Ruminations on 50

Today I turn 50 years old. (this was written in April 2012) That IS a milestone age, right? It's sort of a halfway point in an ideal lifespan. It's more or less the initiation into middle age. I can get the senior buy-2-get-one-free discount at IHOP in just five more years. It seems as if every time I turn on the television I'm offered life insurance at reduced rates because I'm "between 50-65 years of age". Half a century. 18,262 days. I see movies that are set in the 70s and have to accept that they are nostalgic period pieces.

When I turned 30 everything was cool. Nothing to it. Nothing changed and I didn't expect it to. It didn't. Then I got to 40 and it was like, "this ain't so bad. I think I can deal with it". Which I did and for the most part it was a good decade for me. But here's 50. This is where you start getting birthday cards with the time honored slogan "Over the Hill" emblazoned across the cover. So there's definitely a sense of the next ten years being one that's filled with hurdles and sacrifices. 20 year old men hold doors open for me in gestures of respect to one's elders.

I'm sure I've exaggerated somewhat. Likely I'll cruise through the next 3,653 days riding high on significant events that occurred in the last. I've regained contact with my daughter and have finally met my two grandchildren I didn't even know I had until October of 2007. It's going to be great to get to know them. For that matter it's going to be wonderful getting to know my daughter, as there were so many years between the time I last saw her in the late 80s. It's a strange, intriguing situation, but I love her dearly, never wanted to be apart, and look forward to the experience.

In the next ten years I will watch my son become a man. I'll see him attending college, knowing that he will succeed if for no other reason than that he was so successful with his high school academics. I'll be there when he graduates and will watch with interest as he embarks upon a career. Maybe a kid? I can hope. I don't think you can have too many grandchildren.

Then there's my wife. Our relationship has never been stagnant. It is continually changing and, though I can't speak for her, I am of the opinion that it gets richer with each passing year. It will be interesting to see how our marriage evolves. She keeps me in line and her influence has been so beneficial to me that words cannot describe.

Fifty years is also, I think, a good time for a reckoning. A chance to look back and reflect. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living. I've tried to adhere to that maxim since first hearing it in a high school college prep English course. Now seems an especially proper time to meditate upon the life I've sustained for fifty years.

If I were on my death bed, would I be able to look back and say that I'd fulfilled my potential or would I go to heaven filled with regrets for what could have been? Aren't those loaded questions? It's never so cut and dry in the world, is it? You could fill a volume the size of "War and Peace" with all my regrets. But upon further reflection I find that there are valid excuses why they are regrets. Powers I had little or no control over prevented me from amassing achievements I would have hoped to accomplish.

It's a little harder to come to a conclusion as to whether I've fulfilled my potential. Those same powers that had a lot to do with my regrets have also kept me from being all I can be. Not as if I know but I don't doubt that there is a large majority of people who aren't and never will be, so I don't feel alone.

So, with all that being said I'll try and sort out the best and the worst.

It should come as no surprise, at least to my Christian brethren, that the most significant moment in my life was when I accepted Jesus as all He said He was and embraced the forgiveness He offered. That was in 1977. There were a lot of times between then and now where you would certainly have had no idea I was Christian. Many and long were the times when I, myself, didn't acknowledge the fact. But I believe in eternal security, or "once-saved-always-saved" as detractors call it. The place I am right now has led me back to that day, to that experience, the point where my life in the flesh ended and I became born again in the Spirit. How do you get away from that? It's just too monumental. It's too important. At any rate, what I'm trying to say is that throughout the years I have investigated many, many spiritual paths and religions. If I had found one I thought had the answers I didn't get with Christianity I would have converted to them in a heartbeat. As a person who suffers from bipolar disorder I can't say how long it will be before I stray, lured by other expressions of spiritual truths I feel would serve me well. Yet I keep coming back to Christ, and I just know there's got to be a reason for that. I may never understand it, just as I'm sure I will not understand and comprehend the Bible in this lifetime. I still believe it's the word of God.

I can't really list the components of the next greatest thing in my life, because I don't think it would be right to say one is more important than the other. No surprise that I'm talking about my family. I never was much of a "family  man". That's one of the regrets I spoke of earlier. Probably the result of my reaction to my parents divorce, but who knows, I don't think I was much of one before that. Most of the people in my own family are miles away. There's only one, of several, that I have kept up with, an aunt. She's recently moved even further down the road so I doubt I'll be in regular contact with her now.

But it's different with my wife, kids and grandchildren. They really are the most important people in my life. I have already talked about them in this post, so I will move on.

The thing that has kept me back, held me down, wreaked havoc on my life is bipolar disorder. I realize that I'm a strong person for being able to deal with it a effectively as I do. Yet it is something serious and difficult to deal with. I never wanted, and certainly still don't want to be associated with it, meaning that you'll never see me at any "mental health awareness" rally. I wouldn't say that I'm 100% affected by whatever stigma I think still exists surrounding it. But I did grow up in a time where it was definitely held in a unique, condescending regard. And for every stride of progress I witness there seems to be just as much of the same old crap, meaning that if there's going to be change it's coming at an exceptionally slow, snail-like pace and I sure won't be around long enough to experience the benefits.

Bipolar disorder has destroyed relationships in my life. It's taken away my ability to fully appreciate so much of what life has to offer. It's made me a cynical bastard who has to keep it in check. It's placed me in situations, physically and mentally, that I would not wish upon my biggest enemy. You always hear about how people with bipolar disorder are so "creative", etc. I don't know about that. I do something creative and I might be happy with it for a few days but think it sucks big time for the next several years. So you kind of get the feeling that you're wasting your time and that deflates whatever motivation you might have to do it again.

Enough about bipolar disorder. Some accomplishments I have reason to be proud of.

As a young child I always wanted to play in a band. At first I insisted that it be a rock band but as time went on I figured music was music if you had an appreciative audience. I taught myself how to play the bass guitar and from that moment on I was able to live my dream...though I certainly wouldn't consider it "living a dream", because the "dream" had involved much more fame and fortune than I ever had a chance of amassing. Nevertheless, I eventually figured out that it's not right to "do it for the money". I can count on one hand the number of shows I've played in which I wasn't thrilled to be where I was, doing what I was doing. I loved playing music for people and I got to do that a bit during my last 50 years. Not nearly as often as I would have liked, but all things considered I think I did pretty well. Better than a lot of musicians have done.

...I was going to go into detail about something important but then thought better of it. What I will say is that I had a bad habit for over 15 years. It wasn't just a habit, it was an addiction. I bought into and was happy to be a part of it's subculture. Most of that time I had no intention of quitting. I knew that even if I did I probably couldn't, because I was every bit as enslaving to me as the bottle is to the alcoholic.

Fortunately for me, circumstances came about that required me to stop this bad habit once and for all. I was not happy about the circumstances or how they came about. I most certainly would not have quit without them. I will say, thought, that it was the best decision I ever made when I took the initiative and quit. It's been a year now and I have absolutely no desire to go back. None. Not even "for old time's sake". Breaking that habit is something I consider to be a major accomplishment in my life, so there was no way I  could ignore it.

The legacy I'll leave behind is my children. I've come to the point where I realize that's more than enough. I write this blog in an attempt to share something about myself, primarily for when I'm gone. That's the core intent of the other blogs I maintain. When I'm long gone, they will know this about me. They can gather 'round the computer on father's day and pay me tribute by reading some of this stuff. I know that nothing lasts forever. Even this stuff will eventually succumb to change. But until it does, well, for all intents an purposes, I'm here. Just a fraction of me, but it's here.

How did I get there? I was ruminating upon my first 50 years, now I'm talking about grandchildren reading about me when I'm dead? I'm just trying to find a way to end this post. I knew I had a lot of ground to cover and I figured I wouldn't get nearly as much done as I hoped to. I was right. I thought I'd be able to do more, but hey, time to put an end to this reckoning and start the next half century. I've got the complete works of Charles Dickens on my Kindle Fire and a resolution to spend more time reading the greats and less on the computer.

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The Box

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. Never before in her life had she taken something precious and valuable from someone else. Maybe she had good a reason. Maybe not. Either way it was done. It wasn't hard and it seemed like the right thing to do.

Or maybe that's not quite it. It was the right thing FOR HER to do. He had fenced her in for far too long. His jealousy and excessive possessiveness were too much to bear any longer. He'd tried for years to mold her into the person he thought she should be, the person he wanted her to be, and the time had come to break free.

She remembered seeing that box for the first time. He had brought it home one night after work and placed it in a drawer out of her sight. He thought she hadn't seen it. Hidden beneath layers of socks and underwear, further down beneath trinkets, electrical cords, empty plastic sandwich bags and syringes he was confident the box was hidden well enough. She would never find it.

She'd better not find it.

"What's that?" she asked as he glided through her field of vision from the hallway to the bedroom.

"What's what?" was his reply.

"What's that in your hand? Is that a book?"

He played along.

"Yeah, it's a book. I just got back from the library. Brought a few home. The others are in the car if you want to read them."

"What are they?"

"Nothing serious. I thought you might be getting restless laying about like you have."

"Well, if you were 8 1/2 months pregnant you wouldn't exactly be the most active person in the world either."

"I understand that. Why are you getting all bitchy at me? All I said was you must be bored so I brought you some ******* books. I can take them back if you want. It's not like you asked me and they didn't cost anything so I'll take them back."

"Cool down, Frito. I'm sorry. You're right. Thank you. What did you get?"

"Let's see," he said, scanning the library receipt for book titles. "I got a couple of John Irving novels, 'Dune', 'Foundation'...you do like science fiction, right?"

"It's okay. What else?"

"Uhhh, a book about Kurt Cobain, Johnny Rotten's autobiography and the latest Deepak Chopra new age self help mumbo jumbo."

He set the receipt down on the coffee table and she asked, "Okay, now you're talking. I didn't know Chopra had a new book out. What's it called?"

He had already stood up and was walking into the kitchen when he said, "I don't have a clue. That Eastern bullshit is your thing, not mine."

She could hear him raiding the refrigerator, knocking over bottles and shifting other foodstuffs from one place to another. The sound of a beer can opening let her know he'd found what he'd been looking for.

He was throwing together a makeshift microwave meal when she looked at the receipt. She really was curious about the Deepak Chopra book. She'd read most of his work he and was second only to Neale Donald Walsch in her estimation of great spiritual teachers. It didn't seem to be even the least bit odd that Stephen King was third on that list.

At any rate she perused the receipt. Hmmm..."A Widow For One Year" and "The Fourth Hand". She hadn't read that second one but if it was half as good as "Widow" she was in for a treat. She looked forward to it. Herbert, Asimov...she really did love science fiction and had done so for all of her life. He knew it so it was with a bit of condescension that she mentally chastised him for not realizing she had to have read those two books many times. Did he not know who William Gibson was? Oh, well. The Cobain and Rotten books would make up for it. At least he knew she had great taste in music. And there was the Deepak Chopra thing. It was his take on Jesus. It was a very good book. She knew this...because she'd read it years ago. "New"? Well what did he know? The extent of his interest in religion, philosophy or anything remotely related to the Almighty Existentialism was the chorus in the Doobie Brothers' song "Jesus is Just Alright". Not the words or sentiment, mind you...he was just proud of how well he sang it. It had to be admitted, though, that he indeed sang that particular song with a passion unrivaled even by the likes of Billy Graham and Oral Roberts.

She noticed then, with no small degree of curiosity, that there were only seven books listed on the receipt. Did he not read all the titles to him? Chopra, Herbert, Cobain, Asimov, Rotten and two by Irving. Seven. No doubt about it. The library's address and the date were the only other words on the onion skin paper.

So what was he holding when he first came home? Clutched at his side as if he were trying to keep her from seeing it? Another book? Then why was it not tallied on the library receipt with all the rest? And why did he see fit to bring it in the house while leaving all the others outside in the car?

No, it was not another book. Oh, it may well have been...after all he could have brought it from somewhere else besides the library. It was logical but somehow, for some reason she couldn't put her finger on, she felt sure it was something else. Something she wasn't supposed to see. Something she wasn't supposed to know about.

Indeed, she wasn't supposed to know about it. That was easy enough. Why? Who knew? One thing she did know, however...soon enough she would know WHAT it was.

writing a history with dustin to dustin

Thinking about our shared history I decided to put on paper some of the memories we both share. Been thinking about doing this for awhile.



Sometimes I think about the time when I showed up on your doorstep having been awake and walking for who-knows-how-many hours/miles. I know WHY I was there...your house just happened to be in the area that I wound up being. I don't remember what time it was. The thing that always boggles my mind is that I don't remember knowing you all that well before. Now, I could be wrong. We may have hung out in the same circles, I may have known you well. But I just don't remember anything before that. You were in the same church youth group, I think. I knew you were in the school band but were so many grades before me that I don't recall any interaction. But somehow I knew you well enough to a.) know where you lived and b.) want to visit. I honestly did not plan on falling asleep on your couch. I can't even fathom how that all seemed to you and your family. I was dead tired though. If you only knew what I'd gone through during the past 72 hours.

Then there was the time between then and my residence at Burns Flat. That's pretty much all a blur to me. I don't even know how I wound up in the Big Sleep circle. I do remember getting your letters at BF. I don't recall if it was before or after that I put all of my songs on tape and sent it to you guys. I certainly had no idea the band would take one and cover it. I can't even describe how awesome it was to get the tape and hear "No Music". I appreciated how faithful it was to the original. I especially liked Jerry's guitar solo because the version I'd done didn't have one. I always too the credit for that song, but in retrospect it's only fair that Dobbs get a little too. The guitar style was his. I wrote the chord structure, the melody, the lyrics, pretty much everything BUT the way he played guitar on it. But you know what? I thought the way he played guitar on it was one of the absolute best parts of the song. So hey, Dobbs, you fucker. You got your pat on the back.

I remember when you and Floyd Howell came to Burns Flat to move me out. I don't remember why I was in such a toot to leave. It wasn't such a bad place to be. Some of the people were a little freaky but I guess some would call me just as freaky. What was I going back to? Floyd was his usual likeable self. It was a good trip.

So many things about my days in Big Sleep that I remember. Not the least of which was the day I was asked to join. I remember how my nervous and manic I was at my first gig with them (at Nitro) and how my playing was so fast you couldn't reel me in. I'm not sure that I ever settled in with a solid groove with you simply because my playing was too forceful, I wasn't able to give-and-take. I didn't understand that concept until much later when I started getting high. Nevertheless there was still a lot of good music being made.

I remember when your bass drum pedal broke towards the end of the night at SRO. I remember when your seat broke at Rome and how the drum line ended so abruptly at the same time. And how we used to roam the alleys and stuff during breaks talking about "important stuff".

One memory I have that will stick with me all of my life is the night you, Dobbs and I took over the upstairs studio, jamming and drinking. That may have been the same night the three of us went to see "The Doors" movie. The theater was PACKED and I could swear that the three seats, all together in the first row, were the only empty ones. It was as if we were meant to be there. Earlier you had gone to Tennessee Joe's and found this really old, rusty goblet and you were making a big deal about how it was "the Holy Grail", that you'd been searching for it all your life and finally found it, of all places, at TJs. Which was pretty cool and all, but then you began drinking Buschmills Irish Whiskey from it and man, that seemed really nasty. Maybe it was the nastiness of "the Holy Grail" or maybe it was just way too much whiskey but you got drunk drunk drunk off your ass. I found you kneeling on the floor, crying and you poured your heart out to me, unfortunately I have no recollection of what you said that night. It was woeful though. That much I can tell you.

Psycho-Relix was Psycho-Relix. Not much really you can say about that. Of course I remember that you and Jessica Cross were off in a field somewhere when Champ and I almost came to blows. You missed it. That's all...you missed it.

And of course I enjoyed your tenure with Head. Can still see you hunched over those bongos in Gary Smalleys studio laying down a track for "It Goes On". That bongo line really gave the song an extra dimension that served it well. I don't know that ever appreciated the stuff you did on the congas both in rehearsal and the two or three times you played live shows with us. Honestly I don't think I could hear you. But it may just have been the same "give-and-take" problem we had in Big Sleep.

Next major memory was when you freaked out at the Black Crowes concert and vowed to give up marijuana. A resolution that happened at roughly the same time I began using it. You gave me your little aluminum one-hitter...I loved that thing. Definitely made it worth the charity. By the time my tolerance reached the point where one hit wasn't enough I had given it away or lost it, and moved on to a pipe. I never liked one hitters after that, but the one you gave me was a treasure.

Before that was the REM concert we went to...I don't know who you got the extra ticket for...probably some girl, surely not me...but I wound up being the one who went. Your car wouldn't start when it was over and we were ready to leave. That's all I remember about that.

Lots of little memories...like the time Sigur Ros' "Takk" was released and I was so smitten with it that I made you listen to it with me from start to finish without interruption. Watching "My Dinner With Andre" with you and knowing that there was no one else in this town who would appreciate it besides you. Or maybe it wasn't "My Dinner With Andre"...could have been a different film...the same held true with most of all of them we watched. I remember driving to OKC to see Little League Hero and Mad Laugh at VZDs, listening to Sun Kil Moon's most recent disc, "Tiny Cities" and drawing special attention to the melancholy closing track "Ocean Breathes Salty". You didn't want to associate with anyone there. We'd started out in the balcony area and somehow I eventually wound up on the floor socializing with a couple of peope I knew from that scene. You stayed in the balcony and said something like how it was were Big Sleep used to congregate when they played there. Then, on the way back, driving down I-40 I saw the biggest, lowest moon I've ever witnessed.

Who could forget the wedding gig where you forgot your hi-hats? Or was it the snare drum? Or both? All I know is that it took some guts to go on with the show, but we did. This after getting so lost on the way up there we didn't even know what town/city we were in.

There are lots more. I know there are. But the battery in this laptop is getting very low on juice so I should wrap it up and send it out. Just wanted to dig down into my memory banks and tie together a few that we shared. Hope you enjoyed them.

jac

Joker Pushes "Play" (excerpt)

Tonight Joker's listening to the old songs. Back to the mattress, laid out in a coffin, headphones piping memories into his tired, lonely brain. His hand reaches out to push the "stop" button and he wonders what happened. "There was something in those songs," he thought. "There must have been.  I remember plucking them from the darkness behind closed eyes. Time was they moved me. How long since the sound lost it's comfort? How long since I found more solace in silence?

"So long. Too long." With that pronouncement he had resolved to drag out all the creaky cassette tapes from a huge box hidden in the cavernous basement beneath his house. Cold down there, the heating unit didn't extend it's warmth to an unused space. A good place for a bunch of rotting plastic cartridges and the decaying magnetic tape they encased.

It should have taken him longer. So many tapes, so many memories to sift through. Don't settle. Take your time, that's the way it's done...but almost immediately he has a black TDK SA-90 in his palm. The ink on the label is barely decipherable from age. The music recorded on it probably didn't need a title anyway. With an uncooperative "click" he jams the tape into the machine and presses "play". The wheels begin to turn, rolling and emptying at some unknown predetermined speed.

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There was a time I could spin melodies from thin air with the ease of a seasoned seamstress. I would spend hours whistling and writing them down. Or sitting in front of an old boombox I would breathe them out like sweet marijuana smoke, guitar in hand. I never mastered those six strings but I knew how to make them do what little I needed done. Simple melodies. Simple chords. You don't need any more than that if you've got a hurt soul and a yearning for healing.

So I sang of dreams. Dreams that never ended and delivered me from the choices I made in life. Sometimes they were a blissful floating. A welcome nothingness that enveloped me as I screamed out my gratitude. A psychedelic light show that promised never to lose it's novelty. Then again, sometimes thedreams were as burdensome as the coming years. When I sang of these the sound of my voice made people sad. It broke them and pushed them into the same melancholy I inhabited. They swam with me there for four minutes and when the last note rang out and died into silence they felt sorry for me because they knew it was easy enough for them to snap out of it. They could tell from the resignation of the singer and the song that I was condemned to live in that ether.

And I sang of love. Love lost. Love forgotten. Love spurned. Love dead and dying. Love so corrupted you couldn't call it "love" anymore. Yes, there was a girl. And yes, I loved her. And oh, yes, you're right of course, she left me. How was I to write another song about the wonder and joy that is love when she took all I had? I'll sing you a song about how I prayed she would bring it back. A song about how the lines in my face deepened and settled with each passing year without her. Surely there is love in such hard headed devotion to a vain wish? The only love I sang of...the only love I'll sing is the kind that mourns faith lost.

People want to hear love songs. They want to hear something happy. I knew this as well as any other. They don't want to listen, they want to hear and mister if you don't know the difference you have no business reading these words. They want to be reminded of why they get up in the morning and go through the busy, busy day and do it again and again and again and I don't blame them. That's absolultely normal. I wish I could give them what they wanted. I could pretend. I suppose. No, actually, I can't. I will bust your buzz.

The words. Yes, the lyrics were my pride and joy. Poetry, if you exalt the term moreso. Where did they come from? I don't think I ever knew. I can't remember anymore. Thomas, behold my side. Stick your hand in deep, explore the spear's wound. Feel it. Touch it. Squeeze it like slick, glistening labia. Reach in further, grab hold of whatever you can and QUICK! Pull it out. You can have it. I don't need it.

Where was I? Oh yes, the lyrics. The stanzas. The verses and choruses. A drunkard's Scripture. I tried so hard to "say something". Enough of generic songs about simple things easily understood. Let someone else bring the good vibes. I wanted to ask the eternal questions. I wanted to float some possible answers by you.

....to be continued

from a letter

Your experience put me in mind of the days after I returned from the hospital in summer of '94. Keep in mind that this commital came after several months of shaping Johnny Bravo into a band that I had extremely high hopes for. Things came together so quickly, so smoothly and so naturally that I felt there was no way our music and style wouldn't catch on, especially in the musical environment of what was going on in the 90s (perhaps, in my opinion, the worst decade for pop/rock/alternative music, despite a few bright and shining lights in the darkness). We had a phenomenal lyricist in Mike Christian. I had a real gift for coming up with skeletons of songs for Hardwich to hang his guitar parts on. Randy was a great drummer whose enthusiasm for finally playing original music after years with a cover band was manifest in a more original style that I was able to lock into. But most of all...the MOST important thing...we all became the best of friends in the process. The absolute BEST of friends.

So it was with a crushing sense of heartbreak that I found myself away from them. The recovery from the episode took several days, so I was basically out of it when Mike, Mike & Matt Lisle came to visit. From what I've been told I couldn't even speak. It is a process, bouncing back from a manic episode, and it happens in stages. Soon enough I began to get back my passion for the band. Every time I called the guys, or whenever they called me, all I could talk about was getting out, getting back together and getting the show back on the road. I had a deep fear that this unexpected halt would find the others, especially Randy, looking to play with other bands. (I think I was most worried about Randy because I knew he could find paying gigs whenever he wanted). But they all assured me we would pick up where we left off just as soon as I came home and was ready.

Which we did. We'd rented the storage area of an old pawn shop that had been closed forever so we congregated there, gear at the ready...Christian even had a Hammond B3 organ that he'd recently purchased from "Crazy Charlie" Roberson. Of course there was plenty of dope to go around...looking back I'm not sure if I got high. I may have given my weed usage a sabbatical in hopes of an even greater degree of recovery, but then again it is entirely possible I got good and high. (on second thought, I probably did NOT get stoned, because I would have blamed my less than stellar playing on the drugs, and I know it wasn't for that reason)

We started out playing some of the old familiar material. I don't know if I can describe how I felt when I played. I felt like every note I played was a stroke of luck, that I'd lost my talent. I felt like the ideas I threw out were lame. I knew the other guys noticed and were disappointed. Now all of this was in my mind. I was playing fine, I just wasn't able to find my own personal groove, my own style, it was all so rote. Though I thought that the material I was coming up with was very lame, when things turned around several months later and we recorded it I realized it was actually quite good. In fact at least one of my favorite Johnny Bravo songs was written during this period.

Even so, this particular month found me loathe to perform in front of an audience. This was nothing but paranoia. I just knew that people were looking at me, judging my ability as well as the sound of the band and the songs I played a key role in writing. We had only performed a couple of times in the pre-hospital past and they were great times, but now things felt different.

It was kind of ironic, then, that though we'd always sought out opportunities to perform it wasn't until I'd developed this fear of playing that we were asked to play a pretty good gig with a good possibility of doing more in the future.

It was Friday night at the Samarai and we were to 0pen for Randy's old band Warren Peace. Their lead singer had suggested and asked us to do it. Just one night. Even so I dreaded the thought, if it weren't for the excitement of the others I would definitely have said "no". But I loved those guys. They knew I wasn't "feeling it" just yet and I think they took that into consideration, but they were ripe for playing in front of people (like I would have been). So I said "yes", since it was only one show.

The performance went off exactly as I knew it would. I was so paranoid, there was no way anyone could not have sensed it. From the very first song I could not wait for the last song to end. I'm not sure exactly how well I played. Probably a lot better than I thought I did. I was nervous. When our show ended I was so relieved. I'm not sure but I think around that time I was already considering leaving the band because 1.) I didn't want to weigh the others down and 2.) it had become a bane, constantly reminding me of what used to be and pointing out what I felt sure could never again be.

Get this. JJ (WP's singer) was bowled over. He LOVED us. He liked it so much that he asked us to play again the next night. This was a sad milestone. For the first time in my life I didn't want to play a gig I was asked to play. Of course Mike, Mike & Randy were excited about the possibility and really wanted to do it. But I just couldn't. I'd hoped they'd understand. I don't know if they did or not. They did everything short of begging to talk me into coming back the next night and doing that show with them. It should tell you how messed up I was, how awful the experience was for me, that I dismissed them, put my foot down and stood my ground with a firm "no". I couldn't do it. I knew I was losing all of the talent I might have had.

The strain eventually became too much. Randy got another offer to play with his old band and I don't think any of us thought the band could bounce back from the last couple of months. In defense of Randy (and the others as well) I was probably the one whose disposition, etc., led to an atmosphere that wasn't conducive to what was necessary to keep the band going. We actually wrote some pretty good songs during that period, though.

I laid down the bass and didn't play for two or three years. I didn't want to. I wasn't sure I could anymore, after the depressing way Johnny Bravo turned out. I went to work at Oakridge, spent my time raising my son, to be honest I didn't miss it all that much.

But in 97 I got a call from Richard Alkire who was wanting me to join the house band at Charlie's Palace. It was primarilly a country music gig, so I would have no trouble working my way in...country is easy for me and I'd already played a lot of the songs they were doing. I guess I'd progressed past the point where paranoia was a legitimate fear because I actually found myself excited about the prospect of playin in front of people again. I accepted the offer.

The next year and a half was filled with some of the most fun music making I've ever been part of. I guess it should be stated that I never played a single night when I wasn't good and stoned. Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, $50 a night. I was well liked by several people who frequented the club and was already pretty good friends with most everybody on the stage. It was low stress because, as I mentioned, country music comes very naturally for me (who knows why...).

a few random words about my dad

Some recollections about my father...

My dad wore western shirts almost exclusively. Or white t-shirts when he was settled in at home. Never once did I ever see him where a shirt with a logo on it. He wore caps with logos all the time, but never shirts. He always wore cowboy boots. Seriously, I can't remember a single time I saw him wearing regular shoes.

His hobbies, at least when I was a kid, were raising a couple of horses and the rodeo. He had a female stallion (?) named Tootsie and Trigger, a Shetland pony I liked to think of as mine. He might as well have been ours. I'll never forget the time I was on his back and something made me kick his hind quarters, that horse took off 60 mph and left me on my ass before shifting gears.

Anyway, dad really loved rodeo, and he was a pretty good calf-roper. I seem to recall someone saying he liked to buck bronchos and maybe even ride bulls, but if I ever saw him do that I don't remember.

He drove a truck for a long time. I can remember waiting for him to get home on Christmas eve so we could open our presents. I don't remember how long stretches of time were between runs.

He was an industrious workaholic. The first thing he did when we moved into our new house, about 1970, he built a storm shelter on the west side. Many was the time the neighbors from both sides would show up and go underground with us when the tornado siren blew. He, on the other hand, stayed up watching for the twister until it was absolutely necessary that he go below. I think I got that habit from him.

Next he designed and built a little tin shed (that's what we called it) where he could keep his tools and do stuff. He even tapped an electrical line into it so he'd have light when it got dark. Eventually he expanded it so he'd have some extra room to store a riding lawnmower he'd bought. I loved that tin shed. Many times I wanted to take my bed and all my stuff out there and make it my own pad. Which sounded like a good idea at the time but even though dad had wired it for light, there was no heating unit or air conditioner.

He did his own roofing and every winter he'd put up what he called "bisqueen" on all the windows to seal in the heat. Every couple of weeks he would re-arrange all of the furniture in the living room. I assume he got tired of looking everything in the same place for too long. Actually that's something I'd like to do, but our furniture is too big and there's not really another place we could put the tv.
After I moved out he built a big shop in the back yard (actually it was built on what used to be a garden). I don't know his exact purpose for building it at the time, but eventually he used it for painting cars. He did that as a second job, as far as I know.

The last several years of his life his full time job was driving a school bus. Most of the kids really liked him. He was a very likable person. But I heard that one time some little shit asses made fun of his ears and that hurt him. I mean, I don't know how much he let it get it to him...he may have just brushed it off, I may just be projecting how it would have made me feel. Caseys got big ears, get used to it. Kids can be mean.

Every single morning, without fail, he would go to one of the local cafes/restaurants and drink a few cups of coffee. Most of the time he had buddies there to swap lies with but no matter, he was a creature of habit when it came to that. And he was fiercely loyal to the particular coffee shop he was patronizing...that is, he was until you pissed him off. You could find him at the 99'er every morning about such and such time, unless Norma Lee or somebody else behind the counter said or did something that made him mad, then you'd find him at the Downtown cafe, or wherever. Inevitably he'd get pissed at them a month or two later and all was forgiven at the 99'er. Once I remember he was super pissed at both of them so he'd get his coffee at a truck stop 7 miles down Hwy 99 at the Interstate 40 exit. There came a point when he'd ask me to come along and I did sometimes. I know this, though...I didn't go along nearly as much as I wish I had.

It was kind of the same way with his best friend. They'd be thick as thieves for years then one or the other would get pissed off and they avoided each other like the plague. Then, maybe a couple of months, maybe a couple of years later they would "kiss and make up" and it was like if you saw one of them you only had to wait a minute to see the other. To an extent that's the way it's gone with the only person in this town I've sort of considered a friend. Off and on, to the point where we have even acknowledged it and tried to figure out why it is the way it is.

Of course there were bad times between me and him. And of course I don't want to talk about them here. But when it was all said and done I respected and admired him for living through the hardest part of his life. That December was hell for all of us (him, Charles and me). Some of that stuff is buried pretty deep anyway, I'm not even sure myself if my memories are to be trusted. This blog is supposed to be honest and transparent, so I'm sure eventually I'll come around to some of the less pleasant things, but not now.

In the Light of the Holy

In the Light of the Holy
In the Light of the Holy
I can finally see beyond the Looking Glass
Questions few can bring themselves to ask
     I have found some Answers
For the Future and the Past
     No longer matter
In the Light of the Holy

In the Light of the Holy
In the Night there are songs I've heard
That Lift my Spirit to the Starlit Sky
That force the Teardrops from my stubborn Eye
     and I feel no Shame
Illuminate the Truth behind the Lie
     and ease the Pain
In the Light of the Holy

I will take no chances, it is worth the risk
No Sacrifice to see the World like this
My sole Regret is everything I missed
Before I opened my eyes
Before I opened my Mind

In the Light of the Holy
And the Light of the Holy
Shines brighter than it ever has before
Reflecting on the banks of Heaven's shore
     bright as sunshine
In the Light of the Holy