Darkness comes too soon
For the lonely
Midnight last longer
The pain cuts deeper
Nights never end
Day never begins
The sadness starts
The aching deep within
Then morning comes
The sun is bright
And you try again
For what else is there?
Darkness comes too soon
For the lonely
Midnight last longer
The pain cuts deeper
Nights never end
Day never begins
The sadness starts
The aching deep within
Then morning comes
The sun is bright
And you try again
For what else is there?
A baby cries from
The shores of Styx
A child cries from the darkness
Of a ghetto
A baby cries
And a child cries
A mother cries
As a father dies
A war starts
House is lost
A father dies
The child grows
The child says why
But the man knows
Like those before him knew
The child sighed
As the man dies
From the shoes of Styx
From the deepest part of Stygian
A baby cries again
Screaming out of the darkness
Crawling out of the gloom
Refusing to keep the circle
The child from the darkest recesses of Stygian
Screams I will fight
For light and though I may lose
And die alone in the dark
I will have created a glimmer
As the man cries
The woman dies
And once again
A child rises from the darkness of Stygian
Screaming I will create light
And the circle remains
**In Greek mythology, Styx is a deity and a river that forms the boundary between earth and the underworld(the domain often called Hades, which also is the name of its ruler). The rivers Styx, Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, and Cocytus all converge at the center of the underworld on a great marsh, which sometimes is also called the Styx. According to Herodotus, the river Styx originates near Feneos. Styx is also a goddess with prehistoric roots in Greek mythology as a daughter of Tethys, after whom the river is named and because of whom it had miraculous powers.
You might have noticed the mid-term elections are here, with local elections from the smallest villages to major cities and statewide elections from the governor to Congress. Two years ago, Donald Trump ran for the Big House on Pennsylvania Avenue, now many including me wish he would end up in the Big House like the one in the 1930 movie “The Big House”
There is one thing that all the folks running for anything from animal control officer to the president have in common, and that is paid advertising. It’s impossible to watch 30 minutes of television without hearing some very sincere voice telling us how good one person is and how bad another is, or how this bill should pass or not. And all these announcements end with the equivalent of “I’m Daffy Doodle and I approved this message.” Well, of course, you did, and you paid that very sincere voice to do it, or you got some damn good coaching from a professional announcer.
As many of you know, I spent my life in broadcasting, not doing facts-and-figures news but music and entertainment, a world of make-believe. At some of the radio stations I worked at, I was also a production director in addition to doing my air shift. The job of a production director is to take the written copy and turn it into 30 or 60 seconds of recorded brilliance that makes the listener want to drop everything and run out and buy whatever it is the advertiser wants to sell. This is done in a few ways—with music and sound effects but most importantly with that sincere, trust me, would-I-lie-to-you voice. I have done ads for places I have never been and made them sound like my home away from home.
Voice acting is a world of make-believe all its own and in many ways, much more difficult than stage or screen acting. With voice acting, you do not have the ability to use body movements or facial expressions. It’s all done with the voice. In today’s whacked out world of advertising, it’s also not unusual to hear a well-known actor’s voice selling you something. The magnificent voice of James Earl Jones is a classic example. However, many of those wow-do-they-sound-so-sincere political ads are done by only a few dozen voice-over artists, both in high-profile races as well as the ones you’ve never heard of. In August 2008, Newsweek reported on this in an article called “How Voice Actors Are Chosen for Political Ads.” Some of these voice actors do only ads for politicians or issues they believe in. For more than 30 years, Sheldon Smith has been one of the leading voices of Republican political advertising. Smith admits that this doesn’t mean every word he speaks into the microphone has to be true, but he says he won’t knowingly perpetuate lies. “I’ve walked away before. If it gives me qualms, I won’t do it.” On the other hand, other political voice artists put personal politics aside, differentiating blue and red candidates by who’s got more green to pay.
The next time you hear that so sincere voice telling you what a slimeball so-and-so is or how great whats-their-name is and how bad one issue might be for you as opposed to how happy another issue will make you, ask yourself this: how much is this person being paid to tug at your heartstrings, and while they are telling you how great one candidate is, are they really going to vote for them? Bottom line read and then read some more don’t fall for the voice.
The sun sets west of me
And if the light is just right
It cast a little piece of blue
Across the sky just before night
Disappearing beyond the tress like you
The clouds take on a glow of light
Just west of me then out of sight
You left to go not far
From where I started
A course of life still uncharted
Sitting on the White House lawn
Surrounded by unrest
To a Stool in a cheese shop
Wanting only rest
Worlds from anything I had ever known
Floating on a vagabond’s ship of memories
Attempting to gain an even keel
A soft voice
A simple request
May I have a little piece of blue
I need to tell you before the sun sets
In the west one last time
And while the light is just right
Sometimes I miss those days
And think of you
And a little piece of blue.
People have said, implied, suggested, and even attempted to cajole me, for whatever reasons unknown to me, to write a book about my life. I have resisted that idea for the same reason I rarely watch a movie or read a book more than once. I’ve not only seen it and read it, I wrote it. I know what happens next, and what fun is that? The more interesting thing to me is not what I’ve done or where I’ve been, but what I’ll do and see next. So I’m not going to write the book. However, after managing to avoid the grim reaper for as long as I have, maybe I’ve experienced some things that will either be funny or sad or maybe even informative, and the best I can hope for by sharing is to be helpful.
Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” And if there’s one thing I have, it’s untold stories, and many will be left untold until sooner or later they are scattered silently in the wind along with the “dust” of me.
I stopped blogging well over a year ago except for the occasional paragraph regarding some musical event. When I was blogging once a week, thanks to my friends at KISW, “The Rock of Seattle,” who ran those blogs and podcasts each week, I became obsessed with politics and the Orange Round Mound of Sound Clown running the Big Top Circus in DC. I will still at times concern myself with the swamp blob’s attempt to annihilate us all, but I think I have better stories to tell and will concentrate on those while hoping that orange will become the new black for him. So here goes. Installment one I call “Blind Dreams.”
Waking up blind in the morning when you went to sleep the night before and you could see just fine is a very scary thing. Fortunately for me, it was a relatively minor thing, as I’ll explain, but it gave me insight into how it must feel to live your life in darkness, and I think it’s also one of the reasons that to this day I have issues with sunsets and nighttime, but that’s another story for another time, maybe.
Imagine you’re three maybe four years old and you wake up, you know you’re awake, you can move, arms and legs all in working order, but you’re afraid because you can’t see. Everything is black, total darkness, no light. I knew I was awake by the sounds of my home. I could hear my mother in the kitchen and my dad leaving for work, my collie Lady sniffing around and my parakeet Sugar Boy flying from room to room, perch to perch. It was a very scary feeling for the very young boy, and sometimes still is today for the old man, to wake up and not see, but the problem was not with my eyes. It was my eyelashes. I had very long lashes and they would get stuck together while I slept, stuck so tight that I could not move my eyelids apart to see. One of my first and cherished memories of my mother was her carrying me to the kitchen and placing me on the counter where she would take a warm washcloth and gently rub my eyes until I could open them.
The radio was a faithful companion to this caring process. Usually, it would be tuned to a country station—after all, what else would you have in early 1950’s Tennessee with a mom from the mountains? The voices of Hank Williams, Sr., Ernest Tubb, and Patsy Cline would keep us company as my mother tenderly brought me into the light again. But sometimes it would be Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club. Don McNeill came to our home all the way from Chicago. Even at my early age, I knew Chicago was a long way from Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and I thought what a miraculous feat for a man so far away to be talking to me in my home. It was probably Don McNeill that planted the first seeds of being a radio professional in my young mind. I remember listening to him and thinking what fun that must be.
Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club had a thirty-five-and-a-half-year run and remains the longest tenure for an emcee of a network entertainment program, surpassing Johnny Carson’s twenty-nine-and-a-half years on The Tonight Show and Bob Barker’s thirty-four-and-two-thirds years on The Price Is Right, although McNeill’s was split between radio and television, whereas the latter two were television only. I remember listening to Don’s magnificent voice and show and saying to my fledgling self, “I think I would like to fly like that someday,” and so I did.
Unlike some of my friends who took to the open mic and stayed there, I was often between radio gigs for a lot of different reasons and would find myself working at some retail job or customer service job and many other forms of painful employment. One time when I was bemoaning my fate, as I grumbled about my life, a friend asked me, “Did you get a chance to live your dream?” and I answered yes. She said, “Do you know how many people never get that chance?”
Yes, that little temporarily blind kid, who listened to country music and Don MacNeill’s Breakfast Club, did get a chance to live his dream. And it has been a long, strange, and mostly wonderful trip.
There were colorful lights and people singing
Santa’s in windows
And popcorn stringing
I spent Christmas alone.
News years came and bells were ringing
Promises made and children singing
Skyrockets flashing across the sky
Helping to hide the tears in my eye
I spent New Year’s alone.
My birthday rolled in
As it does every year
Some seem to notice
But most didn’t care
I spent my birthday alone.
We come in and go out of this world on our own
I’ve had plenty of practice at being alone
But still at night as the north wind moans
It scares me to think
With my eyes final wink
I’ll still be alone.
Once there was a time. It was a perfect storm of music, issues, and people all coming together at just the right time in just the right way in just the right places. Once there was a time that I think will never be equaled, and sometimes when I feel old—and those times happen more and more to me every day now—I see something or hear some music from the 1960’s and very early 1970’s, and I remember and I smile. I smile knowing that yes, once there was a time, and I was there.
A very good friend told me the other day that I was his favorite hippie, and I told him it was likely that I am the only hippie he knows given our age difference and that we old hippie radio DJ’s are a dying breed.
I think many younger people today, and even some in my age group who might have somehow escaped the scars of the sixties, don’t realize that their idea of hippie is not what they might think. All hippies were not pot heads dancing naked at Woodstock or jamming to the Dead at the Fillmore. To me and to a lot of others, it was a belief, a lifestyle, and a commitment that while the world was not perfect, we could and would make it better.
I said “scars of the sixties” because of something I call “movement casualties.” We are the survivors who once believed so strongly in–and forgive me for using these terms—peace and love and making changes for the better, and then we watched as all our hopes crumbled. We watched as John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King fell to hatred stronger than our love. We watched as Brian Epstein, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Phil Ochs, and many others left us behind. But we kept on believing, and maybe for many the final blow came when John Lennon was killed.
We old hippies learned that all the things we thought we could do were not strong enough to stop bullets of hate or the despair of a drug overdose or a raging social or political lunatic.
My friend replied to my statement about being a dying breed by telling me it was time to pass the torch and joked that he would start growing out what was left of his hair, growing it long. I said the tie dye was optional, but he would need either a peace earring or a pendant.
Just recently I realized that I was indeed tired. Maybe I had continued the struggle longer than most and got tired of trying. I posted this on Facebook last Wednesday: “I quit. I am tired of jokers and fools and arguments. I am tired of trying to convince anyone that certain things are just plain wrong, so I quit. I tried. Now go on and believe what you want, do what you want, and say what you want because it has become obvious that nothing I can say will make a difference in your way of thinking. So I quit. More on this on Sunday.” Well, here it is Sunday.
Maybe I should go put on some Grateful Dead or John Lennon music and remember and be glad that once there was a time. It was a perfect storm of music, issues, and people all coming together at just the right time in just the right way in just the right places. And I was there.
August 4th would have been Jennifer’s birthday if cancer had not wiped away that celebration from my life. I still commemorate her by remembering her unstoppable spirit. Jennifer woke up every day and grabbed the bull rope with one hand, threw the other high above her head, and yelled, “Let’s go do life.” For Jennifer, there was only one way to live and that was to ride it to the bell. Jennifer did not become that way after learning she had cancer. She was born that way.
One September night, windows open, wind calm, total silence, I heard two bells: One, two, swift ring, ring. Only twice did it ring, one, two. Whatever was tugging on the bell-rope knew it would be understood. Two rings, loud and clear. I have ears that have always heard even the tufted feet of my Maine Coon cat as he crossed my carpeted floor, but I had never heard this sound before. But now, two bells clean, clear, and near, just outside my window. Once, twice, gone, silence. Earlier that day, we had learned that my wife’s fourteen-year battle against cancer was entering a zone of last chances. “Chemo is not working. We have nothing else to offer you at this time.” Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life, and they ring as clearly as bells in the middle of the night.
The summer of 2010 was her last generally healthy summer, but she was also in phase one trials at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Phase one trials are done with experimental drugs on people when traditional chemo treatments have failed. She took a drug that less than a dozen people had ever tried; I think the actual number was only six people before her. Jennifer would say lab rats had a better life than she did, but she said that with a big smile and a happy heart, feeling much sadder for the lab rat than herself. She also said that she knew it was unlikely that the drugs would save her life but maybe somewhere down the road and just around the bend they would save someone else’s. In this final summer, Jennifer decided against my better judgment to become part of a small crew aboard an all-wooden, 118-foot, totally wind-blown sailing ship with the appropriate name of Raw Faith. Raw Faith ( pictured above) was well known for not being seaworthy, having been rescued several times by the Coast Guard, and had come dreadfully close to descending to the bottom of the Atlantic at least once. She had been built by a man whose heart was bigger than his shipbuilding and sailing abilities, and her purpose was to take handicapped children on seafaring adventures. While I wasn’t sure how far we would make it, surer we would more likely sink than sail, Jennifer was sure we were going sailing and by god then, sail we would, or sink trying.
For me, it was a Greyhound Bus Station in St. Petersburg, the one in Florida not Russia around 1974. And as I sat there listing to the bombardment of departure announcements, busses now departing for all places north, south, east, and west, and I thought and many places in between. This old gentleman came over and sat down next to me. We listen together for a few minutes and then he looked over at me and said “I’m not going anywhere myself, I’m just resting. “
I’ve had a theory for a long time that as years pass and we look back on our personal history and at the people and events that have come and gone in our lives, we develop something I call compressed remembrance. It’s a feeling that something that occurred many years before happened only yesterday. Time collapses and years become weeks, weeks become days, and days seem like only hours.
On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was in history class, and it seems surreal that I would have been in history class on a date that will be read about for hundreds of years. I have no idea what I was thinking about before the news was delivered to the classroom. I probably had my mind on the upcoming Thanksgiving football game and practice after class. I’m sure I was not listening to Mrs. Loffler drone on about the Magna Carta or the Louisiana Purchase. I don’t remember the names of most of my high school teachers and fewer names of my college professors, but I remember Mrs. Loffler because she was there that day. That was the day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. I can still hear how her voice changed as she gave some brief explanation and told us that school would be ending early. I remember feeling very detached from whatever new reality was taking place and annoyed that whatever this event was had suddenly disrupted my well-planned afternoon and weekend.
Quickly now it’s 21 years later, November 23, 1984. I’m no longer living on Staten Island, a naive teenager dreaming of gridiron glory. I’ve resisted a war, lived in the mountains of West Virginia, and been to prison. I’m back in radio and living in Boston. The Boston College Eagles are playing the University of Miami. There are 28 seconds left in the game, and Miami is leading 45 to 40 when some too-small-to-play quarterback guy named Doug Flutie dropped back and let what became known as the “Hail Mary” touchdown pass take flight. It traveled 48 yards, taking what seemed like forever to go that distance and reach its target, Gerard Phelan, and gave the football Eagles a 47-45 victory. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Fast forward. It’s now 2017, and I am watching what will be remembered as the greatest Super Bowl ever played. My granddaughter is about to become the same age I was on November 22, 1962: Sixteen, a magical age full of hopes and dreams but also fear. She was born into a time when the world seems to teeter constantly on the brink of disaster. I’m watching a man named Tom Brady who is leading the New England Patriots to a mind-blowing come-from-behind victory over the Atlanta Falcons. No team in history has ever come from 21 points behind to win a Super Bowl, but in the last quarter New England tied the game and went on to win in the first Super Bowl overtime in history. I saw people laughing and cheering and watched, even if only for a twinkling, the cares and troubles of their everyday lives dissolve away. I was proud of my city of Boston as they danced in the streets, not one-act of violence and no arrests. I have a few more years to keep that memory.
We live in a world where smiles and good times are difficult to come by, and we don’t have many years in a lifetime to make memories. I read somewhere that someday we will only be a memory to someone, and we should do our best to make sure it’s a good one. Trust me, I’m dancing as fast as I can.
I love old things
For what they bring
Memories of those that touched them
And now are gone.
They loved them long before
My name was known,
Then they touched me
And now are gone.
The pain wounds the heart
But I still love old things
For what they bring.
The following is just a small part of a story I started over two years ago called Mountaintop Days. Most of the story is still here on my website but the whole story has never been told. This part popped up on the great wide web and it’s a fond memory, so I am republishing it alone. I hope you like it.
Just south of Kane, Pennsylvania, and a little west of Johnsonburg, there was a farm that had existed in some form or other long before the Civil War and had served to hide runaway slaves and those seeking to escape the tyranny of southern plantation owners. It was protected from the east by cliffs and mountains that literally bordered the large creek that ran across the back of the farmland. The front of the farm was cleared so that a small dirt road flanked by large expanses of land led the way to the farmhouse, making it easy to see anyone approaching from the front. To the left of the house stood a barn, open on both ends, and from the back of this barn ran a secret trail that led into 512,998 acres, or 801.6 square miles, of wilderness that was the Allegheny National Forest. It is easy to imagine that anyone could escape forever into that vastness, even a modern-day fugitive, and it would also be easy to imagine that many a runaway slave became a great dinner for a bear or mountain lion, not knowing where they were going or what to be aware of how to survive. I did not intend to become dinner for anyone and especially did not want to test my survival skills. After all, I had only come here to leave West Virginia, my original destination being a warm Virginia Beach, accompanied by a bottle of tequila, a ripe lime, some salt, and a Southern belle whose closest association to a cow was the local hamburger stand. I didn’t drink much, and the Southern belle did not materialize. After all, Emily was still living in my heart. However, after bathing in a running stream or in some hot water heated over a large fireplace, I must say the thought of ocean water and the warmth of my original plan sounded good.
But here I was on a farm probably 300 years old by 1968 that had been a refuge for so many seeking survival, seeking freedom, and seeking peace. It was now welcoming me into the fold of their attempted sanity away from a world rapidly losing its mind.
The farm was now home to an artists’ commune composed of writers, musicians, painters, and all manner of less-than-mainstream-conformist pacifists, a few inhabitants having been there since its inception in the early 1950’s. Legend has it that Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac had actually stayed there, Kerouac just before On the Road was published in 1951. Imagine what a heady experience it was for a young man like me to be there, on the road and out to change the world, with hopes of becoming not the next Jack Kerouac, but more, oh so much more. Jack had shown the way, and I was going to find new roads and bring the world to a new place. Yes, I was!
My days on this farm would be short but colored beautifully and forever by the changing leaves and the mountains ablaze with the kaleidoscope of fall and by a woman named Alice. Alice was an intensely gifted artist who made the mountains come alive on canvas and who had a talking parrot that loved to repeat only the words her ex-husband had taught it just before he left her: “Fuck you, Alice.”
Written and performed first by David Allen Coe in 1981 and until tonight Coe’s version was the only one I had ever heard. I always thought it should be low down and bluesy which Coe tried but fell a bit short. Chris Stapleton and Justin Timberlake damn near threw a perfect horseshoe ringer, is it country, is it blues, rock or gospel, who cares its damn good music. https://youtu.be/WSfQw-Qhr14
I’m always curious about what went on, on a certain day in time that I have been circling the sun.
On this date, in case you might think this has been a boring day then hop on the time machine to March 21st,1976 after a David Bowie concert at the Community War Memorial arena in Rochester, New York, Iggy Pop and David Bowie were involved in a drug bust at their hotel room where the police found 182 grams (a little over 6.4 ounces) of marijuana. The pair spent the rest of the night in the Monroe County Jail and were released at about 7 a.m. on $2,000 bond each. Wow $2,000 dollars bond, crap 6.4 ounces may cost that much now. All of Massachusetts is refusing to exhale until July 1st.
On March 21st the number one song was “Silly Love Songs”, I understand that Paul wrote that in response to John saying all Paul wrote was silly or stupid love songs. If you look at the top 100 songs of 1976 no wonder Bowie and Iggy needed a bag or three. But out of all this dismal sound came brilliance at # 18 on March 21, 1976. https://youtu.be/fJ9rUzIMcZQ
A lot of you already know I am a songs lyric person, it could be country, country rock, rock and on an on, I love lyrics so I had to look up Hailey Whitters to see who she is after listening to this song that someone suggested I should hear, so I did and I really like the lyrics, still not sure why someone wanted me to hear it 😉. I don’t listen to a lot of radio anymore, I’ll not go into all the reasons why, but I don’t. However, I probably miss a little and some of you may already be aware of this song and Hailey. There isn’t much I have found in my research so far, but country music fans will find this interesting Whitters released her debut full-length album in 2015 titled Black Sheep. Whitters co-wrote Little Big Town’s song “Happy People”, from their 2017 album The Breaker. Song, “People Like You”
It’s the eve of St. Paddy’s Day 2018, in the most Irish town in America, Boston, and what better day to have an eve (small e) on than a Friday depending on the Eve (capital E) any day could be a fine one. And so, I have decided to tell you a story, an Irish story it’s one of many I have but this one happens to be true, pass the bottle, please. I was sitting in the game room occasionally known as the conference room of a radio station one day as we drank a few beers hit a few shots of Jack Daniels back and smoked a few illegals and no not aliens. We were talking about nationalities. It seems everyone had a bit of Irish on them this day even a guy named Feinberg (I used an alias for him) So finally after a few more beer and shots it was my turn to tell my nationality, pass the bottle, please. I started with the strongest two and that was as far as I got. I was never able to add and a little of this and little of that nationality. There was a guy there with thick long red hair and a bushy red beard, a very Irish lad indeed named O’Rourke (I made that name up for him, I think), pass the bottle, please. O’Rourke looked a lot like the original cowardly lion from The Wizard of Oz. So finally, the bottle and my turn rolled around, time for me to lay claim to my birthrights and I began to proudly announce that I was half, wait, before I get to that did I tell you that Feinberg, not their real name looked a lot like Woody Allen, and I didn’t make that up or what O’Rourke looked like, don’t reread if you forgotten he looked like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz. So, my turn. Yes, my turn to drink, toke and talk, if I still could? And of course I can, I’m a highly rained Ofessional Brewdcaster. And if you have read and followed me this far I’ll bet you’re saying this better be worth it, well it’s not you can stop now.
So here we are, Woody the Lion and Me on the eve of March 17, which is supposedly the day of St. Patrick’s death. I’ve never been sure why we celebrate that, dying doesn’t sound like party time to me. And now it’s my turn to proclaim my DNA results, I am, I said proudly part Irish and part Cherokee Indian. At this, Woody felt faint as the lion stood up with red hair and red beard and eyes ablaze and said, “My God man you’re an alcoholic looking for a place to happen”. To which I replied, and I found it, pass the bottle, please.