing for our first EP. We’re good dudes just enjoying the life of music. So if you’re interested just let us know!

I didn’t even know that the small town of Phillipsburg, NJ had an Alternative Chart. Man, I wish I played drums.

This one was more of a musician’s available listing but it gave me a chuckle anyway:

New Orleans and Classic Jazz, Swing, Dances, Parties, Festivals, Weddings, Funerals, Dixieland Strolling (yes with the whole band)ANY Type of Event We own our own parade floats (we have 2) and we specalize in Parade Performances. Ask about our combined Parade and Concert or Strolling Specials!

Parade floats and funerals? Hmmm, these guys just might be onto something.

This can’t be all that’s out there for me. What do you think? Let’s start a discussion. Otherwise, I’m going to have to sing songs about the Southland again. And I won’t be a happy camper.

Stories and Writing Prompts

My Imaginary Friend

At first I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you this story. Quite frankly, I was afraid that you might think I was crazy. I’m not talking “Oh, well we all have our moments” type crazy. No, I’m taking “put on the white straight jacket and throw me in the rubber room” crazy. But in the end I surmised that the notion of you thinking I was crazy pales in comparison to what actually happened to me and therapy hasn’t helped.

My doctor believes that writing this down might be cathartic for me since our sessions of late haven’t been going all that well. Sure, there have been some breakthroughs and revelations since my breakdown six months ago, although I’m still not even sure how I was able to suppress the memory of it for twenty years. He’s been wrong before, like the time he upped my medication and I slept for three days, but for the sake of my own sanity I’m willing to take his advice if it brings me closure.

You must understand that the thought of reliving events about my childhood and things that go bump in the night isn’t something that really appeals to me, but if it somehow brings me solace and gets me off of these meds I’m willing to take the chance. So here goes.

To tell this story properly requires a little explanation. Growing up, some children are prone to having imaginary friends. Some invisible person that comes to play with them, listens to their problems and talks to them in a voice only they can understand. A rite of passage some doctors believe may fill a void that exists in a child’s life. Something that’s very common and also quite healthy if you ask my shrink.

I too was one of those children who experienced the imaginary friend phenomenon growing up. But having the experience is where the similarities end. In those cases, the children all grew up to live normal lives. But in my case, the “friend” wasn’t invisible, didn’t come to play and surely didn’t give a damn about my problems. In reality (yeah, now there’s a funny word for it), my “friend” also wasn’t a person. Mine was actually a “thing” if you really want to know, and very far from imaginary.

When I was eight years old the visits started and they continued twice a week every summer for years. Always starting on the Summer Solstice, June 20th, and always the same way.

Deep in the night while tucked under the covers of my bed I could hear it. The scuffling from underneath. The sound that broke me out in sweat like a Pavlonian dog, making my heart race. Coming from the place I promised myself I’d never peek under for fear of what might come out and pull me down into darkness.

From the moment the sound began I quickly dismissed notion that it might be a mouse in the wall. Looking back, I wish it had been an army of rats. Anything would be better then what was coming.

I also quickly discovered that first summer that Spider Man wasn’t real either. The night light with the wall crawler on it that sat near my bedside, the one my Mom had bought me for Christmas, the one that religiously guarded me in my bed and vanquished all foes, would be of no help.

So I pulled the covers up to my nose and prayed to God to make it go away. Promising him that if he’d help me just this one time I’d be in church every Sunday for the rest of my life.

Telling myself that if I just close my eyes suddenly the sun would be shining and my mother would be yelling for me to come down for breakfast. I’d hear the sound of birds chirping outside my open window and the swaying of bed sheets hanging on the neighbor’s clothes line in the warm summer breeze. The smell of bacon would fill the air and I would reassure myself that last night was only just a bad dream.

But this wasn’t a dream. I was still under the covers in the middle of the night and could hear rain pelting the window outside. Worse still, I was too scared to call out for help as the shadow began to rise from under my bed.

Books, Life, Movies and TV, Thought and Opinion

Women and Vampires

Set your dials ladies, or perhaps DVRs is the more appropriate 21st century term but in either case the new season of True Blood has begun on HBO. There’s sure to be plenty of vampires, intrigue, suspense, sex, and violence to keep you on the edge of your seat all season. Facebook status updates from women will light up with just two words as show time arrives: “True Blood”.

Now you might assume that me, being male, would be right there with you watching Sookie, Bill, Sam and all the rest. I mean, who am I to pass up sex and uh, what’s that other stuff? Oh yeah, those blood sucking creatures of the night! Sorry, lost track of thought there for a minute. But truth be told, I am not a fan. I’ve honestly tried watching it and even rented the first few seasons on DVD to see what all the fuss was about but as soon as I fell asleep half way through episode four that was it for me. I just couldn’t get into it.

Perhaps I should put the “Women and True Blood” phenomenon in the same category as a few other things that I just don’t understand about the opposite sex. Like, why is it only HER prerogative to change her mind? Or, why do women like to see NKOTB and BSB dozens of times?  If you’re unsure about what those initials stand for, you’re obviously a dude. But here’s probably the most perplexing question that mankind wants to know the answer to:

What is it about vampires that women find so irresistible?

I’m not even talking about the True Blood series so much. That show doesn’t even come close to the amount of female mayhem created by what’s coming soon to a theatre near you. That’s because in a few months, there will yet another Twilight movie out. I don’t even know what this one is actually called either. New Dawn? Breaking Moon? It doesn’t matter actually, to me they’re all the same. It will be a movie that will no doubt be panned by critics as simply dreadful but will inevitably have women of all ages flocking in droves to see it. Over and over again.

Once again there will be stories at work from those of the female persuasion about how excited they are to be going with a gaggle of their friends for the first showing. How they’ve read and re-read every paragraph from every book. It won’t even matter if they have to go to work the next day (some of them will actually use vacation time). They simply have got to be one of the first ones to see it at midnight. And here’s the part that really drives me crazy. Without even having seen the movie yet, they will have already made plans to see it again with another gaggle a few days later.

Worse still, the familiar question will once again be posed among women: Who’s side are you on – “Team Edward” or “Team Jacob”? and lamenting “Oh, if only Bella could have both the vampire AND the werewolf?”

I’ve wasted many hours trying to see what all the hub bub was about. Even painfully making myself read the first book while on vacation in the Outer Banks of North Carolina a few years ago. Hours of my life I’ll never get back and I still didn’t discover the secret.

Now before you ladies go and say that I shouldn’t even be talking because I’ve probably never liked vampires in the first place, let me just set the record straight. I do have experience when it comes to vampires. The fact is, I’ve been a fan from way back.

First of all, Count Chocula has been my all time favorite cereal since, like forever. I was eating vampire food since I was a kid. And a few months ago, when I found out that Count had gone on hiatus at my grocery store until October well, let’s just say I didn’t come out of my room for weeks.

Still need more proof? Well then consider this: in 1982 I was an avid reader of Dynamite magazine. That children’s magazine devoted two pages every month to a cartoon vampire, Count Morbida, who had puzzles to solve. I was such a huge fan that not only did I start a fan club but also wrote a letter to Dynamite about it that they published. We’re talking thirty years here girls. See for yourself if you don’t believe me:

Dear Count Morbida,

It gives me great pleasure to inform you that we have formed your first fan club. Now we need a poster of you. Check with the Dynamite staff and see if you can send us one.

Jim Wood, Easton, PA

The odd thing is, not too long ago women would cringe at the thought of being attacked by a vampire. Now, they’re lining up in droves just for a chance of receiving a bite from Edward. Maybe I’m a bit jealous but what does a vampire have that the mortal man does not?

Take me for example. Aside from not being able to turn into a bat or having a taste for blood, I have attributes of being a vampire so why couldn’t all this attention be placed on someone like me instead of some fictional character?

First of all, I am fair-skinned, much like the creatures of the night. Secondly, my teeth were quite pointy growing up until I got braces. Or how about this one: Even my middle name is Edward. HELLO?? But I don’t see you ladies lining up at my door fighting each other over whether you’re on my “Team” or not (although if you did, I think I’d prefer it to be called “Team Jimbo”).

What’s even stranger is the fact that this whole vampire craze among women just seemed to pop up overnight. When I was growing up, there was NEVER any interest in vampires from the girls I knew. In fact, it was quite the opposite. When I asked a bunch of girls in the neighborhood to join my Count Morbida Fan Club all I was greeted with was “Jimmy’s Got Cooties…. Jimmy’s Got Cooties” every time they saw me for the next six months.

And in high school, when I asked a girl if she wanted to go see Dracula vs Godzilla with me she suddenly came down with some mysterious ailment. One that made her never able to speak to me again. Sure hope she’s doing ok.

So here we are now in the summer of 2011 and the vampire craze is starting to gear up again. Women will once again be wishing they were a chick with a gap between her teeth or going gaga over some 19-year-old kid with abs.

Hmmmm, could it be the abs combined with high levels of estrogen that causes it? Something more scientific with the “X” chromosome that I don’t understand? I would even stop putting garlic on my pizza and avoid excessive sunlight if it would help find the answer. If any of you ladies can enlighten me on why you like this stuff so much I’d love to hear it.

But until this passes I guess I’m just going to have to get into a box and close the lid because, ultimately there will be no escape.

Life, Thought and Opinion

Jenny McCarthy Is So Overrated

Jenny McCarthy and I have a horrible relationship. Everyone says she’s wonderful and always makes time for her fans. Maybe it’s because I don’t see her much but I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s just so overrated. I’ve religiously made the attempt to be in a good mood and see her every night but she always winds up just pissing me off the next morning and quite frankly, I’m just tired of it. The fact is she and I haven’t gotten along in years and I’m just now finally starting to come to terms with it.

I honestly don’t want to end our relationship because it would be devastating to me. And from what doctors have told me, doing so might even lead to my own death. But she and I really need to come to an understanding soon because I’m at my wits end.

You may be wondering the extent of my relationship with Jenny McCarthy. You see, I like to think of sleep as being female or more specifically, like Jenny McCarthy in a black lacy night gown. I mean let’s be honest here, it’s my sleep we’re talking about and I won’t share my bed with just anyone. The truth is though, in some ways both of them are quite similar. I’ll never have either of them the way I really want.

I’ve tried everything to get a good night’s Jenny and nothing works. Pills, pillows, potions and everything in between. I’ve turned the television off an hour before I lay down my head because someone once told me Jenny doesn’t like it.

I also have a ritual I follow closely every night. I avoid alcohol and caffeine past a certain hour, have clean sheets on the bed, a cool climate-controlled environment, background fan noise to set the mood. I even go to bed at a reasonable hour most nights all to no avail.

The fact of the matter is when it comes to a good nights Jenny, she and I are like the old horny married man wanting sex from his old disgruntled married wife. In other words: I ain’t gettin’ it much.

I think in the last twenty years there have only been a handful of nights where Jenny and I have been together all the way through. I’m not asking to Jenny for twelve hours here. But gee whiz, is a simple seven to eight hour uninterupted nap too much to ask?

I’m not prone to having to wake up to go to the bathroom or being suddenly awoken by a door slam or a barking dog. That’s not the problem. But every night without fail and no matter how tired I am when I go to bed, Jenny just gets up and leaves after two or three hours for no reason at all and I can’t figure out why.

Within a few minutes she comes back to me but the process will continue at least three or four more times until it’s close enough to the time I’m supposed to get up for work. By that time I’ve had enough of her antics and just get out of bed. This nightly experience gives me roughly five to six hours of rest and leaves me tired, grumpy and irritable for most of the day.

I’ve tried everything to make Jenny want me. Spent countless hours at the gym losing weight and getting in shape thinking that would help improve our relationship.

Dealing with all the old man nudity in the locker room is not something that’s high on my priority list. It’s not like I would subject myself to that kind of torture just for the sake of my own health either. I’m really making the effort with her but it’s just not working.

A few months ago a physician suggested that the problem may be due to sleep apnea.  But the thought that some how me wearing a gas mask would make Jenny take notice is laughable. If she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me in my natural body built state now, is there really any chance she’d want me dressed in scuba gear?

If anyone has any other advice on how to improve my relationship with Jenny please let me know. I’ve tried watching reruns of Singled Out,  Scream 3 and even reading her books on Autism looking for a sign. Any hidden message that would help.

I’ve even been contacting her on Twitter but she doesn’t respond. Quite frankly, I’m beginning to get the impression that she thinks I might be crazy.

Some night though I’m going to go into my room, turn out the lights and Jenny and I are going to reconcile. It’s going to be a beautiful moment. I probably won’t be getting out of bed for days. I’m talking Rip Van Winkle type Jenny. It’s going to be that good.

Yeah, I must be dreaming.

 

Life, Thought and Opinion

Glen Campbell
Glen Campbell (April 22, 1936 – August 8, 2017)

I read the news today that singer Glen Campbell announced his final album and tour this summer. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease six months ago and this will be his last hurrah.

Now,  I was never a die hard fan to say the least (although Rhinestone Cowboy was one of the very first songs I ever remember hearing and loved) but after reading the resume of this man’s accomplishments, I’ve come to appreciate his work as both an artist and a person who actually lived out his dream… and then some. We all can only hope to be so lucky.

I’m sure all you Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga and Beyonce fans will laugh me to scorn and go ahead. But let’s see where your ladies are thirty years from now. They won’t have this list to reflect on that’s for sure. No, there will NEVER be another artist in our lifetime that has done what Glen Campbell has.

The following was borrowed from Campbell’s official website. Check this out and see if you agree:

  • A Life of Hits: Glen Campbell has had 81 songs on the charts. That averages out to one for every year of his life plus six before he was born.
  • Forget Kevin Bacon: Within one degree of Glen Campbell you get: Elvis, John Wayne, Sinatra, the Beach Boys, Bobby Darin, Wayne Newton, Leon Russell, Merle Haggard, the Mamas & Papas, Dean Martin, Bobbie Gentry, Steve Martin, Rob Reiner, the Highwaymen, Tanya Tucker, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Steve McQueen, Joe Namath, Alan Jackson, Anne Murray, Mel Tillis, Robert Culp, Olivia Newton-John, Leif Garrett, Paul Westerberg, Billy Corgan, Bob Pollard, Jakob Dylan, Quincy Jones, Phil Spector, Clint Eastwood, Steve Wariner, Chris Isaak, Dick Dale, Nat King Cole, Rick Nelson, the Dillards, Dick Dale, Jeff Bridges, Allen Toussaint, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Rita Coolidge, Brian Setzer and Jimmy Webb. Most people at any point in history would have settled for Elvis and John Wayne
  • Holy Moly: Glen’s a religious person so I won’t blaspheme here, but the Beatles famously claimed (in a quote admittedly taken out of context) to be bigger than Jesus. Um, Glen Campbell outsold the Beatles in 1969.
  • God Only Knows: Glen played guitar on the Beach Boys’ opus Pet Sounds, and when Brian Wilson was in his, let’s say “difficult period,” they invited Glen to join the band. He subbed in for a tour and then went off to make a several dozen of his own hits.
  • A Good Time, All the Time: From 1969 to 1972, Campbell was the charismatic host of the aptly named The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour. Tens of millions people a week watched it, with up to 50 million a week tuning in. (Think about it, today’s biggest non-Super Bowl TV event, is 30 million people watching American Idol finals.)
  • Changing Lanes: Campbell has gotten hits and/or awards in the country, pop and gospel genres. He’s won Grammys, AMAs, CMAs, was up for an Oscar, and did a covers album that included a Green Day song. Crazy!
  • Forget Horatio Alger: Campbell grew up in severe poverty as the 7th son of an Arkansas sharecropper. He came to Hollywood in 1960 with $300 and a lot of hope. He scratched by on a meager publishing deal. Then came the sessions, then came the albums, then came the hits, then came the TV shows, etc., etc., and this was all back when the music industry paid for this stuff. The American Dream, man.
  • Albums For Everyone: Glen Campbell has sold over 45 million albums.
  • Unfinished Big Business: The version of “Gentle On My Mind” that was such a smash? A demo!!! Most demos sound like wet napkins on cardboard. Few reach radio. Fewer still do THAT.
  • On the Map: Born in Arkansas, a regional radio star in New Mexico, a hit session artist in Hollywood, ran a theater in Branson. With plenty of time in Nashville, England and more or less the rest of the world.
  • Saddle Up, Pilgrim: Glen Campbell was featured in the original version of True Grit alongside John Wayne (and recorded an Oscar-nominated song for the movie).
  • Stranger Things Have Happened: The guitar on Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night?” Glen Campbell. Doobie doobie doo.
  • Hope He Owns A Tux: Campbell’s played the White House four times and two private shows for the UK’s royal family.
  • When Do You Practice?: Glen Campbell is a scratch golfer. Lots of famous guys play golf. Few are that good. Fewer still host the Glen Campbell Los Angeles open.
  • Going Out With a Roar: Glen’s last album, the forthcoming Ghost on The Canvas, features songs from Paul Westerberg, Bob Pollard and Jakob Dylan and appearances by Chris Isaak, Dick Dale, Brian Setzer, Billy Corgan and many more… Crazy (again)!
  • Oh, yeah, that song “Rhinestone Cowboy”? Yeah, that’s Glen Campbell too.
Childhood Memories, Life, Summer, Thought and Opinion

Ten More Things I Think: South Side Edition

Here are ten things (actually places) I think you should know about. Places that I think show you why it was so cool to grow up on South Side Easton.

These are in order of my favorites but please feel free to comment below and add your own or indicate any of your own favorites that I may have missed. (I know one of them being the pretzel factory that for the life of me I regrettably do not remember having patronized).

Sadly, if you were one of the unfortunate souls who didn’t grow up on South Side, please tell me about your favorite places growing up.

10. Lackenor Heights. I know I probably spelled it wrong but that shouldn’t diminish how cool this park was. Huge swing sets, lots of basketball courts and a large field I’d spend many days at playing softball or tackle football.

09. Laundromat. Long before we could afford a thing called a dryer my Mom and Grandmother used to drag the kids here. This was the place to go to dry the wash if inclement weather prohibited the use of hanging it on the clothes line in the yard.

I loved putting dimes in the machine and twisting the knobs or playing video games while the clothes dried. Also a good time to head over to Food Lane and peruse the toy aisle knowing full well that whatever toy I wanted Mom would never buy.

08. St Mary’s Carnival. Held religiously (of course) every summer. The fair consisted of the usual spinning wheel games and bingo. To me, the games of skill paled in comparison to the way the little old ladies made fried dough. The ultimate comfort food for a pre pubescent boy on a hot summer night.

07. Porter Elementary School. I spent the first five years of my schooling here. Still recall the big 1876 numbers that adorned one of the eaves indicating the year it first opened it’s doors. The school was closed in 1979 and torn down shortly there after.  

06. Food Lane. Can’t say enough about this place. This was where my first bowl of Count Chocula came from and will always hold a special place in my heart. Aside from actual food there was a toy aisle as well that I always made a bee line to on every visit.

05. Huck’s: Located right across the street from the Delaware Terrace, a housing development for low income families. Huck not only made a decent cheese steak but he was rumored to have Mob connections. He had a big black German Shepard dog that used to sit outside and watch patrons come and go. I loved his home made fries. Of course, I now wish he would have used a proper fry scoop instead of a make shift one he made out of a liquid bleach bottle.

04. Pino’s Pizza. Located in the same shopping center right next to Food Lane, this is actually the only food establishment still open to this day. So many wonderful memories of slices and companionship here. I don’t care if it is under new ownership. The name remains and the pizza is still killer.

03. Brother Bright’s Soul Food Store. Located two blocks from my house, this was the place to go in the early 80’s as I was bussed to Palmer and the Easton Middle Schools. Brother Bright and his wife were two of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet.

02. Lucy’s Store. A staple of Easton. THE place to visit before and after Porter school days. I used to love going there and getting penny candy.  Mr. Lucy always knew to fill my little brown paper bag with more red fish and purple raspberries than Tootsie rolls. My man knew how to hook a brother up.

Although I’m sure he served his candy to many a generation in his time, I’d give anything to have had the chance to have him fill a bag for my daughter too before he passed.

01. Barney’s Lunch. The sign as you approached said it all. It read “We Serve The Best Steak Sandwiches in Town” and was dead on. Barney’s was the ultimate destination. At night, the red neon light was lit up and you knew if you were a hungry traveler the welcome mat was always opened.

Where else could you get the ultimate cheese steak, a bottle of Pepsi and the chance to rap with Barney himself? Or, if he was busy filling orders, you could always sit at a table or play Space Invaders or Vanguard.

And when Barney was blaring Foreigner Four on the jukebox, man you knew you were in the right place. Nothing compared to tearing into a Barney’s cheese steak while jamming to “Waiting for A Girl Like You” with your buddies.

It was the 80’s and it was wonderful.

Childhood Memories, Dear Diary

Memoirs: 17 Nov 1986

explorerSetting the scene: From my journal dated November 17, 1986. This entry details my feelings about missing guitar practice after school. I used to beat myself up for not practicing at least three hours a day EVERY day. Feel free to leave a comment below.

As I sit here now it becomes more and more to my advantage to forget about what i think I should do and get to some serious practicing. Usually I’ll practice one day, and hey, I do accomplish all that I want to and more, but the next day I either practice very little or none at all. This really gets me upset when I look back and it seems to happen every day.

Now, as I sit here at 11:45 am on the 17th of November  I am willing to practice. To get home at 2:45 pm, eat something, grab my water container and head up to my room to practice. But the things that flow through my mind…..like just now, I thought of the fact that I do not own my Explorer yet came into my head. (I’m still renting it). Now it discourages me. I don’t understand why.

Also, I’ll miss the Joy of Painting show but as I feel now it doesn’t really matter. You see, all these things can go through one’s mind and either inspire or dishearten them.

Every day I have this uneven balance of inspiration and discouragement. The things which inspire me are: watching my favorite videos and songs and thinking I can play as good or better; or generally talking about the instrument or music (like I did in 3rd period today or in my music classes).

Now for the discouragements: my sibling’s put downs are non-stop; my friend’s wise cracks; my desire to sometimes keep putting off practice until it’s too late; me not owning a good guitar; me not having money; me not wanting a job. All of these attribute to my musical career in either positive or negative feelings.

Well now it’s time to show everyone my real potential. There will be change, a lot of it if necessary. To begin with I’m going to stick with my practice schedule even if it kills me. I want to be in a band by the beginning of 1987. Without proper practice it’s all useless. But as of now there will be a change.

Hopefully for the better.

Childhood Memories, Life

Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’

WBSSinstigator (noun) – someone who deliberately foments trouble

It was a warm day in June when I was finishing up mowing the lawn. A chore I seem to have been relegated to do every week. Even though this day also happened to coincide with Father’s Day, it made no matter. As a father, it is my sworn duty to uphold the length of the lawn. And I would not fail in my duty.

The neighborhood was alive with the sound of picnics and reverie. Boys and girls giving their fathers home made art work proclaiming their love. Families gathering together to pay honor and celebrate Dad with steak, rib and beer. If you have children, it is indeed a good time to be one of those people with the Y chromosome.

As John Deere and I made our final pass on my property, I noticed a car pulling up outside the neighbor’s house across the street. A tan, late-model Cadillac CTS with tinted windows came to a stop and out he stepped: a tall, well-respected African-American man. I recognized his face immediately and guessed by now he must be in his mid to late 60’s. Still looked very much the same as I remember though, no worse for wear. The only difference being he was a little more gray than normal but age will have a tendency to do that do you. But Bill Houston took age in style. Much like everything else from what I remember about him.

Bill had come to visit his daughter, whose been living across the street from me since I moved into my house eight years ago. I’ve seen him there on occasion, but as usual, this time seeing Bill (or Mr. Houston as I know him) emerge from the car had me thinking about the time our paths crossed thirty years ago. Back when I was a bad ass.

It was ninth grade at Shawnee Intermediate School. I was sitting in the cafeteria breaking bread with my homies when HE sat down next to me. That “he” was Jeff, or the Jersey Bomber as he was known in circles around school. How he got that nickname I have no idea. But he was a hard-nosed kid with a permanent chip on his shoulder that hung out with the dudes that were regulars in detention. Most of the time, the Jersey Bomber would joining them there for a variety of incidents he was involved with.

I think he must have flunked ninth grade a hundred times and I even heard rumors that he even smoked cigarettes. I’m sure he could’ve kicked my ass at will but for some reason I wasn’t afraid that day.

As I gulped down the last of my quarter pint of milk the opportunity began to present itself. I noticed another malcontent named Tom emerging from the lunch line carrying a tray with a slice of rectangular pizza and tossed salad. Tom was a bit of a geek who always seemed to be getting into fights with other kids for no apparent reason. He didn’t even care if he would win or lose. I think he just liked to fight for the sheer enjoyment of it and didn’t care what the consequences might be.

I began to laugh to myself when I thought of some of the battles he waged over the course of the school year. Silly “fights” that consisted of noogies, wedgies, hair pulling and the literal kicking of asses. Suddenly, the little devil on my shoulder popped up and whispered into my ear. What happened next became a blur.

I quietly leaned over and told the Bomber that Tom had been talking about his Mom and saying all kinds of bad things. I’ve never seen a kid get up as quick as Bomber did. It takes a strong man to just leave a slice of school pizza sitting on the tray. School pizza is the pen-ultimate of meals. I would have at least finished it first.

But the next thing I know Bomber and Tom are doing battle in the middle of the cafeteria. Tossed salad is covering the floor and the two are slipping and sliding on the lettuce while the other kids cheer them on.

Within seconds the lunch duty teachers had separated the boys and dragged them out to parts unknown. Well, by unknown, I mean Principal Houston’s office. That’s where all malcontents went to face the judge and jury and be punished for their actions. I thought nothing more of the battle that had just been waged. I disposed of my garbage and headed back to class an extra slice of pizza fuller than usual.

While sitting in English class a short while later the teacher got word that my attendance was required at the ninth grade office. “Me?”, I thought. “Surely they must be honoring me with a Coolness Award or something. Maybe Mom and Dad were picking me up to go get the Atari 2600 I was asking for”. But when I walked into Mr. Houston’s office my dreams of playing Combat and Missile Command were gone as I saw Tom and The Bomber sitting there.

Uh-Oh.

In a nutshell, Mr. Houston put the bad boys in detention. Then he told me for instigating the fight, I would also be receiving three days detention after school. I was in shock as I left the office. What the heck does “instigating” mean anyway? Why should I get detention for something I’m not even sure I am guilty of?

When the first day of detention came I decided I wasn’t going to go. I would fight this. Take it to the Supreme Court if I have to. I am not guilty of this charge. I couldn’t wait to confront Mr. Houston again and tell him so. Heck, he might even forget about it and I’d be off the hook. But sure enough, the very next afternoon he called me in to his office again. This time it was one on one. Mano-a-mano.

Mr. Houston asked me why I didn’t go to detention and that my punishment for not showing up was now five days detention. I told him that there was no way I was going to go. He then informed me that if I did not show up, I would be suspended for three days.

Suspended??? The thought of me being in the same category as the Jersey Bomber was most definitely NOT appealing. I saw myself standing on the street corner while the other kids were in school. Maybe even attempting to light up a cigarette of my own and then choking on it. Yeah, I’d be REAL cool.

I pleaded with Mr. Houston and asked him why he would do this to me. “I’m innocent of this thing called instigating” I told him. That’s when he handed me a dictionary and showed me the definition of instigator and asked me “Was this you?”

I was silent. He had me, guilty as charged. I HAD started the fight and needed to accept my punishment. James Wood in detention for the very first time. Who’d have thunk it?

Those five 90-minute detention periods after school were some of the longest of my life. As a kid, coming home from school on the bus at 5:30 p.m. is not something you look forward to. But I accepted it. I paid the price.

As reality came back, I noticed I was still day dreaming about school and forgot to power off the lawn mower.  Mr. Houston, now long retired from doling out advice and detention, was already inside celebrating Father’s Day with his daughter.  I wanted to go over there and knock on the door but thought it might be kind of strange to thank a man thirty years later for the life lesson and teaching me the meaning of a new word.

One that will always stick with me.

Childhood Memories, Life

Happy 101st Birthday

June 17, 2011. Were he still alive today would have been my grandfather’s 101st birthday. I’m sure I would have written about his centennial celebration last year had I been actively writing then. Suffice to say, I’m sure Pappy will forgive me for holding out a year as I blog about him today. But the truth is, not many days go by where something about him doesn’t cross my mind.

My story about Pap (or Willard Z. Appleman as he was known to most grown ups) isn’t one of the usual “grandfather takes grandson fishing” type. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I really only had that kind of bonding relationship with Pap for the first six years of my life. And even then fishing wasn’t one of the things we did.

When I was born my family had been living with my grandparents in their house on south side Easton. Pap was working as a dyer in a silk mill for many years although I was too young to remember him ever going off to work. I only remember him being “around” if that’s the right word for it. To me, my Pap was just too good to be employed by someone else. And oddly enough the way I found out that he once had a real job was by reading his obituary as 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 that 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 hand mowers no less. I can imagine him taking an entire Sunday to do yard work every week in the Summer. And he probably loved every minute of it.

When I was five, and could actually start remembering things, I recall all the times he would ask me to take a trip down to Seiple’s hardware store across town. I’d run outside and jump in the front seat of his Rambler and soon we’d be off. Those drives are what I remember most about my days with Pap. It seemed like we would be driving for hours to get to the store but in reality the shop was only about two 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. It was just me driving to Seiple’s with my Pap. It was the only thing I remember: the drive, 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 could cross-pollinate an azalea plant and make a new species or even how he invented a cure for baldness that really worked. Looking back now, I wish he would have passed the recipe for the latter down to me.

About the only thing I didn’t like about living with Pap was his dog. He had the most obnoxious chihuahua you’d ever want to meet but Pap loved the hell out of him. His name was Butchie and all did was growl if you came within ten feet of Pap. 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.

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 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 but never thought much about it. I never went to any funerals. 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 a fourteen year old boy was devastated. I was going to miss him too. That day still haunts me.

I knew Pap’s birthday was today and for some reason decided to look at one of the old 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.

So happy birthday Pap. I know that where ever you are God has you taking care of his yard. Whenever I see azaleas I think about 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.