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Just Random Info, That’s Random not Rambo.

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.



The Real, The Unreal, The Unexplained.

Boston, Massachusetts, one of the oldest cities in the United States, was founded on the Shawmut Peninsula in 1630 by Puritan settlers from England. Just north of Boston along the jagged coastline and unpredictable currents of the Atlantic Ocean, hidden someplace between the old Boston lighthouse and your imagination, is a place called Rambling Harbor. It’s late October in Rambling Harbor as blue skies and mild temperatures disappear quickly into cold gray and harsh winds begin to wail, fashioning a perfect atmosphere for the coming of the witch.
Fall colors are gone, and bare branches dance around under the moonlight, casting shadows. Long contorted in pain, they stretch out across the bogs and open fields. They taunt you, daring you to come close. Come in, if you have the nerve. You can hear the whisper of some diabolical laughter coming from their tortured trunks. No longer hidden by deceiving coats of colors, the boughs are twisted arms, grasping out to wrap themselves around you and bring you down to their shadowy world forever. The harbor almost always has a wind blowing, favorable for both sailors and one’s imagination. What was that sound? Was it just the wind, or the cry of some lost spirit?
So many things in old New England remain unknown, hidden behind centuries-old houses that hide—secrets? The jagged unforgiving coastline and unpredictable storms that roam the North Atlantic have sent many ships to rest forever at the bottom of the sea. Do they rest? Perhaps that was not the wind.
One story says that in 1851, a lighthouse located just off Minot’s Ledge in a particularly turbulent part of New England waters was destroyed by a storm, killing two lighthouse-keeper’s assistants who were trapped inside. The lighthouse became automated in 1977, and now no one goes there except the Coast Guard, on occasion, for general checks of the lights. But boaters and fishermen have reported spotting two men who appear to be hanging over the side of the lighthouse, clinging to it for their lives.
Not too far from the entrance to Rambling Harbor, there is Hangman Island. According to legend, many a pirate felt the rope of the executioner and was left there to dangle in the wind as a warning to others to avoid the same fate.
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel The House of the Seven Gables, it is agreed, was written because of ancestral guilt. Hawthorne’s great-grandfather was one of the main perpetrators of the Salem Witch Trials, and the house and property where Nathaniel grew up are said to be cursed.
There are so many mysteries in the air, in the sea, and on the ground. Rambling Harbor, a small piece of land located somewhere off the coast of New England in the Atlantic Ocean, is inhabited by the real, the unreal, and the unanswered.


Just Thinking, October 10th 2017 

About baseball, a sport I played a lot in high school and a smidge in college and as a young man I really looked forward to watching the New York Mets, now come on Boston! I grew up on Staten Island and it’s a hell of a lot better than the Yankees. In their 1962 inaugural season, the Mets posted a record of 40–120, the worst regular season record since MLB went to a 162-game schedule (two games were canceled). The Mets “The New York Metropolitan Baseball Club, Inc. Included Roger Craig, Richie Ashburn, Felix Mantilla to name only a couple, or three, The Mets, made up of players that many of them were driving a golf cart happily retired the day before.

But 162 games, I don’t think so, summers in New England are fleeting things and to spend them inside, I repeat, No! Thank you! But all that aside, I am right now as I write this, I’m in the fits of Angst watching my first full baseball game in many years and oh how it has changed. The Boston Red Sox and the Houston Astros are playing game 4 of the playoffs and the Sox need to win or go home, as they say, even though they are home, but if they win they must leave home.

And holly mother of the strike zone. Why don’t we just eliminate the people, though not literally, no bullets allowed in Rambling Harbor, and make it a Multinational computer game controlled only by computers that we as humans have absolutely no control over but watch as if we did? Strike zone with pitches seen in slow-mo creeping toward some computer-generated square that no one can see without the magic of television and we the well programmed but unseen millions are able to know if a human blew “the call”, and now they can review a call of safe or out at a base, if the manager thinks the umpire is a bloody fool he throws a fit, at least that hasn’t changed, and he calls for a review, a review a review, a freaking review ?! and so with cameras in slow motion that no human eye could catch, we, pardon me not we, but the computer can overturn the decision of the human. But even though we have no control over the outcome we do see the truth of it, or do we? oh dear, just thinking.
Post Script: The Red Sox lost.


Seagulls, Cormorants, and Dan

first pictures Nahant Jenny Ari and me 041 Breakers CROPED.JPGI have just passed through another decade of life like a freight train passing up a hobo. At this writing, I am moving head first through another Memorial Day weekend, one that would have been my 27th wedding anniversary except that heaven had other plans for my wife. The weather that both my wife and I loved has finally arrived on the shores of Rambling Harbor. In other words, it’s a hot one!

I seem to thrive when it’s hot, hot, hot, perhaps a product of spending the first years of my life in the south, or maybe not, but whatever the reasons, I like it hot. It’s not that I don’t feel the heat. Sophie Tucker said that she had been rich and poor and rich was better. To paraphrase, I’ve been hot and cold and hot is better. I become more reflective in the summer.

The beach I live near is not on a map. As a truck-driving friend (who knows New England like the back of his hand) once said, “Rambling Harbor! Rambling Harbor!! You can’t find Rambling Harbor if you don’t know where it is.” I like it that way. On the hottest weekend days, the main part of the beach, which has sand for castle building and where families and individuals gather for the day, is never crowded. There is also an isolated place that’s about a half-hour’s climb over rocks of varying sizes where you can be totally alone, and it feels like the edge of the earth. This area is under at least 20 feet water at high tide, so it is necessary to plan one’s trip accordingly or be ready to swim to shore. I have made friends with a few favorite boulders, seagulls, and cormorants. One large rock even has the feel of a reclining chair. But I’m not a sitter, I’m a roamer and a climber-over-rocks, dodging waves and looking for little life forms hidden in the shallow pools left by the ebbing tide.

Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau were considered to be transcendentalists. Transcendentalism is a $50 word for a life philosophy that says people and nature are inherently good and that self-reliance and intuition are the most important attributes. Once upon a time, I lived that life in the mountains of West Virginia, a story I tell on this website on the page Mountaintop Days. I have to admit, though, that as more and more decades have passed through this body, my mountaintop days will likely never come again. With a bad back and bad knees that some days rebel against even getting out of bed much less climbing over rocks, it’s not always an easy trip up and down the smooth part of my beach, never mind the boulders.

In a world that seems to be excelling in the loss of all rational thought, as we plunder the earth, rape the mountains, and pollute the sea, as more and more inhabitants of this earth disappear that were here long before humans and more and more humans seem to care less and less, my slow pilgrimage across the rocks and boulders to spend a few hours at the edge of the earth visited only by gulls and cormorants becomes even more important to me.

There will be more thoughts about this as well as some rock and roll history on the shores of Rambling Harbor. Join me there.This way to the shores of Rambling Harbor podcast