Comment To Comment

As a writer, I do take some liberties.  However, most of my writings are very true.  I can't explain every story, I wish I could interject FACT or FICTION, but that would muddle up the writing.  Take it for what it's worth.  These are my recollections from some dusty places, but really, some of this stuff I could never make up.  For example.  My first visit to The Rocks.  I, in no way, made up the acoustic guitar strapped onto the VW.  I wish I could have.  And actually, that whole scenario was very true.  Some of the scenes (of other stories) are made up, but based on facts.  The mystique of my writing, any writing, leaves it up to the reader to decide.  My Off-The-Wall story is factual.  I wish Oatman, Pete S. and Gary S. could weigh in and verify the details.  Some of my memories are so vivid, they could have actually happened yesterday.  I try not to bore my much appreciated readers, so I pump up the volume a bit.  I love any feedback and I would love to be set straight on events, dates, people, etc.  I am not impervious to missing some details, no matter how hard I try.  I will not overtly deceive or lie just to get a story down.  We writers do have some kind of code of unwritten ethics.  Just don't ask me what they are.  Once again, keep the comments coming.  That's what I look forward to after I post.

Off - The - Wall

'What do ya wanna do?'  'I dunno.'
Sitting on Gary S.'s front steps, looking across a healthy lawn, vivacious evergreens, bugs, bugs everywhere flirting with golden rays of sunshine, embracing their smallness.  I could've sat there, on the bottom step, concrete, for a lifetime.  Sometimes in summer it felt that long.  Trying to pace oneself at age 13 doesn't come easy.  By the first month of this three-month summer vacation, you had pretty much done everything you had in mind.  A little camping, biking around and through and beyond the town, fishing, hanging around Dupont Lake (and beach), hitching rides to McCarthy State Park ( and beach), picking crab apples (stealing?), picking rhubarb (stealing?), trying to avoid going on vacation with the parents (not at all successful), more biking, hanging at our local park, Saturdays at the Hibbing International Speedway, maybe, just maybe talking to Patty P., checking out the new Marvel Comics at Rexall, eating, always eating, more biking, trying like hell to stay out of trouble.  And there was always baseball.

'America's Pastime.'  Some dolt made that up for no good reason.  Unless he got paid for it.  To me, baseball meant getting a number of buddies together, figure out who had a ball or two, who had the bats and then find a place to play.  In our small town, there were only a few primo places to do this.  If you didn't get up early enough, no field.  And if you did find a field, maybe Mike J. had to go home.  And he had to take his brother with him.  Now we don't have enough to play.  Ah, who needs baseball anyway?  All those rules.  Too restrictive.  What would've happened if you bent the rules a bit?  Like mixing paints together to create an unknown color.  If you wanted to be a little creative.  Like painting your Mummy model not just grey but a completely different color.  I mean, grey?  Boring.  How about candy apple red or canary yellow?  I didn't have the ball to try it but what if?  Being creative meant you had to bend the rules.  Think outside the house.  And sitting on that concrete wasn't giving me any creative juices.  Just a sore, numb butt.  Ya, I was a numb-ass.  Summer days can do that to ya if you weren't careful.  These sultry days could numb your brain (numb-skull) or even numb your balls (numb-nuts).  This day, I would have none of that.  'Wanna go get some ice cream?'  'Ya, sure.'

We jumped on our bikes.  Mine was a gold-flecked Schwinn Stingray, banana seat, slick rear tire and raised handlebars.  Neat-o.  Gary S. had a brand new, red, Schwinn Corvette.  He always had the Super Neat-o things.  Damn you, Gary.  Right across the street was the town's largest structure, The Memorial Building.  This housed our hockey rink and several sheets of ice for curling.  This was also the home for the circus when in town.  If it was now, we would have smelt the animals from where we sat.  As we approached the backside of the arena, where the elephants would be washed and scrubbed, there was a scene shift.  Something magical.  Something odd.  We slowed down.  There were two guys, probably 17 or 18 years old.  One had a softball and bat.  He was standing on the sidewalk and faced the building.  The other one had a baseball glove and was in a fielding position, crouched down, ready.  His back was to the building and looking intently at the guy with the bat and ball.  From the batter to the wall was about 40' and the fielder was 10' from the wall. The fielder was standing on close-cut grass with patches of dirt.  The batter tossed the softball in the air and smacked it.  The ball screamed over the fielder's head and hit the wall with a thud.  But before the ball hit the ground, the glove had it nestled in its webbing.
'One out.'
'Good catch, man.'

The ball was thrown back to the batter.  Another toss, another smack.  This time it was a grounder played cleanly by the fielder.
'Two gone.'
'Ah shit.  Almost had a hit.'
The ball, now slightly lopsided, was thrown back.  Gary S. looked at me.  I looked at him.  Puzzled looks we both had.  What are these guys playing?  This was the moment, this hot, muggy everyday.  This was that moment out of the mind.  Out of ordinary everyday in every way. 
Crack.  Grass and dirt spinning in damp air as the fielder lunges but misses the line drive.  Barely.  Smok.  The ball hits the wall and falls harmlessly to the ground. 
'Now that's a hit.  One on.  Two out.'
'Ya, ya.  C'mon.  Try that again.'

They were playing baseball but in such a strange and foreign manner, as if we were transported to an alternative world where this game was played by two people and a wall.  Absurd.  Preposterous.  Crazy.  We liked it.  By this time, Gary S. and myself had stopped biking and watched with mouths open so wide, a few mosquitos bit my tongue.  I didn't even notice.  We were witness to some new, original creation
Crack.  Smack.
'Three outs.  And I'm up.'

And that's when Off-The-Wall was born.  Our game.  Not those rum-dums with the softball.  As fast as we could pedal, we cruised over to Oatman's digs and on to Pete S.  Or the other way around.  I can't recall because we were both yelling and swerving with excitement that I think we levitated to every friend's house we knew.  We tried explaining it.  Just as I have tried.  Probably not very well.  They all needed to be there, at the wall.  Our new game was screaming for us.  Just us. 

Roughly five or six of us raced to the back of the Memorial Building.  The two guys were still playing.  'Hey, look.  We got some fans.'  They looked at us as we looked at them.  By now, the softball was a mess and it barely flew.  Maybe one or two more swings and the cover shredded.  'It's all yours, boys.'  And it was.  All ours.  We quickly asked them some of the rules or what exactly were they doing.  'It's baseball, guys.  Play it like baseball.'

Officially, yes it was baseball.  Imaginary.  Virtual.  Nobody ran the bases.  There were none.  No pitchers, no balls and strikes.  It was taken down to the essence of the game.  Batting.  Fielding.  Scoring.  Winning or losing.  We kept track of baserunners and scores in our heads.  Gasp, what a concept.  The wall was the key.  With certain foul lines identified, the batter could get a hit these ways : 1) the ball gets to the wall untouched   2) an error on the fielder   3) if the ball hit off the wall is not caught, then it's either a single, double triple or home run, designated by a certain height on the wall.  An out is made these ways : 1) the ball is caught in the air   2) the ball is fielded cleanly on the ground before it hits the wall   3) the ball is caught after it is hit off the wall.  There were a number of sweet touches we made to make it more interesting.  There was a cooling fan cage in the center of our "playing field", up near the top of the building, about 40' feet up.  Hit that on the fly - home run.  And count anybody on base.  Rimming the sloping roof was a one foot metal rim.  Grand slam.  And count anybody on base.  If you hit the ball over the sloping roof, automatic out.  And you had to fetch it.  No double plays, but an auto triple play - hitting a utility door on the fly.  And the most brilliant brainstorm we had was : no softball.  We used various rubber balls.  Tried 'em all.  One was too dead, no fun.  One was too bouncy, everybody could hit it off the wall and back into the opposite block.  We had to find the right kind of bounce, one that was catchable and hittable.  When we found that particular make, we bought every one we could.  We used our normal Louisville Sluggers.  We used our normal Wilson or Rawlings gloves.

And that was it.  Off-The-Wall.  Oh ya, another twist.  A minimum of two could play and a max of four.  Our field had somewhat small dimensions, probably 30' wide.  We also could play individual teams meaning, if three played, we all had our own score.  Typically, two against two was the number.  We played morning, afternoons and early evening.  Religiously.  For a solid two years or so, until we could rocket the ball off the wall into the house across the street.  We also honed our baseball skills for the real games.  Our reaction times to the batted ball were quicker and when a pitched ball came in, we could hit it where we aimed at.  Like a huge open wall.

That was our imagination and invention and creativity, unbound.  And we all had a say in the development of this unique game.  The last time I was there, I walked over to the backside of the Memorial Building Arena, with a boyish nervousness, wanting to see it as it once was.  To relive those moments of emotion, of exhilaration, of fun.  I was indeed let down.  An addition covered up the playing area and even the old sidewalk wasn't around anymore.  Surely, the air vent had to be there.  Nope.  I paused and looked around.  I didn't recognize much of it.  And I had to wonder.  Does this building remember me?  Or had I changed so much as to not even be noticed?  Once again, memories.  Keep those with you and you will never feel old.

The Rocks - The Shows

I've been fortunate to see some great shows at The Rocks, though not quite like the '64 Beatles show, or so I'm told (still looking forward to that reunion).  If you haven't been, do yourself a favor and see at least one concert there before you die.  It's a great atmosphere, quite laid back and I haven't heard of too many riots there.  Yet.

But first, I'd suggest come to Colorado a few days before and get acquainted with the thin air.  The trek up to the venue is a bit daunting.  I have felt sorry for some, ahem, larger concert-goers as they Bataan-march up a million feet just to get to the entrance.  Then maybe another mile to get to their seats.  Get that lady some oxygen.

This 9,500 capacity, open-air amphitheater is basically three-sided.  Slabs of red rock, around 30-40' high, are on either side of the seating and behind the stage is another slab, with a little man-made stone thrown in.  The rear is open-ended so, thus, it's shaped like a U.  Row 70 is the furthest and from there the stage is getting pretty tiny (at least for old men like me) and binoculars come in handy.  The sound is still distinct unless some wind gusts are swirling and then it can get weird.  There is a 10' open-space area in front of the stage with security to keep the masses at bay.  Not many brave idiots have made it on stage.  Yet.  Above and behind the stage is a crazy view of the Denver skyline and especially cool is when it's lightening and raining out there but hasn't hit you.  Yet.

I won't bore anybody about the history (which is kinda cool, just google it) but the first concert was in 1906 with a 25-piece brass band.  And practically every band on tour wants to play here.  They appreciate the sights and sounds just as much as the fans.  Here is a smattering of shows that had some Kodak moments, but unfortunately are captured only in the dark, dank recesses of my mind.

The Pretenders - '83
They had put out 'I' in '80, 'II' in '81 and were priming for 'Learning To Crawl' to come out later this year. They scorched earth.  Chrissie Hynde, new guitarist Robbie McIntosh and band were slamming hits like "Middle of the Road", "Back on the Chain Gang" and "My City Was Gone".  I didn't know how good they were and seeing them with some new members in '09 (though not at RR) I realize now that Hynde is still the real deal.  It rained.  Really hard.  I got soaked.  Used garbage bags.  And the band played on.

Stevie Ray Vaughn - '84 and '85
Every year at RR is the B.B. King Blues Festival.  These two were absolutely astounding.  SRV, no holds barred, was one of the most frightening, blistering, soulful white boys.  Ever.  He ruled the stage, but not in a cocky way, but in a true master's way.  I don't even remember anybody else playing because after seeing SRV, there was no one else.  I was lucky enough to see him one more time, in '89 (though not at RR), all clean and sober.  Touring with my favorite living guitarist, Jeff Beck.  He was better than ever.  SRV and JB dueling.  He made JB put his axe down and watch.  JB couldn't keep up.  I would go see SRV every year if he was still with us.  And a footnote.  The first show we saw, I had a friend, Newton, (total SRV nut) that had scalded his foot a couple of days before.  I mean, down to the bone scald.  He waited in 90 degree heat for three hours, in pain, to see Stevie.  And he had a smile on his face as we carried him to the car.  That's what Rock-n-Roll is all about.  RIP SRV.  We're still listening.

Frankie Goes To Hollywood - '84
Almost too embarrassed to admit to this one.  In my defense, I didn't want to go and didn't pay and wouldn't pay, except Kevin K. and Tracy K. wanted me to go.  Picture this:  lead singer (insert dingdong here) in pink bunny suit.  Yikes.  And "Relax" played twice. They ran out of songs.  Memorable leaving RR.  We were running down the steep sloped exit ramp, holding hands for some strange reason and took a shortcut and wiped out.  Red dirt covered us from head to foot.  And then driving (yikes) the wrong way out of the show.  I only hoped the hard ground would've jarred the memories of this terrible show out of me.

Scorpions - '84
One of my favorite metal bands, I didn't get to see much of this one.  I was with people that knew the owner of a limo service.  One stop picking poop-head here, one stop getting dingleberry here, then a couple of twits and got to the show to see one song before the encore.  Oh well, I felt like a band member.  And bonus: another freebie.

Blues Traveler - '90
In support of their excellent first LP, these guys tore it up.  John Popper on lead and solo harmonica was amazing.  And a light mist captured in the stage lights was way cool.  This 3 and a half hour show almost killed Steve R., but he survived as we all did.  Every 4th of July at RR, BT plays to sold out shows.  I haven't been, but they must be doing something right.

Red Hot Chili Peppers -'90
In the late '80's, rock for me was mundane and stagnant.  Until I heard two bands that made me say "What the shit is this shit?":  Jane's Addiction and RHCP.  Off-beat, off-kilter hard rock with bizzare vocals, these bands made me want to listen.  I saw RHCP four times in a span of two years and this night at RR they opened for, gag, Oingo Boingo.  They cruised through a short set (they usually played for a couple of hours) and had to be forced off the stage.  They were pissed.  We were pissed.  Singer Anthony Kiedis wouldn't give up the mike as a roadie tried to take it from him and the band kept trying to play.  Finally, Kiedis shouted some profanity and threw the mike, stand and all.  Shit started flying.  This is probably the closest to a riot at RR I had seen. Thirty seconds into Oingo Shitsco, we left.  As did most of the crowd.




Stone Temple Pilots - '92
Hard rock had been somewhat resurrected in this late 80's, early '90's period with Pearl Jam leading the way.  Their excellent LP, 'Ten' in '91, is still one of my favorite old-school-style rockers.  For critics (I'm not one of them), STP was a Pearl Jam wanna be.  These guys were harder, edgier and had a way better rock  vocalist in Scott Weiland.  We had heard only one of their songs on the radio.  And they were supposed to headline with The Butthole Surfers opening.  When the opener hit, I looked at Rick C. and said "Man, I didn't know Butthole sounded this good."  He didn't either.  For a few songs, we were flabbergasted (or just flabbered) as to how good BS sounded.  But it really was STP.  When we totally rocked our socks off, BS came on.  They sucked.  We left.
 
Insane Clown Posse - '99 
I have tried to scrub this one from my ledger.  It still hangs in my mind like a huge, green, piece  of phlegm.  I actually was paid to see this one, thanks Mike R.  Probably made Frankie Goes To Hollywood look like, well, Frank Sinatra.  The worstest, awfulest, foulest and most repugnant show I, excuse me, I have to go retch.

Rush - '08
I saw these cats in '76 for their '2112' tour in Minnysoda and they were the super-prog band.  And you know what?  They are still tight.  Still prog-out and for three hours, with three huge, high-def screens on each guy, it was amazing.  Ever since Dan W. (or was it Terry G.) and myself saw their first LP in '74, in Canada, this band has always had wonderful memories of fantastical lyrics, tasty guitar and probably one of the best drummers in the rock world.  You, Mike R., made up for the ICP trip (see above).  Thank you.

 

The Rocks

Before coming to Colorado in 1981, I hadn't the faintest idea of what a Red Rocks Amphitheater was.  That faint idea turned into a startling reality.  "You have to go to The Rocks.  It's the best", doth quote many excited individuals.  "The Rocks?  Whazzat?" I sheepishly asked, wondering if I sounded as naive as I really was.  "You never heard of Red Rocks?  It's only the best place on earth to see a concert."  Uh, never heard of it.  "It's awesome......"  And thus began group discussions and debates as to who saw what band when.  "I saw Santana play 'Black Magic Woman' for, it must've been an hour.  Ya, really".  "Aw, you're nuts.  I saw the same one.  In '79, right?"  "No I think maybe '75 or '76, I forget."  On and on and on.  These guys (you know how us guys can get excited about anything shiny, loud or fast) really put a hook in me.  "Hey guys, sounds cool.  Where is it?"

I then proceeded to set out one beautifully hot, sunny, dry summer day from Lakewood, a western 'burb of Denver, with just a t-shirt, sneakers and cut-offs.  My goal: Red Rocks.  My mode of transport: self-locomotion.  Little did I care how far it was, how badly prepared I was or what the hell I was thinking.  I just started walking.  And walking.  A half-mile later, I knew where I was (I did have some vague directions rolling around in my head) and where I wasn't.  I wasn't at The Rocks.  I paused at a sign proclaiming Morrison 10 mi.  Ah, Morrison, the small, touristy, hippie-dippie hamlet just outside of Red Rocks State Park.  It's adopted The Rocks (the venue) as their own, but in reality the City of Denver owns it (the venue).  Morrison owns the mystique, restaurants and shops that garner a lot of revenue from the concert-goers.  It's quaint until thousands of misfits descend upon it with a crazed collective consciousness looking for tickets, booze, drugs, women, men, directions, gas, food, cigs, water, water coolers, rain gear, missing girl/boyfriend, missing dog, missing ticket-booze-drugs...........  You get the idea. 

As if the musical gods handed me tickets to The Beatles reunion (John and George still alive), a van screeched to a screeching halt.  "Hey man.  Where you headed?"  A fellow with scraggly beard and shaggy hair was leaning out the window.  An old model VW vanagon had an acoustic guitar strapped to its front grill.  I smiled.  As so many happenstances happen that turn out to be bummers, a high percentage of them yields rewards.  The latter was my ticket.  Him and his buddy (also scraggly beard and shaggy hair but with a gold tooth that dazzled in the sun) were going to The Rocks to hang with the traveling community of Dead Heads.  And maybe score some tickets, booze, drugs, women, men, directions.......... this sounds familiar.  Goldy squinted at me from the passenger seat.  "You were gonna actually walk to The Rocks?  Man, that's heavy."  Uh, ya.  Years later, I think he actually meant "That's assinine."

Bouncing in the back of this weathered van, devoid of seats or interior, except for some musty-smelling camping gear, I watched as we wound our way towards our destination.  Majestic red spires jutting out of the ground as if dropped out of the heavens.  But with such precision and grace and glory as if to say "Here are your red rocks.  Now do something wonderful with them."  And what a wonder they are.

We didn't score any tickets, but I did get to meet Wavy Gravy, the iconic crazy from Woodstock.  I really don't know what he actually does but I did get to stare into his toothless maw.  "Welcome, welcome.  Effrybody ith welcome.  Want thum athid browneeth?"  As eight or ten or twelve (who was counting?) of us returned to Earth from the Heavens in the van, with somebody actually trying to play that guitar, the sunset behind The Rocks was a painting Dali wished he would have created.  Sounds of the Dead surrounded and embraced us as we crept back down the road that meant our time here was done.  For me, the time had only just begun.

Something In The Air Tonight

The Rocky Mountain Power Jam
Friday,June 25, 2010
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom
Denver, Co.

Colorado, specifically Denver, has been embroiled in an ever-evolving, ever-pretentious and quite entertaining world of medical marijuana laws.  I'm not going to make a case for total legalization (of any illegal substance) or the further decriminalization of maryjane (not to be confused with the ski resort) or the sudden onslaught of "medicinal" shops selling meds.  I'll leave that to the legal system and voters, which means it'll be an issue til h-e-double hockey sticks freezes the puck.  Laws, by-laws, previous initiatives, present interpretations and the mumbo-jumbo of legalese all contribute to this controversy.  I believe that people with legitimate illnesses should be able to acquire, acquire and not distribute, distribute medicines of all flavors.  I also believe that the natural means of treating these people is a good thing.  But say that to a pharmaceutical giant, such as Pfizer.  Being on manufactured drugs is designed to keep a pained patient comfortably numb, but as an innocent bystander with but one script, my opinion is only that.  An opinion.

In the last two years or so,  Denver has been in the eye of the storm concerning medicinal pot.  A sudden surge of pot shops, caregivers and doctoral prescriptions of questionable origin have all contributed to the confusion surrounding past laws and future laws.  Legal or illegal?  The people who are caught in this vortex of legislation are the legitimately afflicted.

With that being said, my wife and I went to the 7th Annual Rocky Mountain Jam which consisted of a conglomeration of talented bands.  Saxophone giant, but small in stature, Karl Denson (he of Karl Denson's Tiny Universe), keyboard/vocalist Ivan Neville ( he of Dumpstaphunk and family member of the renowned Neville's), members of Lettuce (Eric Krasno,guitarist of Soulive, one of the best jazz/funk/jam bands according to me) and a supporting cast that just blew me away.  In this cynical age of new bands and new music, these guys (and one gal) proved that the old-school of James Brown, Sly Stone and Parliament is still around and being interpreted and updated.  This posse of musician's musicians blasted the funk that stunk.  Stunk in a great way.  The show started at 12:00 am.  As in midnight.  We had to pace ourselves with naps, a  protein-fueled meal and coffee.  We arrived an hour early to see what was happening and maybe nab a good table.  A DJ was dj-ing us with James Brown, Earth, Wind and Fire and Michael Jackson.  Why the late start?  This was an after-show of Widespread Panic at Red Rocks.  Busloads of fans from The Rock arrived and proceeded to dance the night away.  We were part of this party and we didn't stop phunking till it was over at 3:00 am.  With a permanent gigundo mirror ball taking us back to the '80s with a '00s vibe, sweaty 20-somethings mixed several intriguing odors.  Axe body wash, patchouli perfume and skunk.  Lotta skunk.  Thick waves of skunk.  Stinky skunk.  Everywhere.  Lighters lighting.  Burning.  Everywhere.  Unabashedly and blatant.

I have been to a couple of concerts in my life and, of course, experienced the skunk.  But I never, never, ever was so inundated, so enveloped by the full, rich skunk as I was this night.  And I am thankful it's not cig smoke anymore.  A long, strange trip indeed.  Spliffs, pipes and green script bottles were passed around as if candy.  Eye-popping and eye-watering.  I don't know if you, the bloggee, has smelt, felt, seen or indulged in med herb, but the contact high alone was, well, uplifting.  Constant foot-shifting, whirling and twirling dervishes of skirts and shorts and constant inhalation/exhalation.  And the band played on.  Crunch funk, tight crushing grooves of blasting drums and bass, guitar solos and keyboard with wah-wah and various tricks, kept the tunes flowing.  Quite a display from musician's musicians.

My ears are still ringing today.  My mind is a bit cloudy (nothing new there).  My musical fix sedated.  My dream last night was a strange one.  Musket (he of Good Earth Records, see my post 'Get me to the show ontime') was smiling at me and unveiling a CD case full of music and presented it to me proudly.  "These are for you, Alto."  I thanked him and he vanished in a thick fog of a, smoke machine?  And how appropo was Taylor Hicks ( yes, American Idol!) absolutely killing (in a raving, rocking and grand, guttural way) a funk/rock cover of 'Medicated Goo'?  Medicated.  Yes, very.

I Just Want To Celebrate

"Celebrate celebrate
Dance to the music"

This past Father's Day, it hit me.  Every living, breathing organism on our planet, and hopefully on others, has a mother and a father.  Sure, there are those species that have both sexes (that must be quite the party) and some that don't have a sex at all (so sad), but I shall concentrate on the Homo Sapien, as that is the one I'm somewhat familiar with.

There are the cynics amongst us that feel some of the celebratory days are just a way to promote commercialism.  And I agree, some are.  But keep it to yourself because plenty of people enjoy these days.  Don't piss on their fun.  So with that being said, I have compiled some obviously silly "Special Days".

Caffeine-free Week
This one might require non-caffeinated friends and family (is there anybody over the age of six like that?  Really?) to have their phones on speed-dial for 911.  Without caffeine, they are way too slow.  Originally I thought a one-day celebration.  Nah, too easy.  Then a two-day.  That should be a piece of cake (just say no to coffee cake).  How about a whole week?  I nervously reached for my coffee cup and kept thinking.  But why, Mark, a whole week?  Then it dawned on me.  The whole commercialism thing.  Another chug.  From a devout caffeine creature, I knew, this would be hard.  But the rewards.  The outrageous cost of coffee these days is staggering, especially to an 8-10 cup-a-day drinker.  And the tossing and turning at night when you just had to have that eensy, teensy cup at 7:30 pm.  And not to mention what Starbucks charges.  And the jitters.  The rewards are plentiful, my fellow addict.  Chug.  Of course, it shan't be easy.  Be strong.  The headache that will inevitably come will feel like an aneurysm on steroids.  The ringing in your ears, your temples exploding repeatedly and those strange visions of Juan Valdez.  Sip.  The next six days will be a lot easier.  It's all psychological, anyway, right?  Mind games, yes?  We really don't need caffeine, do we?  Beat it back.  And, oh, the celebration at the end of the week.  A parade will be organized and quickly.  Chug. Sip.  Hopefully, not a rabid crowd clamoring for a latte, but a laid-back party of celebrants who came together for a single cause : just to say we can.  The parade should end up at a Caribou or Starbucks with the masses taking over, free espresso, make mine a triple, out of my way old man, chug, that frap is mine, I need more whole milk, damn my coffee's too weak, where's that triple espresso I ordered 30 seconds ago?  And choosing the week for this celebration?  I'll think about that after I grind some beans.  Sip.

Nothing Special Day
Celebrate the mundaneness of life.  Again. 

Colonoscopy Day
Party on this occasion for the people who get to go back in 10 years, starting with 10 candles and working down.  Just so you remember.  If you are unfortunate enough to get this procedure done more often, eat the high fiber cake.  And that cake should have pictures of this memorable day in chocolate.

No BM Day
Of course, this will probably follow the above "Special Day". 

Greeting Card Day
Sponsored by Hallmark.  That's all I can say.

Rest Your Right Eye Day
Think about your eyes for a moment.  They are always on.  Even while sleeping, they dance the REM.  Take a break.  Depth perception is compromised, but are you a professional baseball player?  I didn't think so.

Just Say No Day
No.

PMS Week
Oh wait, it's called hell week.

Talk Like a Pirate Day
There already is one?  AAARRRGGGGHHH.

Make up your own "Special Day".  And enforce it.  Remember, people love to celebrate no matter what it is.

 

And That's The Way It Was

Growing up somewhat sheltered geographically, actually really sheltered, and in a simpler time, finding something to do was somewhat of a challenge.  So, we did some harmless stuff, mainly to ourselves.  Every small town (and I've been in quite a few) is like an enclave of cliques and small, social networks.  Some were renowned for the dastardly stuff and others were pretty tame.  Guess which group I was in?  Now, I have been called a Pollyanna, by some unmentionables, for my writing on this blog.  And I admit, I do write PG rated stuff (fluff?).  I have been lucky by not being in the wrong place at the wrong time very often when I was growing up.  However, some crazy/dark moments have occurred.  That strange, dark side is on my new blog entitled 'The Dark Side and Underbelly of Alto'.  Catchy, huh?  It's still in the preparation stage.  Until then, on with the mostly PG fluff stuff.

Did you ever get to go to a Sadie Hawkin's dance in high school?  This was designed by some female, I would guess, so that the girl who never gets asked to a dance, gets to do the asking.  How original and uncomfortable.  The boy usually says yes to a complete anti-babe just to be nice, then drops her off immediately after the dance (the scoundrel), proceeds to meet with a friend (another scoundrel), party until light after drinking a ton, driving up on sidewalks, getting stuck in somebody's front yard, knocking over a few mailboxes and generally making up for a terribly annoying dance.  Shame on you, Joe A. for making me so rowdy.  I guess I had a little to do with that, but remember, I am Pollyanna.

Before we had our driver's license, we needed to stash our booze (purchased for us by an older scoundrel) for a later, more opportune time.  Surrounding Lincoln School was a nice secluded patch of woods that we called, The Woods, or something like that.  There were so many of us, that finding your personal stash was totally by accident.  If you didn't, then whatever you found was yours.  Being chased by some irate, PBR-loving, misfits was pretty invigorating and stomach-jogging.  This was the first place that I experienced The Puke, or something like that.  Wines ( I use the term loosely) such as Annie Green Springs, Tyrolia, Boone's Farm and the nefarious Mogen David 20-20 were within my price range : very cheap.  If you haven't experienced MD 20-20, this fine-dining wine, I highly suggest it.  It came in a couple of enticing flavors.  Puke Grape or Golden Apple Puke.  Both totally appealing to the rot-gut in us all.  We had a very intricate process for drinking this crap and it seemed to work.  The quart held about four large glasses, so the first was the most important.  It was the most foul-tasting, bowel-wasting, butt-basting liquid invented by some scoundrel.  After that, you were home free because you couldn't taste the next three glasses.  Your taste buds were totally annihilated as the rest of your body would shortly be.  MD 20-20 made your eyesight 0-0.  Since those early drinking days, I have found only one other drink equally nauseating.  Half shot of Jaggermeister.  Half shot of Goldschlager.  Voila!  You have Black Gold.  Just thinking about it gives me a headache, hangover and the strange need to vomit.  Damn, those Germans are good.

Cruising had to be popular wherever there was a patch of asphalt.  And over-hormonal boys.  With wheels.  With booze.  And loose girls.  Howard Street and 1st Avenue formed an 'L' in our downtown, which used to be a part of the interstate highway system.  After the 'Beltway' was built, which diverted traffic around the downtown like a belt holding together the ever-expanding girth of our fair village, this 'L' was about 20 blocks of department stores (Feldman's and Monkey Wards), theaters (State and Libba), pizza joints (Sammy's), gas stations/auto body shops (John's), all-purpose (Woolworth's and Five-and-Ten Cent) and a whole slew of dive bars (Corner, Coachmen).  Gas being around 35 cents (gasp), driving up and down for hours on end wasn't a big deal, even with the gas-chugging muscle cars.  Showing off these cars, showing off girls in these cars and the relentless pursuit of instant gratification, was the thing to do.  "Hey, party at McCarthy's Beach."  "Bimbo's at midnight".  Even in the harsh winters, "Dupont Lake.  Bring the Ski-doo and a case of Hamms."  This was some of the most carefree times a kid could have.  And driving drunk?  Most, not all, are here to tell you about it.  I do have to mention a bittersweet memory, one of the few.  Driving or cruising the drag was sometimes void of exhaust and cars and friends and chicks and mayhem.  Where is everybody?  Am I missing something?  Did I forget about a kegger somewhere?  Is everybody dead?  And where the hell is Terry G. with my MD 20-20?

I wasn't into drag-racing (being a Pollyanna and all), but our town was overrun with gear-heads.  One casual friend ( weren't we all?) had a yellow Dodge Dart with a thick, black-belt painted vertically around the rear panel or trunk area.  See?  I can't even describe it in a studly way.  It looked like a bumble-bee.  Is that better?  This wrenchie said the engine was factory, but even a powder-puff like me knew, after the first rev, that this was huge.  He had a running bet.  Anyone able to reach out and grab a $20 bill taped to his dash while going through the quarter-mile, they could keep it.  If not, you owed him the $20.  Bold.  Cocky.  He let me try it for free.  You know, wimpy and all.  When he tromped on the gas, other than the startling, jet-sounds that deafened me and the fuel smell, my head and body were pressed into the seat with a snap.  I reached out.  Chirping second gear drove me back.  A beer can wrapped around my ankle.  I tried again.  Third gear and now eyelashes quivering and tears (?) running, I reached.  The $20 was just laying there, fluttering, asking to be ripped off the dash.  Fourth gear and rubber-fumes or something else burning (was that hair?)  The quarter-mile was over.  A backfire sounded.  Then braking.  I looked over at my friend and he had this look that I'll never forget.  One of pride.  One of confidence.  One of a bullshitter.

I'll have to say, and coming from a crotchety old Iron Ranger, you can take this any way you want to, those times I hold dear to my heart.  Ones you never want to let go of.  They were filled with pure, childish joy, wild imaginations, smells, sounds and feelings of something that has passed.  But is still there.  To hear.  To smell.  To feel.  It was great to be alive then and there and it sure is great to be alive here and now.  Without the memories (or the forgetfuls) we have nothing to base ourselves on.  Wherever you grew up, however you were raised, whenever it was, do not forget.  Remember.  This is coming from a Pollyanna.