Where Am I?

Seems like I just got moved up from the kids' table and here I am, an old man. A very close friend from junior high recently pointed out that I'll tell anything. She's absolutely right. I can keep a secret, alright, but you had better tell me that it's a secret. I'm a therapist's dream. I have no secrets of my own. I seem to be missing some important parts; filters, shields and that kind of thing.

Sometimes I worry that I lack some necessary defense mechanisms, too. On the other hand, I don't get taken advantage of very often. People have always been kind to me. Too kind maybe. I know that I was spoiled as a kid. I think that what saved me is the fact that I was spoiled with love, too. I wish that for everyone. Everybody deserves it.

I want to play outside without my clothes on and I want to eat ice cream. I want to take a nap with friends that I love and I want to listen to pretty music and look at pretty pictures.

It would surely be nice to add just a little something to the world, to make just a person or two feel loved, understood and appreciated.

Rassel

My favorite acts are always the ones who become the act. I never cared about any professional wrestler who could just go home, put on a suit and take the family to Red Lobster. Give me Haystack Calhoun. I always loved the Graham Brothers because they always insisted on using the razor blade on the forehead trick so that real blood flowed through those platinum locks. That's color. Of course Gorgeous George started all of that. We never would have gotten Muhammad Ali from that shy, skinny Cassius Clay if not for George's mighty influence. Don't forget Bobby Zimmerman.

When that scrawny little fellow rolled into New York from Minnesota he was just one more folk singer. He knew he was never gonna be Little Richard. He probably had a better chance at becoming Woody Guthrie. Of course most of the world didn't really know or care about Woody at that point.

Mix in the Gorgeous George mojo and you've got an act. I'm pretty sure that the man is the act now. After decades of teasing us with Jesus and motorcycle wrecks, the Band and double talk, eye makeup and Mavis,  Traveling Wilburys and China and Victoria's Secret, we seem to have a real character. A larger and weirder than life legend. An icon.

I was never one of the true Bob Dylan fans. I'm fascinated with the current model. Seems real to me.

My Cousin, George, and The Future of Sport

I'm working on a new business venture and the experience has caused me to look back at some of my previous ideas. One of my favorites was Figure 8 Bicycle Racing. Never got around to doing anything but dreaming about it. I don't remember when I first thought about it but I know that I had in mind inviting Princess Grace of Monaco to cut the ribbon to open the first race so it's been awhile.

When you think that soccer is the world's sport, except for the USA where we tend to prefer monstrous robots who don't much resemble anything human when suited up, it's easy to realize that most folks want to identify with their sports stars. They want to see the faces, the sweat, the grimaces.

Now, let's move on to NAASCAR where the U.S. does bring something to the table. Let's face it, we all want to see flesh and metal mixing. Dale's biggest career move was that one right turn. Audiences can't wait for mayhem.

I figured we would mix the snob appeal of polo with the real excitement and drama of professional wrestling. Banked indoor track made of hand polished beech. Champagne iceys, the only refreshment available.

The best part- the racing. If you have ever attended a figure 8 stock car race you know that it is not for the faint hearted. If you're approaching an intersection at the same time as someone crossing from the other side you really have but one option: SPEED UP!


In his prime my cousin, George, would have been the sport's biggest star. He was fearless. He seemed to have lacked the fear that most of us come with. I picture his bike as plain, frail, no brakes. Green, of course. It would have to have been green.

Fool #1

Did I ever tell you about my romance with Brenda Lee? I always had a huge crush on her. I guess that it was around 1959. My mom had dropped me off at the armory to see a big rock'n'roll show featuring Brenda Lee, Ray Peterson, Johnny Preston and Benny Joy. I was minding my own business standing in line at the box office when Little Miss Dynamite strolled right up next to me and asked, "What time is it?" I think that I managed to mumble something clever, along the lines of, "I don't know."

"Do they dance in there?" she asked.

Always the ladies' man, I managed, "I don't know."

She stood there for a few seconds which seemed like an eternity to me and sauntered off. We never saw much of each other after that.

Diamond Dust & Broken Bottles

It's past time for a new record and I know it. Over time you stack up some tears and fears and heartache. I've made that record, though. Several times. My pal, Walt, tells me that I should be writing happy songs, love songs. He's right. I look around at all of the wonderful folks who come through my life and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. I have known love and kindness and passion. I surely regret any sorrow or hurt that I may have caused in this world and I know that working for peace and truth and love is the best that I can ever do to make up for any of it. I don't want to break any hearts with music. I want to pump 'em full of joy and hope and wonder. The Beatles did. Little Richard did. Let's celebrate life and love. We've got that.

How Are You Gonna Break Their Heart If Your Heart Ain't Broken?

I never claimed to be that much a writer. I'm more "moon, June and croon," than Bob Dylan or George Gershwin. I always set my sights on happiness, too. I have to say that I hurt a woman once. No excuses. Karma has been reminding me of that for decades now.

Never much of what anyone would call a singer, either, I would like to be able to stir something in the folks that I play for. If they don't trample your heart every now and then, where are you ever going to find that well of sadness, that reservoir of heartache. I'm pretty sure that there are easier ways to get this work done. I believe that a brighter man would have come up with a shortcut by now, a way around having your heart torn out and trampled. Oh well.

This is my song about Sid and Nancy. Seems like one of the great love stories of our time to me.

Ain't no haint gonna run me off!

Ghosts share my house. Some of them are real. Mr. Hill, who had the home designed and built for his family in 1938 still wanders around. He seems friendly enough but, I have to say, I've never really spent any time around many spooks. Not that I've known about.

Then there are the memories. Those are just getting harder to shake. I'm needing a fresh supply of happy ones.

It's been about eighteen years now. I've never lived in one place for so long. Oh yeah, it's home in that I can walk around in the dark and not stumble over furniture. I've got a dog here, though, needing a fresh load of joy and fun. I've got a cat who wants everything happy again. Remember that? Jamaica and Angel deserve all the fun and all the love and all the peace in the world. That's my job.

I'm thinking about selling the house and making us a real home again. This one can be a wonderful place for another bunch. There's a loving spirit here and I think maybe he's ready for the fun and the joy again, too.