Curriculum Vitae (CV) of Memphis Mike (Rock ’n’ Roll Survivor / Bass Owner / Occasional Responsible Adult)

1979 – 1982: Garage Bands & Punk House Parties

* Played anywhere that had an electrical outlet and a six-pack.

* Frequently paid in beer, pizza, and the occasional “borrowed” ashtray.

* Skills learned: tuning by ear (sort of), surviving feedback, and playing three chords with confidence.

1982 – 1990: The Swingin’ Cadillacs

Hired as a guitarist. Demoted/promoted to bass player after two weeks because:

  1. I owned a bass.

  2. No one else did.

Played biker bars, small-town festivals, and dives that could double as crime scenes.

Accidentally became a “working bassist” — basically the cockroach of the music world: can survive anywhere.

1984 – 1987: Weddings, Top 40 Bands, Etc.

Wore matching tuxedos and smiled through “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang.

Learned the phrase: “Play Mustang Sally or we riot.”

1986 – 1987: Rattlesnake Shake (a.k.a. The Starlings)

* Blues band in a town that didn’t know what to make of it.

* Played with Robbie Wells (formerly of Rachel Sweet's band) and Don Kakacik — whose voice could strip paint off a Chevy, whether it needed it or not.

1984 – Present: Session Musician

* First big break: a national fast-food jingle. (Still waiting on my free lifetime burgers.)

* Recorded in New York, Nashville, Cleveland, and places where the only “studio” was a guy’s basement.

* Worked with my friend and mentor Alan Leatherwood until his passing — one of the few sensible decisions I ever made.

1987 – 1988: David Loy & The Ramrods

* Rockabilly veterans. I mostly kept up.

* Played every bar in Northeast Ohio (twice).

1990: Retirement Attempt #1

* Tried to quit music. Lasted four months. Longest break since puberty.

1990 – 1994: The Rowdy Bovines

* Joined as bassist, busted as guitarist.

* Gigged 3–5 nights a week until we could navigate Pittsburgh-to-VA highways blindfolded.

* Shared stages with Dick Dale, Rev. Horton Heat, Mojo Nixon, and others who also didn’t know when to quit.

* Band legacy: no albums, just a couple bootlegs. We were analog NFTs before it was cool.

1993 – 1994: The Udder Cats

* A Rowdy Bovines side project.

* First live performance of my tune “Skoodly Boop.” Guitarist couldn’t play it, so we swapped instruments on stage. Audience was either impressed or confused.

1994: Monkey On A Stick

* Sounded like “10,000 Maniacs meets Pere Ubu.” Audience reviews: “What?”

* Played mostly colleges — which was good, because students are too polite to boo.

1995 – 2022: The Tremblers (a.k.a. Memphis Mike & The Legendary Tremblers)

* Formed a band with members from blues, punk, and Oi backgrounds. Should’ve been chaos. Was actually great.

* Signed to an indie label after two months. Got sued after three. Solution? Add the word “Legendary.”

* 27 years, thousands of gigs, multiple continents, and a dozen releases later, I retired the band.

* That’s longer than Guns N’ Roses took to release Chinese Democracy.

1996 – 2024: Crippled Bobby Hawkins

* Straight blues. No rehearsals. Ever.

* Band motto: “If you know the song, start playing. If you don’t, start anyway.”

2015 – 2017: The Supergroup Era

The Bessemers: Pittsburgh’s self-proclaimed “rockabilly supergroup.” Mostly played bars but felt legendary doing it.

Losers After Midnight: Horror punk — like The Misfits, but with worse dental insurance.

Devilz in the Detailz: Goth-surf outfit. Imagine Dracula learning to surf, then moping about it.

Rockabilly Hall of Fame Era (1999 – 2002)

* Temporarily replaced Danny Gatton in Leslee “Bird” Anderson’s band. Still not sure how that happened.

* Played with/beside Wanda Jackson, Link Wray, Dick Dale, Albert Collins, The Jordanaires, Danny Kay & The Nightlifers,  and others whose names I still drop at parties.

* Backed up legends in Jackson, Nashville, Memphis… and once in a bowling alley.

Other Stuff

* Wrote approximately 500 songs. (Some good, some…character building.)

* Released roughly 20 records.

* Produced the AJ & The Two-Timers record...and it actually sold a lot of copies!

* Produced 3 indie music films, because musicians can’t say no to cameras.

* Worked as photographer, sound engineer, pharmacy tech, and 27 years in mental health. (The last job explains my patience with drummers.)

* Currently writing a second book, because one midlife crisis wasn’t enough.

Final Summary

* Musician, multi-instrumentalist, and professional “fill-in guy.”

* Have traveled the world, dodged cease-and-desists, and survived countless bar gigs.

* Career motto: “Don’t quit your day job. Unless your day job is music.”

She Never Saw the World

 "Her name was Virginia - she never saw the world."

"Virginia" wasn't just a song I wrote. She was a unique human being. For legal and ethical reasons, I'm reticent to go into too much detail, suffice to say that she was a resident in a facility I used to work at. For those unaware, I spent the better part of 30 years working with adults with developmental and chronic mental health issues. I met Virginia in 2010, and I can tell you this: our first meeting was legendary (at least to me). 

I had just accepted the position as the overnight manager in a small section of a larger facility. The company I worked for leased out a 12-bed section for our mostly older, more chronic clients. Most lived with schizophrenia, and/or other chronic mental illness. Our folks lived alongside 100 or so other residents, most with some level of chronic illness. Without giving away too much information, the place was sad and, in some ways, absolutely disgusting. Cleanliness was at the barest minimum and the smell - it was putrid at best. Imagine the smell of old urine, body odor, and physical and emotion decay. If you ever need an example of why healthcare should never be for profit, this place was it. The employees of the facility were overworked and underpaid, which I'm sure sounds cliche to many. From my own professional experience, this was beyond bad. The guy who owned and ran the place paid his employees the least he could and also ran a bit of a loan sharking operation. He'd offer small payday advances to his employees, thereby keeping them stuck. They couldn't quit when they were in arrears to their boss. I was an employee of an outside agency, and while my pay wasn't great, I wasn't stuck like most of the employees. 

I spent my first week working the day shift, getting accustomed to the paperwork, medication charts, the flow of the place, and of course getting to know our residents. I would spend a few hours each day reading case histories, medical histories, etc. I reviewed incident reports, making note of potential behavioral issues and their triggers. I wanted to make sure each night I worked would go as smoothly as possible. A number of the residents lived with sleep disorders, so I rarely had a quiet night (which was OK with me). 

The first time I met Virginia (who was legendary among the facility staff), she was just returning from lunch in the dining room. I saw she was giving me a look, probably wondering who I was. I stopped her and introduced myself and inquired how her lunch was. Her response told me volumes about her, her manner of thinking, and her own unique defense mechanisms.

"THEY PUT GODDAMNED GHONORREAH SPERM IN MY SOUP!", she yelled in response to my inquiry. 

I knew she was testing me. As unusual as this scenario might sound to many, this wasn't the first time I'd had an encounter like this. This 'shock & awe' type response was clearly displayed to keep me at a certain distance until she figured me out for herself. Many would have responded to her statement exactly as she intended. Not me. I took it in much as I would if she'd told me she'd been unimpressed with the culinary delights. 

"You know what that tastes like HOW?", I asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. The look she gave me was priceless! I doubt anyone had ever called her bluff before.  

"You're WEIRD! Stay away from me!" That was her response to me and it was her way of maintaining distance from me. Over the next few days, she would come into the office to complain about me, threaten to have me fired, etc. My boss chuckled every time. She'd known Virginia for years. According to her, I'd made quite an impression. My boss added the following statement:

"I think she likes you!"

If Virginia did, she had a unique way of showing it. I did notice, however, she spent a lot of time hovering outside the office. I was told this wasn't unusual except that she seemed to be focusing on me. 

To give some idea of who Virginia was, she was tiny, barely 5 feet tall. She was old, nearly 80 but could have easily been closer to 90. She was dirty, unkempt, and would have been happiest left alone to chain smoke cigarettes. According to some research done in the 1970s, tobacco use among schizophrenics is often extreme. High nicotine consumption seems to produce more lucid thought processes among them. Pharmaceutical companies have spent decades trying to find the exact chemical reaction, so it can be synthesized and sold as a treatment. So far, they've failed to do so. There was a problem though. Cigarettes are expensive and our residents had extremely limited finances.

I would grab a cheap pack of smokes every day before work, in case our folks really needed a cigarette. (They always did)

Another of Virginia's quirks was the refusal of medication. A stated goal for our residents was to become as independent as possible in their own medication management. Legally, medication can't be forced on anyone for any reason. Virginia was well aware of this and used it to her advantage as often as possible. 

At medication time, the staff was supposed to discuss the medication with the individual. What each pill was and its intended purpose. Virginia would usually shout and refuse medication, stating things like "I can't take Artane! I'm allergic to Artane!" even though she wasn't prescribed that particular medication. i never understood why, but many staff members would try to convince her to take her medication. I wouldn't. I would simply explain that she was within her rights to refuse medication. I would then attempt to explain the benefits of each medication and her doctor's reasoning for prescribing it. She would continue to argue. I would then explain that I would check back in 30 minutes. If she still refused, I would just have to document her refusal and her reason. This would usually be followed by another threat to have me fired as she would storm out of the room.

Within 20 minutes she would always return and complain that she hadn't received her medication. And so it went, night after night for the better part of a year. Other staff members would try to concoct methods to trick Virginia into 'medication compliance'. They would complain about my methods. My boss would then remind them that I was the nightshift manager and that she had no qualm with my methods. I've never condoned any sort of dishonest methodology in a professional setting. If a person refused a medication, they had their reason. That was good enough for me. 

For the first few months, Virginia would either yell at me, insult me, or ignore me. She would threaten my job at least once or twice a week. I explained that while I enjoyed the job, I could make more money doing almost anything else. One night, as she was threatening my job, I asked if she'd like me to quit. I explained that I could transfer to another site or just change jobs altogether. I explained that if my presence was so disruptive to her life, it would probably be in everyone's interest for me to do so. She just looked at me, then walked out of the office. 

She came back awhile later. I was sitting at the computer, typing up some paperwork, and she asked what I was doing. I suggested that MAYBE I was writing my resignation but hadn't totally decided yet. Her response was hilarious. "You can't quit! You always give me cigarettes!"

Rather than continuing the conversation, I went back to my paperwork. She sat down in a chair in the office and just watched me. After a while, I finished up and decided to take a break. I poured a cup of coffee and explained that Virginia would have to leave the office while I stepped outside. She followed me. I sat down outside and pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I lit one and offered her one. She graciously accepted it, used my lighter, and we just sat quietly in the night air puffing away in silence. I finished my coffee and excused myself as I was heading back to my office. As I neared the door, I heard her quietly say "please don't quit." I turned, gave her a smile and went back to work. 

I can honestly say that I enjoyed this job. It was never boring! Our residents were all characters. I became pretty close with the facility staff and the other residents in the building. I was often considered the go-to guy if there was a problem. Most nights residents would stop by the office to say Hi or come to me with concerns. The nursing staff and I were especially close. They couldn't figure out why I chose to work there. They thought I was too smart and had too much experience for my particular job. I'd just smile and tell them I enjoyed it. 

I worked there for another couple of years, before our site was closed. The state implemented an across-the-board 60% funding cut. For reasons I still don't understand, our site was closed because we managed to come in under budget. From a personal point of view, I was glad that most of our residents would be moving someplace less disgusting. Some chose to leave our program and stay. Others, like Virginia, we had barely 2 months to scramble to find them housing. Most of the staff took transfers to other site or just quit to look for other jobs. Towards the end, it was my boss and I splitting 12-hour shifts, marking the days to the end. I'd agreed to work with this group and wasn't about to turn my back on them. For this, I was given a year's severance. 

My last night was, admittedly, a bit emotional. It was the night of New Year's Day. Our 12 beds had been reduced to 4 or 5. Most of them slept through the night, except Virginia. She spent the night either in my office or following me on my rounds. It was obvious that she was struggling to stay lucid. I bought her a pack of cigarettes. About 4am, we were sitting in the office, just chatting. Out of the blue, she inquired if she could ask me a question, to which I agreed. "Can I hug you?" I told her it might not be professional or appropriate, but what the heck. It was my last night. Virginia smelled like cigarettes, body odor, and urine-soaked diapers. But it was probably the most genuine hug I've ever had. She told me that she would miss me. 

Due to her nearly lifelong institutionalization, Virginia was difficult to find housing for. Her sister eventually found her a placement in a facility in a different part of the state. Virginia died about 6 months later. My former boss called me to tell me the news. The news wasn't unexpected but still saddened me. In a perfect world, her mind would have been healthy. She would have been able to think clearly and not live with the fear of unseen voices and delusional thoughts. In the few brief years I got to know her, I was able to figure out her thoughts, and her views on the world. Hers was a sad story, but in her own ways, she made the best of her situation. 

I was moved to write the following song. It was heard by a handful of people who knew her, and it brought them all to tears.

Her name was Virginia.

She never saw the world. 

Because she talked to strangers

that no one could see.

It started when she was a girl.

Her name was Virginia.

She was scared of the dark,

and the voices that cried out

and called her rude names,

and the thing that lived in the park.

She took drugs by osmosis

through a hole in the wall.

She wanted a cigarette at 4am -

screams were heard down the hall.

Her name was Virginia.

She smiled sometimes.

But they put her away

on her 14th birthday

man that's one hell of a crime.

Her name was Virginia.

She was 80 years old

when she took her last puff

of a stolen cigarette

and said goodbye to the world.

She took drugs by osmosis

through a hole in the wall.

She wanted a cigarette at 4am -

screams were heard down the hall.

Her name was Virginia.

She never saw the world. 

Because she talked to strangers

that no one could see.

It started when she was a girl.

The Return of the Itch

 Last weekend pretty much ruined a solid 10 month run of peace and quiet for me. I'd stopped performing. What I thought was my last show was originally supposed to be the first with a new band. File it under SHIT HAPPENS. I was admittedly less than thrilled with the pace of the new band's progress. A couple dozen rehearsals (and one recording session) and we barely had 15 songs. But it was enough for one good set. I had a show booked. It was a low key event, no pressure...just enough to get us up and running. The evening before the show, the drummer came down with COVID. And the bass player was fighting a stomach bug. They bailed. 

I'm not one to cancel a show if I don't absolutely have to*. I tried to round up a rhythm section (last minute) but no one was available. So it became a solo show. I used to do a lot of these, but it had been years since the last time. I made it happen. People claimed to enjoy it. I sat my big ol' posterior on a chair and cut loose on old rockabilly, country blues, and anything else I could think of. The show turned into a Q&A with a couple of guitar pickers. It wasn't a bad gig...just not one I'd planned on. 

Over the next few days, the 'new' band pretty much disintegrated. I'll be the first to admit, I can be difficult to work with IF the other musicians aren't prepared. Really, that's all I've ever asked of any musician. Be prepared. If I give you a list of songs - learn them! I don't want or expect a note-for-note rendition. I try to be clear, I want people to play their own parts - their own musical vision - of any song, regardless of its origin. Just don't be boring!

Early last autumn, I'd given the guys a list of roughly 60 songs, mostly old covers. I figured they'd be, at the very least, familiar with a lot of them. Maybe I just listen to more music than most. I don't know. I had everything from old blues (Jimmy Reed, Howlin' Wolf) to classic rockabilly (R&R Trio, Jerry Lee) to old honky tonk (Hank, Johnny Cash). Sure, I had a few odd choices in there, but I figured we could WORK on those. I put together YouTube playlists. It shouldn't have been that difficult. 

But it was.

After that band disintegrated, I toyed with the idea of starting up yet another band, or maybe put some version of my old band back together. The bass player was keen. There just aren't many good, reliable drummers around. The few in the areas are usually booked solid playing with multiple bands. Sorry, not interested. I like some commitment. 

Those ideas eventually burned out. I decided it might be time to just give it a rest. I've been playing in bands since 1979. I've been gigging regularly since 1982. 6,000+ shows across 3 continents. I've played to lonely bartenders and to stadium-sized crowds and everything in between. I really don't have anything to prove, that's for sure. As much as I enjoy being onstage, the rest of it is a pain anymore. 

Probably due to my nature, I end up pretty much running the show. I handle the promotional end as well as arranging (and often writing) the songs. From 1995 on, I was also the front man - a role I, surprisingly to most, don't care for. It was OK when I was younger but years of bad habits and recently, worse health, my voice is shot. People still seem to dig it, but I don't. I just don't enjoy putting all of my energy into something, only to be the only one putting in the energy. 

So, I stopped gigging. No one seemed to believe me or really care.

I was approached about some European shows. The best I could say was "I'll think about it." I never gave a committed reply one way or the other. I was too busy starting to enjoy a quiet life.

I really don't drink these days. No reason to. I've never been one to drink at home. To me, drinking is a social thing. My wife doesn't really drink, and the cats seem to have little interest in it, so ours is a sober house. Most of my friends are 'old', and they aren't big on going to bars these days. Less reason to go out. So, I don't.

But the music still keeps coming. I'm always writing. A few artists here and abroad have asked me to write for them. Easier said than done, but I give it a shot. If I write something that I think is interesting enough, I'll record a home demo. If I really like it, I'll upload it to YouTube of Facebook. More often than not, the music goes no further than my computer. 

And I'm A-OK with that.

The bass player from the last band and I have discussed mixing the handful of songs we recorded and doing 'something' with them. There were some good ones in there. Life has kept us busy with other things, and I'm OK with that too. The one song we released got a decent amount of airplay, so I can't complain. I know I can still do it. 

Last Saturday morning, about 11am, my old buddy James (former singer with The Rowdy Bovines/The Bessemers) called. He was in a jam. His latest band had a festival gig up in Oil City (a little less than 2 hours away) and his lead guitarist couldn't make it. Could I fill in? 2 hours of rockabilly-ish stuff, decent money, on a nice summer day, sure - why not? James and I work well together. Always have (when we don't try to kill each other - but we're both too old for that now). We have chemistry. I've heard people describe it as magic. He sent me the set list. I got to spend about an hour listening to it and making notes. My schedule for the day looked like this:

• 11:30am - 1:00pm Go over the set list and learn 2 hours' worth of songs
• 1:00-3:00pm Check my gear, load it in my truck, take care of some household chores, shit/shower/shave
• 3:15pm or so, Hit the road to Oil City
• I got there just after 5 (we were due to start at 6). It took almost 40 minutes to find exactly where I was supposed to be and unload/set up. We started at 6:05pm. Did the 1st set, short break, 2nd set, end at 8:00pm. Load up, drive home. 

Not a bad day. As has been the case for years, my body was wracked with pain the next day or two. The ol' rheumatiz ain't been kind to me for years. 

I've done a lot of fill-in gigs over the years. My record is learning between 70-100 songs in one week for shows with 3 different bands. It's DO-ABLE! So yeah, I get a little grumbly when someone has a difficult time learning 50-60 songs in 2-3 months. 

But now the itch is back. I've been enjoying writing a novel for the past 6 months, so much so that I didn't realize I was missing gigging. But I was. And am. 

So, now the question: What to do? Musically I know what I want to do and what I'm good at doing. Unfortunately, the Pittsburgh area isn't exactly overflowing with drummers and upright bass players. I want great musicians. I want to be challenged musically. I don't want 'good enough'. I have zero desire to work with anyone who doesn't share my passion for music. If a musician can't be bothered to actually learn the songs, I can't be bothered to work with them. 

Maybe the itch will go away again. I'm almost finished with the novel and already have ideas for another book. I've been recording video bass lessons for a friend's son overseas. I'm still writing music. I'm still coming up with ideas. I just no longer have the time or energy to waste on other people's egos. Sure, it's a hoot to be able to say "I'm in a band" but if you ain't putting in the work, you're not in a band. You're having a wank. Little more. 

* In 2007, I cancelled a show because I had a heart attack. I ended up sitting in with the band that took over for me, doing 2 songs (which just about put me back in the hospital)...but I did them! 

Lyrics to Short Stories

 I was listening to an interview with Rodney Crowell the other night. He was saying something about a book he was part of, where different songwriters revisited some of their songs as prose rather than song lyrics. I liked the idea, so I thought I'd try a few as short stories. Where possible, I've added links to the actual song. 

***

DIAMONDS & CADILLACS

Years ago, a music publisher friend told me that my song "Diamonds & Cadillacs" would be what I'm remembered for. Quite a compliment coming from him, especially seeing how it was of zero financial benefit to him. I had to agree, in certain circles it's my best known and best loved song. Lots of the old rockabilly guys loved it. Sleepy La Beef, Alan Leatherwood, Charlie Feathers (who I originally had in mind to sing it), Mack Self (who declared it to be REAL ROCKABILLY!), and Hayden Thompson (who recorded a version for Blue Light Records) all loved it.

It's one of those songs that just happened. I was waiting for the bass player to pick me for a gig in Ohio. I was just sitting in my garage, picking at an old unfinished song of mine from the 80s (still unfinished!). I changed the opening riff a bit, and BAM! The song started to hit. I kept it simple. By the time the bass player arrived, I had close to 20 verses! On the drive to Cleveland, I whittled it way down and came up with the middle section. The solo was almost an afterthought. Al Leatherwood came to see us perform that night. He asked if we'd want to record some 'demos' the next day (which became our 1st album). At the studio, I played D&C for him, and he went nuts for it. He said he wanted to record it. I told him that was great but I'd like to record it first, and that I was also thinking about shopping it to Charlie Feathers. Al got pissed about that, which I've never understood why. It's a rockabilly song. It's never going to be a hit. It's probably too good to be a "hit". It's not lowest common denominator enough. 

Note: There are men who carry their glory years like a medal, polished and pinned to their chest. And there are men who carry them like a stone in their pocket — worn smooth, never shown, but never left behind.

Diamonds & Cadillacs is the story of the latter. A man who once lived under the hot burn of stage lights, who wore sharkskin and alligator skin and the kind of smile that comes from knowing you’ve made it — for a while. The crowds cheered, the women leaned in close, the money came and went, and the Cadillacs went faster.

Now, years later, what’s left is a porch, an old guitar, and the echo of nights when the air was electric and his name meant something. It’s a reminder that every bright light casts a shadow, and every song — no matter how loud — has a last note.

Diamonds & Cadillacs

The porch faced west, which meant the light hit him in the eyes around supper. He didn’t mind. Sun in the eyes was nothing compared to what he’d seen fade over the years.

The old guitar lay across his knees, its finish scratched and dulled, the frets worn smooth. He ran his thumb along the neck, more habit than music now. Every once in a while, he’d pluck a note and let it hang there until it died in the warm air.

Evenings were for remembering.

He thought about the nights under the stage lights — sweat running into his eyes, the crowd moving like a single restless thing, the first sharp ring of the strings when the band kicked into gear. Back then, there were diamond rings on his fingers, Cadillac cars waiting outside, and cash folded thick in his pocket. Pretty women who laughed too loud, whose perfume clung to his shirt. Back then, people leaned close just to hear him talk. They called him The Guitar Man.

It had been good while it lasted. But it hadn’t lasted. It never does. 

When the gigs thinned out and the phone stopped ringing, he kept moving — bar to bar, town to town — until the money was gone. He worked two jobs after that. One was hauling crates down at the depot. The other was pumping gas at the station on Route 9. His wife didn’t care much for the music, never had. She wanted him home for supper, not chasing the echo of applause. She’d never known him when he was somebody.

Some nights, he’d sit on the porch after she went to bed, a cigarette in one hand, the guitar in the other, wondering if she’d have loved him more if she’d known him then.

There was one night that stayed sharp in his mind. Summer of ’62. The big outdoor show in Tulsa. Ten thousand people out there, faces shining in the floodlights. The air was thick with heat and smoke and something electric. He’d stepped out in his sharkskin suit, alligator slippers, a ring on every other finger, and the place roared like it knew him. Halfway through the set, the sky cracked open with lightning, and he kept playing anyway — hair plastered to his forehead, strings slick under his fingers. By the time the last chord faded, he knew he’d never feel anything like it again.

Now he sat on a porch that sagged in the middle, in a town that didn’t know his name. The Cadillac was long gone. So were the rings. The gold guitar was all that was left, and even that was fading.

On a Wednesday morning in October, under a thin sun, they put him in the ground. Ten o’clock sharp. A few neighbors came, mostly out of habit. The preacher spoke kindly, but he didn’t know. He never knew that the man in the box had once been The Guitar Man.

There were no diamonds rings. No Cadillacs. Just a patch of fresh earth, and the sound of the wind moving through the dry grass.

Somewhere, maybe far away, maybe just at the edge of hearing, his last note still hung in the air, waiting to be caught by someone who’d understand.

"EDGE OF TOWN"

“Edge of Town” is a song I wrote back around 1987. I played it with The Swingin' Cadillacs, and later The Rowdy Bovines and the Legendary Tremblers. I know we recorded it at one point, but I wasn't happy with the outcome, so it got shelved. I have a copy around here somewhere - but damned if I know where. 

The L&B Café sat by the two-lane blacktop, a half-mile past the last stoplight and just shy of the grain silos. The coffee was strong, the pie was better, and the neon sign out front buzzed like a tired cicada.

She worked the late shift, hair pulled back, apron strings tied tight. By ten o’clock, she knew he’d be there. He always was.

Tonight, she caught sight of him through the glass before the door swung open. He walked in with that quiet, easy confidence, scanning the room until his eyes found hers. The smile that passed between them wasn’t just a greeting — it was a promise.

Some nights they’d head out for a drink at Dixie’s Bar, where the beer was cheap and cold and the pool table leaned just enough to make every game a gamble. The crowd was a mix of good ol' boys, surprisingly literate bikers, and the kids who hadn't quite figured out their direction yet. 

Other nights, they’d drive to her mother’s place, where the TV played low in the dark and the old woman waited up with coffee and a knowing look. Her father worked nights at the factory and had been gone for a week straight. She did her best to hide the bruises. She'd say things like, "Oh that? It's nothing. I bumped into the counter." Her mother never said it, but they both knew she got lonely. Lonely enough to not worry about a few black and blue marks.

He’d grown up with more money than most kids in town, but it hadn’t made him soft. He'd dropped out of college twice by now. He worked construction all week, hands rough, boots worn, saving for something bigger. She was part of that “something.” Six months from now, they’d be married. They talked about it like other people talked about the weather — a certainty, steady and unshakable.

Back at the café, she poured his coffee and leaned on the counter. He told her about his day, she told him about hers. The hours slipped by like they always did.

It was just another night on the edge of town.

But to them, it was everything.

"TIL DUST"

"Til Dust" is a song I wrote for a friend in Australia. For years, we were the first person the other would speak to every day. We've long been about as close as two people can be without being an old married couple. When I opted to try rewriting it as a short, I decided to give it a little bit of mystery. See what you think.

The last thing she said was “’til dust.”

Not a farewell, not even a promise — just two small words, breathed into the warm night air as if they already knew their place in the stars. Two words, soft as a moth’s wing, and then she turned out the light.

I lay there staring at the shadows, the ghosts of dreams crowding in before I’d even fallen asleep. On the nightstand sat the book she’d been reading — spine cracked, corners worn. The page was still marked where she’d left off. Its pages smelled faintly of sun cream and jasmine, just like her. I wanted to ask about the ending, to know what she thought would happen to the lovers on the page — but the wine was cheap, and my tongue was heavy.

“’Til dust,” I mumbled back, the syllables slurred but sincere. She smiled without looking at me. I could still smell her hair when I shut my eyes.

Outside, the crickets sang in the eucalyptus trees. The tide lapped lazily against the pier. Somewhere in the distance, a kookaburra’s cackle broke the silence, reminding me I was far from home. I’d come halfway around the world for her — through airports and customs lines, over oceans that swallowed days whole — just to stand here under the Southern Cross with her hand in mine.

“’Til dust,” I murmured back - again, clumsy with the words but meaning every one. She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I could feel that smile settling into my bones.

Night rolled into day and back into night. We walked through the balmy dark, past the glow of the harbor lights, until the city thinned into quiet streets. She brushed my arm, and the night seemed to hum. In the air was salt and frangipani, and the promise of rain. She turned to me once more, eyes catching the starlight, and whispered it again — “’til dust.”

The streetlamp flickered.

She was gone.

Now I wait, replaying her voice like a treasured song. Maybe one day she’ll return with the tide, walking back into my life as easily as she walked out.

'Til dust.

"HOODOO RIDDIM"...what a weird song with an equally weird history. In 2022, I did my last gig with my band The Legendary Tremblers. The band had become increasingly difficult to keep running. The pandemic killed off most gigs. Then I had 2 strokes. It was all more of a struggle than I cared to deal with. We were asked to perform at a private gig. I agreed, then the drummer bailed. I had maybe a week to scramble to find a drummer. As is often the case, one of the many former drummers for The Rowdy Bovines, Jim Bleyer, came to the rescue. We did the show. And called it a day.

A day or so later, Jim contacted me about an idea for a new band. Something between rockabilly, punk rock, and swamp blues. I was intrigued, so I wrote this song. The band never came to fruition though. 2 years later, I was working with an ill-fated new project and we recorded it. It's been getting airplay in a few different markets. A DJ in Cleveland declared it his new favorite song. But will it work as a short? Let's see!

There’s a spot out past the edge of town where the road gives up and the swamp takes over. No signs, no streetlamps, no reason to be there unless you already know. When the sun drops and the night gets thick, the drums start. Slow at first, like a heartbeat, then faster, hotter, until they’re rattling your teeth.

You can’t find it on the big highway. You’ve got to wind through the moss-hung backroads, past the shacks with their one yellow light in the window, until the sound draws you in. Those drums pound ‘til the break of day, and by then you’re not the same as when you arrived.

That night I saw Suzi — maybe seventeen, maybe younger if you looked close. Skirt cut too short, dancing in a way that made old men drop their cards and stare. Bogota Slim was there too, flashing a diamond ring the size of a pecan and grinning like he still had something to prove. Truth was, Slim’s reputation had outrun his abilities. Folks said he was looking for a miracle.

The little old woman appeared sometime after midnight, slipping through the crowd without a sound. A feather jutted from her cap, and in her hand she carried something wrapped in burlap. She unrolled it slow, like she was giving you a choice you didn’t want to make. Monkey’s paw — shriveled, ugly, and twitching like it still remembered what it once was.

She spoke low: only drank water that hadn’t been in a pipe. Then she pulled a Boline knife from her belt and, with a single practiced motion, slit the throat of a rooster. The blood hit the dirt and the drums kicked up like they’d been waiting for the cue.

By then, the night had its claws in me.

And the Hoodoo Riddim kept pounding.

Right through to the break of day.

ROOSTER

I wrote "ROOSTER" during the pandemic. For the few who don't remember, the world was just weird at the time. Bars and restaurants were closed. Streets were empty. I remember driving down a local highway, trying to find someplace that still sold beer, and things looked very 'ghost town'. I hadn't seen anything this deserted since 9/11. 

I was playing a lot of banjo uke at the time, and as they do, riffs and melodies would occasionally settle in. I started to imagine a dystopian Auntie Em's farm from Wizard of Oz. Like I said, it was a weird time and I wasn't getting much social interaction or outside contact. I released the song on the "Til Dust" album. People either love it or hate it. Meh. But as a short...well, it's even weirder.

The bats are gone. They didn’t say goodbye. One night there were fifty of them swirling in the belfry, and then… nothing. The air is wrong without them. Too clean. Too still.

Then the ravens left the tower.

Not just any tower.

Thee Tower.

And you know what that means. They’ve been there for centuries, their black claws holding the monarchy in place. Now the stone stands naked, and the crown is just an empty trinket waiting for the pawn shop.

The sun refuses to rise. The moon won’t glow. And the rats — fat, whispering things — dragged the flour away grain by grain, like they knew it was mine.

The scarecrow forgot who he was. I asked him his name yesterday, and he just stared past me, mouth full of dust. The tinman’s heart rotted from the inside out, rust blooming like a sickness, and he doesn’t move anymore.

A house fell on my baby. You can’t plan for that. It made a sound like wet paper tearing. I keep thinking I’ll see her crawling out from under the boards, but that’s silly, isn’t it?

The cat knows something but she won’t tell me. Just hides and shakes, tail wrapped around herself like a noose.

And my rooster won’t crow no more.

I can’t go into the village. Jesus told me no. He was at the window, lips moving like a puppet’s, and the words slid into my head sideways. He smelled like wet hay and copper.

But the Bible says I can do anything I believe. It’s in there somewhere, next to the part about the locusts.

The clocks have quit. Time is a dead thing nailed to the wall. The trains scream in their sleep but never run. My neighbors are gone — maybe up the hill, maybe in the ground. I hear laughter sometimes, thin and far away, like it’s coming from under the floorboards.

The pills don’t work. The beer & liquor doesn’t work. The quiet works a little too well.

And at the center of all this — the rooster sits on the fence post, eyes glassy, beak closed tight. Like he knows that if he ever crows again, the whole thing will start over.

BYE BYE

I rarely write with anyone. For better or worse, if I record it - I wrote it...or at least rewrote it. "Bye Bye" is one of the few that definitely had some outside help. 

I spent a couple years working the night shift in what could be called, if we're being honest, a nut house. I was the night manager for a small, 12 bed section. Our clientele were all chronic, long-term schizophrenics. There were about 90 other residents in the building, and most of them were a tad 'whicky in the whacky woo' as well. 

My boss had requested that I bring a guitar whenever I could. She felt it might be therapeutic for our some of our clients who didn't sleep traditional hours. I was A-OK with this. Getting paid to play guitar has long been my preferred vocation. 

Our folks, clients, whatever you want to call them, they could be like ghosts. I did my rounds every hour, wrote my notes, handled the paperwork side of the job, and played a lot of guitar. One of our folks, Virginia - she was a trip! She was pushing 80 and had been institutionalized most of her life. She wasn't particularly social, at least not in ways most would consider social. If she yelled at you and threatened to get you fired, chances are she liked you. She yelled at me regularly. I'd just smile and act like it was a perfectly normal conversation. 

I had just received a beautiful new tricone resonator guitar from a company that offered me an artist endorsement. I'd been playing a lot of acoustic country blues the previous few years, so it was perfect! One night, I was sitting in my office working on a brand new song. Virginia popped her head in, gave me a look of disgust and said, "That's too damned fast. Sounds awful." and walked away. I figured there's a critic in every crowd, but maybe she was right. I do tend to play things too quickly. So I slowed it down. I'd play a bit, try different lyrics, stop, write them down, go back to playing. 

Virginia stuck her head in the door again. "Still too damned fast." Damn, she was picky.

Finally, I got the lyrics and the phrasing how I wanted them. I asked Virginia to come to the office and give it a listen, since she clearly had an opinion about it. I played it for and she stopped me halfway through the first verse. "Too. Damned. Fast." She just stared at me like I'd offended her. So I played it again, much much slower. She smiled.

I asked if it sounded better that way. She just give me a grin and walked away. I played it a handful time more, just to get comfortable with the slower version. 

A few weeks later, I booked studio time to record the song (and shoot a video). I asked Virginia if she'd like me to give her writing credits for the song. Again, she gave me a look like I'd just insulted her mother while kicking a kitten. "I hate that f***ing song!" Then she stormed out of the office. My boss almost fell over laughing. I told my boss that Virginia was probably my #1 Fan. I wonder if Virginia would have preferred it as a short story? 

The air was thick with pine sap and dust when I caught sight of the sign. It hung half-buried in weeds along Highway 13 — a slab of warped plywood with letters slapped on in lopsided black paint:

COON HUNT FOR CHRIST THIS SATURDAY

THE KING HAS COME BACK

I didn’t know whether to laugh, pray, or keep driving. I chose the last one.

A few miles south, in a small Tennessee town that smelled like fried catfish and diesel fumes, I met her — a slip of a girl with honey hair and a smile that could make a Baptist forget his vows. We danced, we kissed, we planned things. Two years later she was gone.

Ran off with three fellas I knew by name only — the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Folks said it like it was natural.

I drifted to the Arkansas line, selling peaches from a roadside stand. Washed them down with something the locals called alligator wine — sweet, swampy, and mean. That’s when a crazy white woman found me. Said she was from Helena, Arkansas, though her accent had too much sin in it to be local. She led me to her motel room, tied me to the bed, and walked out with my shoes and  my wallet.

Nights later, under a swollen crossroads moon, I met a man they still write songs about — sharp suit, diamond ring, smile like a blade. He offered me the usual deal: wish for anything, pay with my soul.

I spat in his eye.

He smiled wider.

And from somewhere deep in the black pines, a laugh rose up that didn’t belong to either of us.

VOODOO COCKATOO

While not originally intended to be the follow-up to "BYE BYE", that's pretty much what this song turned out to be. I was sorely missing my Australian friends at the time. One night in bed, the better half was watching Top Gear and they mentioned an Aussie ute called a Maloo. Because it's how my mind works, I had to look up what the word meant. Then the words started to hit. "Storm clouds coming on, everybody running on home" I grabbed a notebook from the spare room and started to scribble words. I wasn't gigging as much as I would've liked, so it wasn't a big deal if I lost the song or not. But it wasn't going to happen!

When I woke up the next day, I went straight to the computer and started looking at Australian maps. I plotted out an imaginary adventure for the song. To this day, they're some of my favorite lyrics ever. And if we're being honest, it makes for a tidy little tale too!

They said Australia would be good for me. Get me out of the States, away from trouble.

They lied.

It started in Amaroo, under a sky that was spitting lightning like the wrath of God. I’d just seen a cockatoo — bright white, eyes like it knew my sins — flapping around the back of a Maloo ute. Locals said it was bad luck. They called it a voodoo cockatoo.

By the time I’d hit Cocklebiddy and Collaroy, the kids were shouting my name like I was some sideshow. A Tiwi Island sista girl grinned at me from across the pub, said she’d mix me a Rob Roy that’d “drop a camel at thirty paces.” I believed her.

That was when the storm rolled in. Heavy clouds stacking high, wind like a whip crack. Everyone bolted for home except me. I ended up in a back room in Narragundah, drinking until I chundered into a plastic tub. Met a girl from Darwin — brown eyes, wicked smile — who pulled my heart out clean and walked away with it, no questions asked.

The storm followed me.

Nightcliff was next — a place where the people sized me up like I was imported white trash on display. I didn’t mind until the magpie swooped. Big ugly thing with murder in its wings — they called it a voodoo magpie — came down screaming and snatched my left eye clean out.

I stumbled through Joondalup blind on one side, thinking maybe this country wasn’t meant for me.

The wind howled like a banshee.

The storm swallowed the streets.

I went bye bye.

ПРЕВЕДЕТЕ ТОВА これを翻訳する Käännä tämä Übersetzen Sie dies

 There is no greater skill than communication. Speech is communication. Writing is communication. Music and art are communication. A simple hand gesture, a wink, a smile, a nod - all communication. Our body language is communication. Every one of us has multiple ways to communicate. So, why don't we?

I remember the time before the internet. I remember writing letters, phone calls - hell, passing hand-written notes in class! We seemed to place value on communication. It was exciting to receive a letter in the mail. Maybe a birthday card, or a love letter, or just correspondence with someone. I miss those days. I remember how expensive phone calls were. Growing up in Ohio, it was a toll call to phone my friends across the river in West Virginia. Once I could drive, it was cheaper to drive to see them than to call them. As a musician, I spent lots of money on phone bills booking shows, tracking down gear, scheduling studio time, etc.

Now we have the world at our fingertips! So, what do we do?

We do the same thing we did when we first got email. I remember receiving so many emails that had FWD FWD FWD FWD FWD in the subject line. Maybe we don't have as much to say as we like to think we do. Now we share posts, memes, reels, videos, etc. from faceless strangers. They all tend to be advertisements or an effort to push an agenda. I'm sure that most people share them because they find something useful in the message. Honestly, I'd rather just hear my friend/family member/acquaintance's personal thought on the subject they share.

I understand. Sharing is easier. There's diminished responsibility for the message. Oh, it's nothing important or serious. I was just sharing it. What I don't understand is sharing something that has no point. Maybe I'm just old and weird.

I enjoy social media. Since the pandemic and my strokes, it's often my easiest way to socialize. My legs don't work well anymore. I have health issues that I have to deal with. I don't drink like I used to. I don't really do live shows anymore. As sad as it is, social media is most of what I have for a social life. But really - it ain't bad.

Every time I look at social media, I see posts from friends all over the world. At any given time, I'll see posts in at least 3 different alphabets, and a variety of languages. I see posts in English, French, Spanish, German, Japanese, Bulgarian, Russian, Swedish, Ukrainian, and more. I am always amazed that I live in a time where I can experience all of this cultural and linguistic variety right from my phone. It's astonishing!

My friends overseas tend to post much less foolishness. Maybe I just don't understand the complexity of all of the messages. It's possible. I know this: my friends overseas post much, much less political crap and ridiculous conspiracy theories. If they are posting it, I'm not seeing it. Maybe they're more discrete with their posts. But my American friends and family, EGAD, I can't go a day without a never-ending torrent of anger, vitriol, and crass comments. It makes me sad. I often ask if they know the person who posted the original quote/meme/article/opinion piece, etc. 99% of the time, they don't. Oh, I saw it on some page or in some group. Again, diminished responsibility. I understand why people are upset. I really do. But I don't think it's healthy when that's all you have to say. Hatred has never stopped the sun from shining.

This year, I've deleted over a thousand people from my social media. They were all either too negative or were little more than ghosts. Over the years, a lot of people have friended me not because I'm a fun guy, but because of my past perceived musical career. Friends of friends, and so on. I'm really not that personable. I'm open to all people. My faith dictates that. But I'm only human. I can only handle so much negativity.

My Australian friends are often a ray of sunshine in the digital din. We share the same sense of humor. We can discuss political and social issues without it becoming a scorched earth debate.

My Japanese friends often educate me on subjects I'm woefully ignorant of, like their culture and history. My Finnish friends always seem to have pleasant surprises for me. I've known many of them for almost a quarter century. I've watched their kids grow up. Now those kids are creating new and exciting business ventures, and of course, making my friends grandparents.

My Bulgarian friends - God bless them. Their music has been a large part of the soundtrack of my life for decades. The friendships I have developed with Bulgarians - they truly are remarkable people! It shows in their music, their art, their culture, and yes - even their food. (I'm still not going to drink ayran, but that's a story for another day)

The younger folks in our lives - they don't know a world without the internet. They can't imagine not having a phone with them at all times. They probably can't fathom having to wait a week or more to receive correspondence in the mail. But those of us of a certain age - we do. We should return to assigning value to what and how we communicate. Communication runs the risk of becoming a lost art.

I still occasionally receive correspondence in the mail. Few things can fill me with that level of excitement. Checking the mail and seeing a surprise package or a hand-written envelope with a familiar return address. Call me old fashioned. I still love getting mail.  That level of communication is priceless. 

That Thing You Do

 That thing you do - you know that thing you love, that thing you're so passionate about, that thing that defines you - why do you do it? What purpose does it serve? Is it a mean to an end or is it something deeper? 

I've always been a creative sort. Could well be genetic. My mum was an artist and musician. Dad could sketch well when/if he chose to. He had musical aptitude, but more in the sense of learning other people's music. I'm not sure if he ever had an original musical thought; but that's OK. Art and music weren't his passions. 

I've always known that I wanted to work in the arts. As long as I can remember, that was my goal. As a kid, I wanted to be my generation's Vincent Price - until I had the chance to work in a few films. BORING! Hours and hours of standing around while the real stars of the show, the tech crews, made everything happen. I became interested in cameras and photography thanks to these uncredited legends. I'd ask questions, and when they could, they'd take the time to answer and give me suggestions. Dad was not particularly supportive of much in the way of his children's career choices. Unless we wanted to follow him into medicine (which one of my brothers did), he always found ways to belittle and undermine our goals. The one thing he couldn't stop was my love of music. He found that out when I was 15. I'd gotten into some major trouble at school; major enough that I was expelled. I was supposed to be grounded while he figured out just what the hell to do with me (after the courts decided what I would be doing and where). I had no issue with staying home. We had cable TV. All of my books and guitars were there. But I'd recently started playing with a band. That had become a priority. One day, dad was driving to see patients at one of the local hospitals. As he was driving down the street, he saw me walking along, a guitar in each hand. He screeched over to the curb and hollered, "Just where the hell do you think you're going???" My answer was simple: "I have things to do." I kept walking and left him speechless.

I never had any goals to be 'rich and famous'. By 15 I already knew better. A weird, short kid from Ohio with an ethnic surname was unlikely to top the charts...especially as I've never been a fan of popular music. It was 1981 and I mostly listened to blues and punk rock. I also enjoyed classical music, Japanese koto music, and a lot of Eastern European folk music. My then unknown family heritage had a lot to do with that, but I digress.

I made music because it was in me (and it had to come out, as the old song goes). At its most base level, music is a form of communication. As a kid, I had multiple speech impediments. I stammered like a Tommy gun and had a helluva saying my R's. My parents figured I might outgrow it (because that was the cheaper route). The school had other ideas, so I was set up with a speech therapist. For years I drove that poor woman crazy. The R's finally came together after some orthodontal work, but the stammer continued. My brain worked faster than my mouth could keep up. One of the problems of having a so-called "genius" IQ (and yes, I was tested multiple times). The stammer continued until my freshman year of high school, and I discovered amphetamines. I'll never forget it. I was supposed to recite a poem we'd memorized in German class. Our teacher, Mr. Milo, was probably dreading me stammering my way through a second language. Surprise Surprise! The speed pills worked a little bit of chemical magic and when it was my turn, I zipped through Hänschen klein like a native speaker. The look on Mr. Milo's face was pure delight! Little did he know that I was also enjoying being able to feel every hair follicle on my head and really wanted nothing more than to run up and down the street a few times. Amphetamines, Mt. Dew, and later cocaine became a way of life off and on for decades. The weird part, I rarely ever used stimulants when I played music. They got in the way of my communicating through music.

In high school, I showed an aptitude for languages. English was easy. German also came easy, but that was due in part to hearing some of my older relatives speaking it. French wasn't difficult, I've just always thought it sounds a bit too soft. I joke that it's cruel to its consonants. I would pick up bits of Italian from neighbors and friends' family members. I would occasionally look at my best friend's Spanish textbook and pick out words and phrases. I also excelled in writing, especially creative writing. It was just more communication. Had I thought that linguistics was a potential career path, I might have gone in that direction - but I'm sure dad would have found a way to shoot that down too. By age 16, I was gigging regularly. I always worked. It's just how I was raised. I had my first full-time job at 15 (Dad wasn't going to let me just sit around the house while under expulsion from school). I liked working and I liked having my own money. In winter, I could easily make $75-80 a day shoveling snow. That's roughly $300 a day now. I did farm work, roofing, construction, plus bar gigs. I'd put some away and blow the rest (when I could successfully hide it at home). When I dropped out of college the first time and was kicked out of the house, I was homeless for a little while but ended up on my feet pretty quickly (gaining control of my bank account is a story for another day).  

I'd had it in my head that I would become a behavioral psychologist. I knew that people communicated in lots of nonverbal ways, I wanted to become an 'expert' on the subject. But I was too busy communicating musically. I always worked though. I'd read enough about the old blues guys - most of them were farmers, day laborers, truck drivers etc. Some of my jazz faves worked as sign painters while they recorded their classics. At one point, I found myself training as a chef and took a part-time job cooking at a nursing home. While the residents seemed to enjoy my cooking, they also enjoyed that I would spend time with them, just talking, or playing guitar for them. More forms of communication! 

Around this time, I was offered a recording contract. I was smart enough to read it before signing it. I knew a local judge who helped me with some of the legalese. I also paid attention when he said he wouldn't sign it. To date, I've been offered a handful of contracts and never signed any of them. Like I said, fame and fortune were of no interest to me.

I kept gigging until I was 24. I had dropped out of college twice by this point, almost got married, and saw how wild life can be. I took lots of not-very-well-thought-out chances and ended up back in Pittsburgh. I had planned to get out of music. (I can hear some folks laughing at this) I'd sent out about 50 resumes and received about 25 job offers working in the mental health field. Life was pretty good. Then music pulled me back in. I spent the next few decades working, gigging, recording, and touring. I always had a day job too. Whatever skills I have as a musician were being recognized globally, and I got to tour the UK, Europe, and Australia, as well as all over the US (with a few sneaky trips into Canada and Mexico). No matter what my day job was, I was considered, by most, to be a musician. I guess I still am.

But I'm also a writer. I was first published at age 15. A few years later, I wrote for some underground newspapers, fanzines, etc. In my late 30s, I had a regular feature column in a magazine, and also wrote freelance reviews, articles, and stories/essays. I've recently taken up the study of the Bulgarian language (which shares similarities with a few other languages, so it makes watching the news a bit more interesting). I've written hundreds of songs, and one day - centuries from now, I'll probably be discovered by some nerdy academic in the files of the Library of Congress. 

I've made lots of money, I've been broke and homeless, and everything in between. Communication, in its many forms, is the thing I do. I no longer limit it to just music, or writing, or speaking. I communicate through photography as well. I'm writing my first full-length fiction novel. I have had, and will always have, undying respect for anyone who can communicate in multiple languages and formats. For years, I was considered somewhat of an expert on nonverbal communication. Not just sign language (which I seem to have lost any real skill at) but at learning to read the behaviors of individuals who can't communicate in conventional methods. It's part of that thing I do.

So how about you? What's that thing you do? Are you making the time for it? Know your reasons and just do it. Don't worry about what anyone else thinks. Just do it. If it means something to you, it's worth it. 

Инцидентът с преследване в Хайд Парк

Днес разговарях с приятел певец в Лондон. Играхме на догонялки, говорихме за семейството, живота като цяло и старите радиоапарати. Докато обсъждах остаряването и храненето на същества в парковете, споменах инцидент, който преживях в Хайд Парк в Лондон. Любопитството й се събуди, тя поиска и получи следната приказка.

През 2002 г. трябваше да направя първото си задгранично турне. Няколко срещи в Обединеното кралство, уредени за мен от моя приятел 2-Tone. Това наистина беше преживяване за запомняне. Първото ми пътуване извън Северна Америка и за начало сам. Турнето в много отношения потвърди годините ми работа като музикант. Стоя или падам, трябва да го направя, защото някой смята, че определено съм достатъчно добър, за да го направя. Трябваше да прекарам 3+ седмици в Обединеното кралство, с последните ми няколко дни в Лондон, които бяха планирани като почивни дни/време за туристическо посещение!

аз съм маниак. Винаги са били. Четох много Шерлок Холмс и друга британска литература като дете и поглъщах часове британска комедия по телевизията, във филми, на записи и т.н., така че възможността да разгледам малко Лондон беше сбъдната мечта. Моят хотел (препоръчан ми от местен туристически агент тук в Питсбърг) беше в Падингтън, за който той не успя да ме информира, че е в сърцето на центъра за проститутки! Имаше визитни картички и брошури в телефонните кабини, залепени под вратите, закачени на таблата за обяви, навсякъде! И все пак в Лондон това просто не изглеждаше толкова неприятно, колкото някой може да си представи. Имах приключения, които да преследвам, но не от този конкретен характер. И така, взех си почивния ден и се разходих из района нагоре през Marylebone до Baker St и се осмелих да обиколя навсякъде. Посетих измисления домашен адрес на гореспоменатия Холмс, видях Мадам Тюсо, площад Трафалгар и успях да се изгубя няколко пъти, докато пътувах пеша. Тъй като съм чистокръвен американец, нямах намерение да спирам и да питам за посоката!

В крайна сметка се отправих към Хайд Парк (след като се облекчих на това, което се оказа задната част на Скотланд Ярд, но това е съвсем друга история), за да видя място, за което съм чувал, чел и гледал по телевизията толкова много пъти. Беше всичко, което си представях и тъй като беше ранна пролет, всичко започваше да цъфти. Времето беше приятно за британските стандарти...което означаваше, че не пикае дъжд и не хапе студ. По моите стандарти беше добър ден за кожено яке, което за щастие имах.

Аз съм американец. Ние сме, противно на това, което някои може би вярват, приятелски настроени по природа. Аз съм от Питсбърг. Извеждаме приятелството на нови нива. Казваме здравей на всички. Елате в Питсбърг и не е нечувано да срещнете някого в бар, ресторант или магазин и след кратко време да бъдете поканени в дома им на вечеря. Просто сме такива. Е, казах "Здрасти" на някой в ​​парка, от малко разстояние и без моите очила. Оказа се, че е транс човек (няма нищо лошо в това), който при по-близък поглед беше малко по-възрастен и изглеждаше малко жилав (отново няма нищо лошо в това. Хората остаряват. Случва се).

Е, изглежда, че естественото ми дружелюбие е било объркано с нещо друго. Може би тази част от парка е място за круизи, не знам. Бях по-загрижен за реакциите, предизвикани от полени, които имах към пролетните растения. Метрични тонове сополи изпълваха синусите ми и главата ми беше готова да се пръсне. След моето първоначално, погрешно разбрано дружелюбие, мис Тинг не прие НЕ за отговор (по дяволите, тя дори не си направи труда да зададе въпроса) и ме следваше навсякъде и се уверяваше, че я виждам, докато се опитваше да бъде сладка и привлекателна. С начина, по който се чувствах, тя можеше да бъде Елизабет Хърли, предлагайки тялото, душата си и кофа с пиле! Чувствах се не толкова прекрасно и не ми беше приятно да ме преследва някой. И така, ускорих темпото си (което ескалира реакцията, която имах към целия прашец във въздуха) и най-накрая се отървах от нея... или поне така си мислех. Явно познаваше парка. Тя се озова пред мен и тръгна към мен. Тя очевидно се беше насочила към мен и нямаше намерение да приема никакви замествания! Това е може би единственият път, когато алергиите ми са били полезни. Тя се приближи, погледна ме право в очите и ми даде опит за съблазнително "Helloooo" (звучащо не по-различно от Бари Уайт с британски акцент). Избълбуках гъст, флегматичен, но приятен поздрав в отговор и след това направих каквото трябваше. Като поставих пръст от едната страна на носа си, изхвърлих около литър слуз от носа си върху тревата. Изражението на лицето й беше просто ужас. След това прочистих другата ноздра и запуших лигавата постназална капка от гърлото си и изплюх още една топка върху тревата. Тя беше изчезнала до този момент. Трябва да съм изглеждал по-малко привлекателен отблизо и в по-мокрото си от обикновено състояние. Можеше поне да ми предложи кърпичка или насоки до най-близката аптека! 

Dear Democrats (An Open Letter to the DNC)

 Dear Democrats,

Why are you all such a bunch of feckless (lacking in character, determination, or responsibility; being ineffective or incompetent.; lacking feck) crybaby pussies?

I swear to any Holy on unholy deity mankind has dreamt up, you are all about as useful as tits on a bull. 

 In the time leading up to the 2008 election, you seemed to manage a new approach: social media. That early digital 'grassroots' movement put a black man in the White House. (it will probably be a long time before that happens again!) Well, you've LOST that! Your opponents routinely beat you senseless there. And guess the fuck what? THAT IS THE MODERN EQUIVALENT OF THE TOWN CRIER! THE STUMP! THE WATER COOLER! It's where people discuss the day's events. It's where the money comes from. It's where ideas come to die. 

If democracy, the Constitution, rule of law, and the once United States of America mean a damned thing to you, a new approach must be taken. Let's face facts. You should have won in 2024 by a landslide. You FAILED. Your failed yourselves, your party, your constituents, and damned near all of western civilization. How do you sleep? How do you look in the mirror? The GOP won the presidency, the House, and the Senate. That trifecta is currently destroying the country. And let's not forget, it's also FUCKING the economies of our neighbors and allies. You don't have four years to try to figure it out. It's simple. Not only did you lose, YOU HAD YOUR COLLECTIVE ASSES HANDED TO YOU! It would be a joke if the outcome wasn't so completely disastrous. 

 There's just over 600 days until the midterms. You Have To Have A WINNING Plan! Pushing the same old tired bullshit won't work. Doubling down on your typical milquetoast behaviors won't work. People aren't growing tired of the chaos. They're tired of YOUR LACK OF ACTION! It makes fighting feel pointless if at least some of the peeps in power aren't actually working to regain some semblance of democracy. 

 There are very few Dems in the House or Senate that I think are worth anything. Most could be fed to the Fargo woodchipper, and the world wouldn't miss a beat. 77-year-old Al Green (D-TX) is maybe the only one of you with a spine or set of balls. But of course, after doing the one thing he could, none of you followed him. Then he led a fucking singalong while be censured. Screw the kumbaya bullshit. It's time to get MEAN. If you can't fight like it all really means something to you, GO THE FUCK AWAY! Resign! Walk away. Let a better person step up and FIGHT FOR AMERICA. And to the ten traitorous wastes of breath who voted with the GOP to censure Al Green - your days are probably numbered. 

 Who are We the People supposed to count on? AOC? She sounds like Minnie Mouse after a rough bender. Fetterman? A man so clueless and arrogant that he holds zero respect for the office he holds or the people he pretends to represent. I'm a fellow stroke survivor. I find him to be an oversized disappointment; only marginally preferable to Dr. Oz (who, like it or not, is still part of Trump's fantasy dream team). Sure, every now and then a Democrat uploads a video or spews a decent sound byte, but at the end of the day, they ain't doing shit. 

Honestly, I believe you've all given up. I think you only care about your pathetic 'reputation' and the ability to continue your insider trading (yes, we all know that all of you do it). It's been so long since Congress actually accomplished anything, I think most Americans have forgotten what YOUR job is. And so have YOU. YOU WORK FOR US! To not take decisive actions against the tyranny, cruelty, and neo-fascism of the Trump administration is to be complicit. That makes you equally worthy of the outcomes of any actions by the people, FOR the people. 

Dear Democrats, it's a new day. Today you need to make a decision. Either you resign and walk away, or you FIGHT. My current health is such that whether or not I live to see the 2028 election (IF it even happens) is up in the air. But I still love the idea of my country. I still believe in it, even if YOU don't. If the term "Land of the FREE" doesn't include immigrants (and not just the pre-approved millionaire + class); LGBTQ-123XYZ community, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Atheists and/or Devotees of the Flying Spaghetti Monster; people of all colors, creeds, etc., then it is NOT the land of the free. 

Lastly, yes dear Democrats, I understand there is a strong chance you will find my message insulting. You may well choose to ignore it under the guise of something like "we don't entertain such vulgarity". Remember, when you lose again, it's by your own choice. As distasteful as my language (and message) might be to you, I'll tell you what is distasteful to me, and so many others. YOU CLOWNS acting like you have some moral high ground! You do NOT! Like any elected officeholder, YOU WORK FOR US. You have ALL (Dems and GOP) refused to ever write an amendment permitting the people to force a vote of NO CONFIDENCE in order to rid ourselves of useless career politicians. The likelihood of that happening is about as possible as you ever seriously considering term limits, and salary/pension reform for yourselves.  If the end of these so-called United States of America as we know it is permitted, it will be because the Democrats FAILED. Is that really the legacy you want? 

нова глава, груб проект

 предговор: В някое бъдеще време Америка се е самоунищожила с алчност, глад, война и болести. Малки групи успяха да избягат. Някои се озоваха в България. Този раздел е за някои от тези хора.

Ах, отново е това време от годината. Скоро ще дойдат. Винаги идват. Всяка година все повече и повече от тях. И винаги искат едно и също... пуйки! Големи! Понякога те искат много. Но никога прасе, никога агне, никога яре... винаги пуйка.

Започна преди няколко години с мъж на велосипед. Изглеждаше така, сякаш не беше виждал добра храна от години. Дрехите бяха износени и думите му, е, не бяха съвсем правилни. Той идва при мен и казва: „Правиш ли пуика?“ Първоначално не разбрах. Погледнах го, почесвайки се по главата. Питаше ли за кокошки? Но не, не пилета. Питаше за пуйки.

„Продаваш пуика? За честит манджа — казва той, опитвайки се да говори с всички сили. Мога да кажа, че не е от тук, а българският му е... меко казано груб. Замислям се за момент, след което го питам: „Искаш ли пуйка за ядене? За празник?"

Той кима, после спира и поклаща глава. „Да! Да! Да хапнем за празника!“ Очите му светят и мога да кажа, че е щастлив, че се е справил правилно. Кимам и му казвам „Ела, последвай ме“.

Отиваме до кокошарника, където отглеждам пуйките си. нямам много; хората тук обичат повече прасе или агне. Но ядем пуйка, може би веднъж през зимата. Ще го нарежем, ще го сварим със свинска мас, малко вино, кисело зеле, хляб... хубава храна. Познавам някои хора, които го пекат цяло, пълнят го с ориз и стафиди, но това е твърде много за мен и жена ми.

Той поглежда моите пуйки и пита: „Имаш голяма птица?“ Посочвам най-големия и виждам в очите му, че може би се надява на нещо по-голямо. Но той кима, казва добре.

„Не скъпо, моля“, казва той, почти като молба. По начина, по който изглежда, разбирам, че няма много пари, но тази пуйка е важна за празничната му трапеза.

„Пуйката е 20 лева“, казвам му. Лицето му помръкна, сякаш не очакваше това. Бръкна в джоба си и извади няколко смачкани банкноти. Виждам, че се бори, но има нужда от тази пуйка.

„Ама за ВАС, за вашия празник го продавам за 10 лева“, казвам. Лицето му свети като огън в тъмното.

„Мерси! Мерси!“ — казва той и ми пъха някакви набръчкани бележки. Благодари ми отново и отново, казва нещо за традицията, за празника. Трудно е за разбиране, но той е добър човек, виждам това.

„Англичанин ли си?“ питам.

„Американски“, казва той гордо, „От Люлин“.

Тогава го разбрах. Той е един от онези бежанци от Америка, онези, които живеят в града, в суровите части. Чувал съм за тях. Те трябваше да избягат от страната си, за да избягат от война, болести и бедност. Америка някога е била велика нация, но сега е малко повече от пустош. Не мога да си представя колко тежък трябва да е животът им. Те трябваше да напуснат страната си и сега се опитват да се справят тук, но е трудно. Този човек харчи малкото, което има, само за да вземе пуйка. Чудя се дали има семейство за изхранване.

Казвам му да изчака, докато приготвя пуйката. Увивам го в някакъв стар вестник, след което тичам вътре, за да взема нещо за него. Връщам се с един буркан мамина царска туршия и кисело зеле, слагам ги в торба и му ги давам. Той вече има пуйката в кошницата си и изглежда, че е всичко, което може да носи.

„За теб, за твоя празник“, казвам, подавайки му чантата. „Подарък.“

Очите му стават меки, сякаш ще заплаче. Мога да кажа, че отдавна не е чувал добра дума.

Питам го: „Как намери моята ферма?“ Той се опитва да обясни, сочи, казва: „В града, питай човека. Казва да вземеш влака за Перник, което и да е село, да намериш ферма, да попиташ железничаря... Тук ми говори.”

Усмихвам се, кимам, сякаш разбирам, но не го разбирам. Думите му са трудни за проследяване, но аз просто го оставих да говори. Човекът е преживял много.

Той се качва на велосипеда си, поглежда ме с лукава усмивка и казва нещо, което не мога да разбера, но звучи като „Ти! Догодина повече.“ След това пуска педалите, велосипедът му се клати, докато се връща към селото, вероятно за да хване влака за града.

**********************************************************************************

Около година по-късно един разклатен стар камион спира до фермата ми. Това е американският бежанец и още един човек. „Казвам ти, връщам се!“, възкликва той, докато го поздравявам. Той на практика тича към мен, за да се ръкува с мен. Имаше вид, сякаш вижда отдавна изгубен приятел.

„Искаме повече пуйка, моля“, каза ми той, толкова труден за разбиране, колкото и предната година. "Mnogo!"

Засмях се на това и попитах колко. Той погледна приятеля си и те заговориха на английски. Неговият приятел използва жест с ръка, за да посочи „три“.

Бях малко изненадан. Попитах, само за да се уверя, „Три пуйки? Това е много.“

„Да да, три. Три големи птици за празнична манджа!“, отвърна той. Той извади портфейла си и щастливо заяви: „Плащаме добри пари за вашата голяма птица“.

Махнах на него и приятеля му да ме последват до кошарата. Те погледнаха пуйките и си побъбриха на английски, като посочиха различните птици, побъбриха още малко, след което посочиха тези, които искаха.

Забелязах наум кои птици искат, след което ги попитах дали искат да се присъединят към мен за едно кафе. Те побъбриха за момент на английски и се съгласиха с молбата ми.

„Да, благодаря ти, приятелю. Щастливи сме да го направим“, беше това, което разбрах като отговор. Последваха ме в къщата и инстинктивно събуха обувките си. Чудех се дали това също е американски обичай. Предположих, че с всичко, което бяха изтърпели, може би обноските им са станали малко груби... но бяха изненадващо учтиви.

„Красива къща“, отбеляза моят клиент от предходната година.

Da da, mnogo beautiful“, добави приятелят му.

Благодарих им за комплиментите за моя, както трябва да се признае, прост дом и им махнах да седнат на масата. Извадих малко захар и налях на всеки по чаша. Опитах се да започна разговор, като се уверих, че говоря бавно и използвам прости думи. Техните умения с езика очевидно все още бяха много елементарни, но старият ми приятел изглежда беше развил малко повече увереност с речта си.

„Аз съм Дмитрий“, представих се. "Как се казвате?", попитах, сочейки напред-назад.

„Уолтър“, каза старият ми приятел и преди да успее да представи приятеля си, той извика „Пити“, усмихвайки се и сочейки себе си. Той се изправи и протегна ръка за ръкостискане.

„Добре се запознахме“, каза Пити, докато се ръкувахме. „Уолтър, кажи ми добре пуйка!“

Българският му беше също толкова лош, колкото този на Уолтър, но му благодарих за комплимента. Свиквах малко повече с речта им.

"Ваканция в Америка скоро?", попитах възможно най-просто.

„Да да“, отвърна Уолтър. "Как да кажа на български?" Той погледна към Пити, който извади мобилния си телефон от джоба си и сякаш потърси думите.

"Ден...На....Благ-О-Дар-носта! Да, Ден На Благодарност. Голям празник. Голяма манджа. Много пуйка!", с известна гордост ми съобщи Пети.

Ах, Денят на благодарността, помислих си. Чувал съм за това. Никога не съм знаел много за това, но ми хареса идеята за това. Ден, отделен да си спомним за нещата, които имаме в живота, за които да сме благодарни. Странно, че имат само един ден за това, помислих си, но все пак беше хубава идея. И си помислих, че е страхотно, че все още го празнуват, особено на фона на цялата суматоха, която животът нанесе върху тях и хората им.

„Каква друга храна ядете за празника?“, попитах гостите си. Изглежда не разбираха напълно въпроса. „Ядете ли също салата? Картофи? Хляб?“, попитах, опитвайки се да поддържам разговора възможно най-прост.

„О, татко!“, извика Уолтър. „Всичко! Турция, (някои английски думи, които не разбрах), салати, малки хлябове...“ той махна с ръце, за да посочи може би малки топчета хляб? Може би като кифла? "но тук...", той млъкна, "няма намерени боровинки" Не бях сигурен какво точно са тези. Бях чувал думата "ягода" преди, но не бях сигурен какъв сорт са тези.

Пити беше отишъл до надеждния си мобилен телефон, за да потърси думата. „Чер – вена боро-винка“, добави той и ме погледна дали го е произнесъл правилно.

„А, да, червена боровинка, тези ги знам“, добавих. Опитах се да им кажа, че не ги отглеждам във фермата, но може би бих могъл да попитам. Не съм сигурен, че разбраха, но всеки от тях се усмихна и ми благодари. Тъй като имаше мобилен, помолих Пити за номера му, в случай че намеря. Разменихме си номерата и аз си написах малка бележка, за да си напомням.

„Може би не тази година, но може би догодина“, беше най-добрият отговор, който можех да дам. След това обсъдихме пуйките и цената. Уолтър изглеждаше много щастлив, извади портфейла си и бавно преброи парите.

„Ти ми даде неща миналата година“, добави Уолтър, докато ми подаваше парите. "Моля, аз ще платя."

Бях забравил за консервите, които му бях дал. „Не, не“, казах му аз. „Беше подарък.“ Уолтър изглеждаше унил, че няма да взема парите за кутиите. Все още беше очевидно, че тези хора нямат много пари, а ние винаги имахме много консерви, така че с радост помогнах. За да не остане по-назад, Уолтър извади друга банкнота от десет лева и я постави на масата.

— Моля те — каза той тихо. „Приятелю“, каза той, сочейки ме. Ясно беше, че жестът означава много за него. Не знам дали беше гордост или неудобство пред приятеля му, така че учтиво приех парите и ги сложих в портфейла си.

„Благодаря ти, Уолтър, ти си добър човек“, казах му. Тези думи наистина дойдоха като приятна изненада за Уолтър и Пити. Очевидно беше минало много време, откакто непознат им беше правил какъвто и да било комплимент.

"Имате ли още?" — попита Пити. Засмях се и го уверих, че имаме много. Заведох ги в килера и им подадох няколко буркана с кисело зеле, домати и няколко краставички. Пити посегна към портфейла си.

„Не, моля. Подарък за вашия празник“, опитах се да настоявам, но Пити не ме послуша. Подаде ми една смачкана банкнота от 10 лева и ме погледна сериозно...

"Моля." Не можех да кажа не. Отново този жест като че ли замени част от мъжествеността, която беше загубил, така че смирено приех парите.

Уолтър и аз се върнахме в кокошарника, за да подготвим пуйките за храната им, докато Пити пренесе бурканите с консерви в камиона си. Ние тримата си свършихме работата и им пожелах здраве и лек път обратно в града. Преди да си тръгне, Уолтър се обърна към мен, усмихна се и ми напомни...

„Вземи го. Догодина. ОЩЕ, приятелю!“ Можех да приема това само като смисъл, че сега имам не само нов клиент, но и нов приятел.

***********************************************************************************

Обадих се на Petey няколко дни преди Коледа, но получих гласова поща. Бях намерил фермер, който можеше да им достави бушел боровинки догодина, ако все още ги искаха. Няколко минути по-късно получих обратно обаждане.

„Благодаря ви, но може би съобщение?“, попита той. "По-малко трудно."

Не пиша много, но се съгласих. Вероятно беше по-лесно да отдели време да потърси думи, които не разбира, отколкото просто да се усмихне и да кимне. След като затворих, му изпращам информацията.

„Намерени боровинки. за вас. Догодина празник.

Няколко минути по-късно получих текст на, изглежда, безупречен български.

'Благодаря ти Дмитър! Ти си добър човек. Пуйките и консервите бяха вкусни. Още веднъж благодаря. Пожелавам Весела Коледа на теб и жена ти!'

Бях изненадан от това колко ясно комуникира чрез текст. Изпратих отговор, пожелавайки Весела Коледа на него, Уолтър и техните приятели и семейство. Коментирах и колко добре пише на български. Той върна съобщение с едно от малките усмихнати емотикони, заедно със следното съобщение:

„Използвам приложение за превод. Много, много по-лесно. Освен това ми помага да науча нови думи. Често се срамувам от това как говоря. В старата страна говорех с големи групи хора всеки ден. Тук едва мога да поискам един хляб, без да прозвуча като глупак. Благодарим ви за помощта и разбирането.“

Усетих леко убождане от...от какво? Беше ли срам? Не се бях замислял колко трудно трябва да е. Принуден към нова държава, нов език, дори нова азбука. Преди да станат бежанци, те трябва да са имали работа, кариера, приятели, семейства. Те със сигурност общуват добре на родния си език. Започнах да се чудя какъв е бил животът им преди... преди всичко да се разпадне.

През следващите месеци забелязах повече новините от градовете. Бих следил докладите за бежанците в това, което хората наричат ​​Американските квартали. Бежанците живееха в мизерия. Съобщава се, че са мръсни, малко повече от мързеливи животни. Крадяха, продаваха наркотици, проститутираха. Това не звучеше като Уолтър и Пити. Изглеждаха като двама мъже, които са загубили всичко и трябва да изградят отново живота си в непозната, нова земя. Имаха трудности с езика и може би с някои от обичаите, но ми се сториха достойни... не мръсни, мързеливи животни.

От време на време изпращах съобщение на Пити, само за да го поздравя и да видя как се справят той и Уолтър, или питах за репортажите, които съм виждал по новините. Текстовите разговори винаги са били интересни и информиращи. Научих, че тяхната общност е малка, но сплотена. Да, те живееха в някои от по-суровите квартали; Надежда, Орландовци, Малашевци. Те живеят с и близо до други имигранти, цигани, гангстери. Вероятно не животите, които познаваха преди. Petey би описал колко трудно беше да печелите пари. Никой не би ги наел редовно - дори и да успеят да получат разрешителни за работа. Един от по-ранните мигранти по някакъв начин успя да събере достатъчно пари, за да отвори малък ресторант. Собственичката се погрижи никой да не остане гладен, дори това да означава по-малко за нея. Щеше да ги наеме да вършат странна работа, когато можеше. Беше създала много контакти из целия град, така че често предлагаше свои колеги бежанци за дребни работни места. Дневен труд, доставки, почистване; всичко, което някой можеше да направи (което обикновено никой друг не искаше да прави), тя щеше да им помогне да си намерят работа.

С настъпването на есента знаех, че моите американски приятели бежанци ще дойдат за пуйки. Бях сключил сделка да им взема голям бушел боровинки на наистина добра цена. Изпратих съобщение на Пити около първата седмица на октомври, за да получа прогноза колко ще им трябват тази година. Жена ми Диляра им беше консервирала допълнително за тази година. Не само обичайните чушки, домати, зеле и Царска туршия, но и туршии, конфитюри, компоти, лютеници и дори няколко големи кани ракия. Някои от нашите приятели също добавяха към тази колекция. Целта ни беше да изненадаме нашите приятели с тези продукти за празника им. И за никой от тях нямаше да вземем нито стотинка.

Когато се чухме с Petey, той попита дали е възможно да купим дузина пуйки тази година. Неговият приятел, собственик на ресторанта, прояви интерес към възраждането на стара ресторантска традиция от старата страна; безплатна храна за Деня на благодарността за нуждаещите се. Дузина пуйки щяха да разчистят кошарата ми, но аз се съгласих. Мислех, че този акт на благотворителност е нещо красиво. Изпратих обратно съобщение на Пити и му казах, че дузина пуйки няма да са проблем. Помолих го също да поддържаме връзка, ако изникне нещо.

Една вечер бях на бира с приятели в местната кръчма и им разказвах за моите приятели бежанци от Америкатаун ​​в града. Някои бяха изненадани, че общувам с тези хора. — По-зле от циганите! — отбеляза един. — И по-мръсен! - засмя се друг. Всички те отбелязаха, че според новините на тези хора не трябва да се вярва. Всички бяха крадци и престъпници. "Вижте какво направиха на собствената си страна! Искате ли това тук????", отбеляза едно от момчетата.

Просто се усмихнах. „Искаш ли да знаеш какви са всъщност? И откога вярваш на новините и на политиците?“, казах аз, смеейки се на приятелите си. „Човек дори не вярва на футболните резултати, освен ако не го види със собствените си очи!“ Приятелите ми изпъшкаха, някои се засмяха, но всички искаха да знаят: „Наистина ли познаваш тези хора?“

Разказах историята как Уолтър пристигна първата година и се върна на втората година с Пити. Разбира се, изглеждаха като клошари и едва говореха езика, но се опитваха. Те бяха горди и се опитваха да запазят някои от традициите си от старата страна. Обясних какво знаех за празника им за Деня на благодарността. Дори тук, където нямат нищо, те отделят ден, за да празнуват малкото, което имат. Тези хора бяха загубили всичко, което могат да си представят. Техните домове, техните приятели, семейства, цялата им страна. Бяха оцелели в Ада на Земята. Най-малкото, което можем да направим, като горди българи, е да им дадем шанс. Ние самите имаме дълга, горда история. Позволихме ли на османците да заличат традициите ни? Нашата история? не! Така че защо трябва да им жалим един ден, за да ядат тази проклета суха птица?

Приятелите ми млъкнаха след този съвет. Малко по малко разговорът се възобнови. Може би, само може би, не ВСИЧКИ от тези бежанци са толкова лоши, колкото се казва в новините. Може би това са добри хора. Може би не. Може би просто са в жалко положение и се опитват да оцелеят по най-добрия начин. Нашата малка група на практика грееше от гордост. През следващата седмица или повече, всеки път, когато се сблъсках с някой от тях, обсъждахме бежанците в Америкатаун. Един ден селският свещеник дойде във фермата, за да говори с мен за тях.

„Дмитър, чувам, че си приятел на бежанците, вярно ли е?“, попита той след първите ни поздрави.

„Да, отче, аз съм“, отговорих аз, преди да разкажа преживяванията си с тях. Обясних също, че техен приятел, този с ресторанта, искаше да осигури безплатна храна на нуждаещите се на празника им за Деня на благодарността.

„Чудесна новина, която ми даваш за бежанците, Димитър!“, възкликна бащата. „Не трябва ли винаги да се стараем да нахраним гладните и да помогнем на нуждаещите се? Може би мога да говоря с другите селяни; да попитам дали и те биха искали да помогнат.“

Обясних, че бежанците са горди хора и изглежда трудно приемат помощ. Отецът ми напомни, че Божията воля не може да бъде пренебрегната, и се усмихна. През следващите няколко седмици местният свещеник разговаря с много енориаши, описвайки историята как бежанците, тези без нищо, планират празник за тези с още по-малко. Имах много от селяните, които се свързаха с мен, изразявайки желание да помогнат. Те предложиха дарения от картофи, консерви, хляб, кифли, сладкиши, а друг фермер предложи да помогне с пуйките.

„Дмитър, не трябва да продаваш цялото си стадо на тези хора.“, започна той, „Казаха ми, че си ги продавал на доста под нормалната си цена.“

„Почувствах, че трябва. Те имат толкова малко. Това беше най-малкото, което можех да направя, като същевременно им позволих малко достойнство“, отговорих аз.

Заедно направихме план за осигуряване на дузината пуйки между нас и други ферми. Бихме ги дарили. Ако бежанците настояха да платят, щяхме да дарим тези пари на църквата.

Изпратих съобщение на Petey. „Може да се наложи да вземете по-голям камион.“

excerpt from the new book by

MEMPHIS MIKE

© ℗2025

all rights reserved