Haunted By the Ghost of What If

 Most people know I enjoy a cold beer on occasion. Some think that I live on bourbon. Not unlike my youth when most people viewed me under the misconception that I was forever high (I've never particularly cared for smoking weed) the notion that I drink a lot is more myth than actuality. 

 Back in my younger days, however, if you saw me out and about, I was probably drinking. If I was doing a show, I was drinking. In the studio working on a session, I was probably having a few. If you saw me in a bar, I was definitely on my way to blitzville. 

 I wouldn't say I had a drinking problem as much as it was a way to deal with boredom, anxiety, and being stuck in a small town in a shitty, bigoted, redneck state. I've never done well with small towns, and I can honestly say that I've never much cared for the state of Ohio. Sure, I have family there that I love, and I have some dear friends there that I also love but...the state as a whole has never been a good fit for my personality. In short, I was self-medicating. Shit happens. 

 I spent the better part of 20 years of my life in Ohio. I wasn't born there. I never really felt at home there. Everything about the place felt alien to me. Ok, I like some of the food but everything else was just so odd to me. My cousins thought it was hilarious that our family moved there. (The bigger laugh was that theirs moved to Michigan) In my teens, I would frequently sit and watch traffic late at night, jealous that the people in those vehicles were going somewhere, ANYWHERE, else. I tried to leave Ohio a couple of times but always got roped back in. 

 When I was in school the drinking age was 18 and most places didn't check IDs too closely. By 15, I was definitely a weekend warrior. By 18, a daily drinker. By 21, I'd hopped around from one town to another and eventually ended up in a rather Mayberry-like small town. I was close enough to Canton and Akron that I could find most things I'd want and was only 75 miles from Cleveland, which while not Utopia by any stretch of the imagination, was to me a good place to occasionally escape to. Like a lot of folks at that age, I was looking for my true self. I just knew I wasn't going to find it in a small town in Ohio.

 I've always had the ability to make the best of any situation. If I had to compile a list of personal strengths, that would be in the top three. My little personal Mayberry seemed as good a place to start as any. I didn't have any family around and really only had one or two friends at first. I landed a job in a produce warehouse and eventually found work in my chosen field. I was usually a week from being broke but it wasn't totally awful. I had a nice place to live, a decent car, a gorgeous gal, and was working pretty regularly as a musician. The one downside was WAY TOO MANY BARS. My gal enjoyed going out for a few as much as I did, and she was also a bit of a pool shark. Most nights you could find us at our regular watering hole, and I'd usually be drinking with my buddy Jackson while she ran the billiard table. Had I been able to stick to that routine, I would have been fine. But...that's not something I've ever been good at. I get bored, restless, and worst of all, anxious. I have one of those brains that never stops. I'm always thinking of the next thing to do. I like to believe I'm planning for any eventuality but I'm really just anxious and depressed. I'm still that way but I've definitely mellowed with age.

 There was an afterhours bar that my bandmates and I would occasionally frequent. The proprietor was, for lack of a better word, a character. In a small town like that, Brad stuck out like a sore thumb. Like I said, Ohio was and still is (in my eyes) a bigoted, redneck place. The locals would probably be aghast at hearing that and any who read this will probably argue the point but it's just how I see it. And Brad was living proof. 

 The county I was living in was predominantly white...and that's being polite. In the 3-4 years that I lived there; I don't think I ever saw more than a dozen non-white people. There was the Korean family that owned and operated the laundromat I used. There were a few black folks, and maybe a few Asian doctors and their families. Aside from them, it was white suburbia. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with my fellow honkies, but I can honestly say they're not, for the most part, a particularly accepting/inclusive bunch. 

 Brad's family was Italian. He and his brother both looked typically midwestern Italian. Where Brad differed was his effeminate nature, shaved eyebrows and black Eve Arden eye shadow. Yeah, like I said, he stood out. I'm sure he could have toned himself down for public consumption, but Brad was gonna be Brad, no matter what. He was true to himself and for that, I always respected him. His bar could give some folks a bit of the creeps. Always clean, with a great antique billiard table (complete with transparent balls) it looked like a nice place. Brad, however, was particular about his clientele. He didn't let many women in. Whether he was concerned that they might be offended by the porn that was usually on the TV or he just felt they were competition, I never bothered to ask. I learned early on in life that there are all sorts of people and to each their own. That's still how I see the world and probably always will. 

 My favorite thing about his bar was the old Wurlitzer, bubble top jukebox! Better still, he had it loaded with great old jazz, blues, and R&B records. These scratchy old discs were the foundation of our friendship. Brad had a memory like a herd of elephants. He never forgot a name, a face, what you drank, and what - if anything, you played on the jukebox. I first met him a couple of years before I moved to the area. A friend and I had met a couple of gals from there and we all went to a concert up in Kent one weekend. After the show we went to Brad's. I wasn't quite ready for the likes of him, but he seemed pleasant enough. We had a few drinks, and eventually took the gals on home. A year or two after I moved to the area, a bandmate and I went there for a 'few more drinks' (after already closing another bar). Brad remembered me by name and very pointedly asked where I'd been and why I hadn't been back in so long. He then handed me a beer, asking "is this still your drink of choice?" I doubt I've ever been particularly memorable, so I'll chalk it up to Brad having a great memory.

 Like I said, I drank way too much at the time. I think there was something like 88 bars in the area. That was a lot for an area of maybe 25,000 people. If I worked late or had a gig, I'd stop by Brad's. I'd get my drink on and we'd argue about old jazz songs, who sang them, the year and label they were released on, typical music nerd stuff. One night I was telling him about a BBQ that had opened up on the outskirts of town and asked if he'd been there yet. He reminded me that he didn't drive and would have no way to get there. I simply suggested I'd take him. To say that he was touched by this minor gesture would be an understatement. To a lot of the folks in the area, he was a pariah. He was "weird" and "a fag". I'd heard rumors about some issues with him and other guys. Maybe those guys just didn't realize it was a man they were having sex with until their friend/families found out. Maybe they were all blind Who knows. But the good people of Mayberry North dealt with Brad out of necessity. His family owned a restaurant and he owned a bar and the folks in town enjoyed eating AND drinking. So, if you wanted to drink late, you were going to Brad's. But ONLY if he let you in. You had to ring the doorbell, and he'd check the peephole or crack the door before he decided if you were coming in or not. Like I said, he could give some folks the creeps. I always figured he'd had enough of the locals and their bullshit, so he played it safe.

 Safety was generally not much of an issue for Brad. He had 3 Dobermans that had the run of the bar. If you didn't like dogs, you just didn't go there. If the dogs didn't like you, you weren't getting in. It took me a while to get used to having a Doberman resting its head on my leg while I drank. Luckily, I've always liked dogs and dogs usually like me. One of his Dobermans was a miniature, and it would come up to me and run in circles and bark until I picked it up. Brad would usually yell at me to not spoil the dog. I have news for you, they already were spoiled. 

 Small town life went on as small-town life does. My gal was becoming concerned with the frequency of my drinking. At one point she had initiated a No Whiskey rule. Around this time, I'd taken a job managing a gas station/convenience store and usually worked til 11 or 12, unless I had a gig. I'd usually run to our regular watering hole, close that down, and often go to Brad's for 'a few more'. As the gal was becoming more vocal with her concerns, on one night in July of 1989, I pulled into Brad's parking lot...and just sat there. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was drinking too much. She loved me and cared about me, and I was an ass for making her worry, so I started the car back up and drove home. It was the last time I ever went to Brad's after-hours bar. I remember there were a couple of vehicles in the parking lot. Nothing unusual. Nothing memorable.

 My gal was asleep when I got home. She was opening the restaurant she worked at in the morning, which meant she had to be there by 5:30. I crashed out on the couch so as to not wake her. She phoned me about 10 or 11 in the morning and asked if I'd heard about Brad. I wasn't really awake enough to comprehend what exactly she was saying. Something about Brad being dead. I told her I hadn't heard anything about it. I also didn't tell her that I'd stopped there the night before but turned around and came home. I called Brad's home phone but got the answering machine. I left a message...something to the effect of "Hey Brad, what's this rumor I'm hearing that something happened to you? Give me a call!". He didn't call back, so I tried the bar phone. Still no answer. When my gal got home around 1:30 in the afternoon, she brought home the newspaper with the headline Tavern Owner Slain. My heart sank. The article didn't go into great detail, as I recall, just that he had been beaten to death. That evening at work, I ran into one of the local cops that I knew. I was asking him about what happened. He told me he'd heard my phone message and was hoping to talk to me. I told him about stopping there but turning around. He asked if I could remember the vehicles and I gave him the best I could remember. He said he'd be in touch if the cops had any more questions. They never called. Brad was beaten and castrated in his own bar. Like I told the cops, it was unusual that the dogs weren't in the bar...so whoever it was must have been scared by them and convinced Brad to put them in the cellar. It was years before the case was finally closed, no thanks to the cops. The murderer, from what I've been told, was about to get married and after carrying the guilt with him, told his fiancé about it. I hear she turned him in. 

 To this day, I can't help but think WHAT IF I had stopped in for 'a few more drinks'. Maybe Brad would still be alive. He'd be 80 now.  I tried to be a good guy and not worry my gal and my friend ended up murdered. Maybe Brad got touchy feely and the guy wasn't in the mood to put up with it. Maybe he just had it out for Brad. I just can't help but think it probably wouldn't have happened if I'd just got out of the car and gone in and drank. I think about this every year at this time. Every damned year. I don't even need to look at the calendar. It comes in dreams. It'll pop into my head out of nowhere. Then I look up the old headline and see the date...and there it is. And I relive it in my head over and over for a few days. I can honestly say that I miss Brad. He was a kook. He was a character. He could be a bullshitter. He loved his music, he loved his dogs and dammit, he was my friend. He was unapologetically himself and you really gotta respect a person like that. Rest In Peace old friend. 

You Might Be An Asshole

 You might be an asshole. You might not. You might be an asshole one minute and not one the next. There are times when I'm an asshole. In fact, it's a running joke between my better half and myself. I'll often say to her, "Babe, your old man is really an asshole." She'll usually laugh, agree, and then ask, "What did you do now?"

I don't try to be an asshole. I guess you could say it comes naturally. I try to be kind, and understanding, and tolerant. But...some days I'll see or hear something so blatantly ignorant or ridiculous that the asshole in me comes bubbling to the surface. Some days I'm amazed at my ability to contain the asshole in me. Today is one of those days, although, it's still early.

This morning, a friend, out of the blue, started messaging me diabetes memes. As a diabetic, I've pretty much seen all of them. Especially the Wilfred Brimley ones. When I was diagnosed with diabetes, I started up The Wilfred Brimley Society (Eat Your Damned Oatmeal). As a number of my friends and contemporaries have been diagnosed with it as well, I always send them a copy of The Wilfred Brimley Society card (so that they can proudly admit to being a member in good standing of a growing minority). I also offer up any bit of advice that might help. I offer up my own story, and my personal tips for how I keep mine under control (my doc often compliments me on how well I keep it under control). As for the memes, when I was first diagnosed, I used to post them. It was my typical response to personal stress. Self-depricating humor and flipping the bird at the problem. It doesn't cure it. It doesn't really help it but it does help ME. If some folks find it entertaining, well fucking goody goody. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not here to entertain anyone. (more about that later)

As for my friend, who I am certain wasn't trying to be malicious, it all started with my friend sending this meme, out of nowhere.

Yep, I've seen it before. I don't particularly care for it as it's pretty stupid. As I was neither in the mood for it, nor was I in the mood for anything confrontational, I replied with the following photo of MY OWN PERSONAL GLUCOMETER (the thingy I use to check my blood sugar BECAUSE I HAVE DIABETES)

 

One would think this would have clearly communicated, in a friendly and polite way, a reminder that I'm diabetic and MAYBE, just MAYBE the meme was construed as in bad taste; or at least of dubious timing. 

Unlike many folks, I rarely, if ever, post my problems online. I rarely discuss them outside of the house. Period. I'm not big on asking for random advice or help. I don't feel the need to air my dirty laundry in public either.  I try to enjoy as quiet a life as possible. My life is probably pretty dull to most folks. A lot of time spent with my kitties and the squirrel friends. I'm not terribly social. It's not that I don't like people; I just have few occasions to go anywhere. I'm happiest at home. 

Just because I don't talk about my own issues doesn't mean that they don't exist. Oh, they do!  If I was so inclined, I could ramble on about the ongoing struggle of adjusting to a post-stroke life. I could give a daily monologue about the difficulty I have walking or the amount of physical pain I live in. But I don't. 

I could entertain the social media voyeurs with tales of my financial struggles, employment issues, family troubles, etc. I find no catharsis in any of that. I've learned enough to sort out most of my own problems without the added benefit of whining and crying to the wolves. 

But...today this shit pissed me right the fuck off. 

I'm generally pretty thick skinned. It takes a fair bit to elicit a truly emotional response from me but this got me really angry. ("You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." - B. Bannon) Just one of those days. I can take a number of educated guesses as to WHY it pissed me off but suffice to say that it did. 

I'm lucky enough to have a significant other who honestly takes the time to get me. As I was ubercranky, I chatted with her a bit. I pointed out the following, which she asked if it was a quote. No such luck dear reader, just the mess that often brews in my head:

'You wanna know what I find HILARIOUS? Grown adults with a history of shitty life choices who try blame their problems on everything from mental health issues to others being mean and not kowtowing to their every whim...who continue doing the same shit over and over well into their 50s-60s-70s without ever once taking responsibility for their own lives! Fucking mirth right there! How about those hilarious fuckers who put people down because they have a faith or belief system that others might not? A fucking laugh riot! Almost as funny as racism.'

There's no worse beating than the ones we get from those closest to us. I get it almost daily. People trying to be humorous or share some bit of bullshit online wisdom. I am insulted on a regular basis and more often than not by people not meaning to do so. 

We'll call this a reminder. I'm a man of faith. My faith is more important to me than any person alive. Without it, I have very little reason to continue in a dark, hate-filled world. In my faith I find strength. I find the ability to see the beauty in the world. It enables me to look for the good in even the worst people and their actions. Yet, many insult that faith on a regular basis. People like to claim that there's no proof of God's existence. The fact that I haven't seriously fucked YOU up is all the proof you need. Without my faith I would be a very different person. I used to be that person. I know him well. My faith gives me the ability to keep him at bay. Remember the old saying: there are no atheists in a foxhole. Ain't many atheists on the day of a surprise math quiz either. So, the next time you want to talk smack about my faith, don't be surprised if I just throw you out of my life. You won't be the first person I've had to turn my back on and know that it hurts me deeply to ever have to do so. Pray that I don't give up my faith. If I do, and I opt for a more self-serving life, you will likely become my prey. And there ain't a damned thing you'll ever be able to do about it. 

Please understand that I live with an ever-growing number of health problems. To me, it's no big deal. I'm used to it. I was born premature. I spent the first 4-6 weeks of my life in a plastic box. I was a sickly kid. Aside from a few decent years in my 20s, I've dealt with one thing or another almost every day of my life. I literally live in pain. I love when nurses ask if I'm in pain. I laugh and usually say something like "no more than usual". I have at least two disorders that I live with wherein my body is attacking itself. My own body and my own blood are trying to kill me! This makes me tougher than most, even when/if I don't want to be. It also helps me be understanding of the problems of others. But guess what? Some days I just don't give a damn. This morning was definitely one of those times. I hope I can be forgiven for that.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy humor. It has kept me alive. Just never assume that I'll be open to cruel humor or purely stupid humor. I'm stuck in warzone of a body. I'm usually deep in thought or trying to get through more pain than I feel like dealing with. If you don't live like this, consider yourself lucky. If you feel that you just have to show me something like that, try asking me how I'm doing first. Hardly anyone ever asks that. I probably won't ever give a detailed answer. I usually don't feel like sharing that part of me and most people really don't need to know. Just because you can't see it, at this very moment, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. 

OK, I promised more clarity on being entertaining. I often enjoy entertaining people. A good laugh, a good story, a bit of art or music, is always good to share. Just never expect me to do it. That's a lot to live up to. There are times when an artist/musician/writer/comic/etc. JUST DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT. So don't ask. To do so is an obscene level of arrogance. I'm not a trained monkey nor is anyone else in the arts. If I want to share some of my art or music with you, I will. Understand, that when I do, I am literally giving you a piece of my life, my soul, my heart. It's not available to most of you On Demand. And it never will be. I've made sure to put a lot of my art and music online, available to you 24/7. What more do you want? It's not my place to make you feel special. Ask yourself, do you really want to give that much power to a man who admits to occasionally being an asshole? 

He's Back!!!

 If you've been playing along with the home version, you already know what all's been going on. For everyone else, here's an update.

On February 5, 2022, I performed my last ever show with my band MEMPHIS MIKE & THE LEGENDARY TREMBLERS. After 27 years, thousands of shows, a number of recordings, and achieving more than I ever thought possible, it was time to call it a day.

Aside from the rock & roll fun and excitement, there was also a lot of headaches, heartache and drama. Life, in general. Over a quarter century of my life fronting the same band, doing mostly my own songs. Don't get me wrong...it was great! I wouldn't change a second of it, but it wasn't without its downsides.  

In 2001 I was treated for cancer. 

In 2002 I was declared dead for 7 minutes and spent a week or so in a coma. I got a good album title out of it though...

In 2006 I had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized. 

In 2007 I suffered a massive heart attack, was essentially forced out of my chosen 'day job' career, almost had to file bankruptcy, went through a few years of legal headaches and that's just the obvious stuff.

In 2010 I was treated for a 2nd cancer. A year later I was forced the rest of the way out of my chosen 'day job' career. All the while, I kept rockin', recording, gigging, and touring when possible.

In 2013 I was diagnosed with diabetes.

Things finally settled and I was happily working in a new profession, fronting the Tremblers and working with a number of other bands. My personal life was doing great, and I was pretty much on top of the world. 

2020 came and just like everyone else, my world came to a standstill. COVID! The gigs all dried up. I was working from home and even managed to do some remote recording sessions. All things considered; it wasn't as bad as it could have been. 

Midway through the year, I terminated my working relationship with one of the acts I was with. Life went on. No one was gigging anyway, so I figured 'this too shall pass'. 

2021 came and so did the vaccines. I was really looking forward to gigging again. I had a few things lined up...and then I got sick. My blood pressure went through the roof. I was in/out of the emergency room. In May, I had my first stroke. I had a second one a month later. I had to relearn how to play guitar, had to learn to walk differently and had to work to be able to sing again. I also went temporarily blind in one eye. 

After a couple of months, I was confident enough in my playing that I took the band into the studio and we recorded a new single, "Hard To Kill". It felt like things were on an upswing.

A month or so after the single was released, I was asked to sit in with the previously mentioned artist. It was my first show back after the stroke and I have to say, I did pretty darned well! I was ready to get back to gigging. 

I spent a few months trying to get the band to rehearse. I especially needed that just to make sure I could get my voice to function properly. The rehearsals just never happened. It seemed like there was little interest in rehearsing and I wasn't even sure if the guys even wanted to gig with me anymore. Understandable really. Would I have another stroke? Maybe on stage? Or worse? Or maybe it was just time to move on.

I let things go for a while. I figured I'd wait until after the first of the year. I recorded and released a solo album and enjoyed my holidays.

2022; a new year. Still no rehearsals. The bass player insisted he was ready to roll....but things just weren't coming together. A show came up for early February. I was excited but little did I know it would be the last one. The drummer was being unusually difficult and then after a week or two informed me he was double booked. So basically, FUCK YOU and YOUR GIG. In this day and age, a double booking just doesn't happen. Every phone has a calendar. I was ready to cancel the gig. I just don't do that and I felt miserable about it. So I had to find a drummer, and most importantly a drummer who knew my stuff. We weren't really going to have time to rehearse. It was all just too much headache by that point. I decided to pull the plug. One last show and make it a good one. I think we managed that.

I've spent the past two months, almost three, fielding calls about other projects. A few 'almosts' but nada. I spent my days working on my guitar playing, as well as my vocals. I was really starting to enjoy it again in ways that I hadn't for years.

I was reminded of a show we did during a blizzard, years ago. That particular show ended up being just the band, the bartender, the promoter, the soundman and maybe one or two brave souls. The promoter suggested that, under the circumstances, why not just have some fun and play whatever we play for ourselves at home. We just laughed and played our regular set. At the time, that was mostly what we played at home too...when/if we were home! But now, I've been sitting around and playing just stuff that I like or always wished I could play or was curious to try. Lots of old jazz and blues from the 1920s and 30s, old New Orleans stuff, old British dance hall stuff. I started mixing and matching different songs and styles, just having fun. I've been tempted to just grab my banjo uke and go busking downtown. Lucky for the good people of Pittsburgh, the weather has not been accommodating.  

But it got me really wanting to play. I messaged my long-suffering bass player Rob and simply asked, "are you as god-damned bored as I am?"

I had a very quick reply from him stating that yes, yes he was.  I told him about the stuff I'd been playing at home and asked if he was interested. Again, a resounding affirmative. I asked if he knew of a good drummer he'd want to work with. He got ahold of a former bandmate (Tod) and it looks like yes Virginia, we has a new band!

Let's be honest. I'm just me. I play how I play. As #1 Son once put it, "it am how it do". If you've heard me before, anything I do probably won't be a huge surprise. What I can tell you is that you'll hear a lot of stuff you've never heard me play before. I'm mixing in a lot of styles that I love but didn't think fit the old band An old song from by The Mississippi Sheiks? Sure, why not? A Los Lobos song? Heck yeah! An obscure California rockabilly track from the 50s? But of course! A mashup of Albert King and The Beatles? Who wouldn't??? Throw in some downhome blues, a little bit of Texas swing, some surf, some twang, make it greasy and perfect for folks to grind and shimmy to...that's our goal. I showed a friend the set list (so far). He can't wait to hear this because he loves the songs I chose. I'm admittedly a bit limited by my voice...but again, nothing new there. 

If all goes to plan, we should be out and making noise by June or so. It'd be great to see YOU at a show. We won't be selling merch or pushing you to check out our website or InstaTwit-O-Gramify Cloudbook but we will happily have a drink with you. We might even ask for a Hell Yeah...but ultimately, as always, that's up to you. 

An Updated Memory

 I first wrote about this on Facebook on March 8, 2020...just about the time the plague hit. 

I've heard it said that as we get older, the world gets smaller. This is one of those tales. 

As a musician, its usually tougher to get local radio play than in other markets. Why? Because they know  ya...they see ya at the grocery store in sweatpants and flipflops. No matter how good ya are, you ain't special. You're just another 'local' musician. (I could reference League Of Gentlemen here..."It's a local shop....for locals!"...and I guess I just did) I'm always grateful when I do get airplay, especially locally. I don't tour anymore, so local is where I perform on the rare occasion that I do. The airplay helps put butts in seats. (No matter how much you think your reputation may precede you, if the masses don't know that you're performing at their favorite venue, they ain't gonna be there)  Here's where it gets fun! My song "Whiskey Wine & Beer" (from my 7 MORE TO GO album) was played right after some Robert Jr. Lockwood! 

Man! That took me back! When I was living in NE Ohio back in the 80s, I started listening to (and often taping) a blues show on WAPS out of Akron. Like our local radio station WYEP, it was at 91.3 on your FM dial! On WAPS I first heard Robert Jr. and made sure I got out to see him when I could, as he was living in Cleveland at the time...a mere 75 miles away. For a blues-loving musician (although I was mostly playing bass at the time) this was some serious schooling! But the smallification of the world doesn't end there. No sirree. 

The cat that usually played drums for Robt Jr. was Bob Ebersol (aka Max Bangwell to you west coast types). Bob and I were the rhythm section on a lot of songs by Alan Leatherwood. Even funnier, Bob and I were never in the studio at the same time. Before he passed a few years back, Bob and I joked that one day we would record together, at the same time! Sadly it never got to happen. So, having one of my songs follow Robt Jr. (possibly with Bob on drums, who knows)...yeah man, this big ol' blue ball is getting smaller every day. I just keep trying to move along with it. 

* since I first wrote this, a year or more ago, my own world has become smaller still, and sadly, quieter. We've lost more of my old musician pals. Leatherwood has endured some health issues that have greatly reduced his volume. My own health issues have sidelined me from performing. I still make noise around the house, much to the chagrin of our kitties. (they have, oddly enough, taken a liking to the sound of a 12 string guitar) If you enjoy live music, do yourself, the venue, and the artists a favor: Find yourself a way to stay informed on who's playing where and when. It's not that difficult and you just might have a bit of fun in the process. 

The Hyde Park Stalking Incident

 I was chatting with a singer friend in London today. We played catch up, talked about family, life in general and old radios. While discussing getting older and feeding critters in parks, I made a reference to an incident I experienced in London's Hyde Park. Her curiosity piqued, she asked for and received the following tale.

In 2002, I got to do my first overseas tour. A handful of dates in the UK, arranged for me by my friend 2-Tone. It was indeed an experience to remember. My first trip outside of North America and by myself to boot. The tour, in many ways, validated my years of working as a musician. Stand or fall, I got to do it because someone thought I was definitely good enough to do it. I got to spend 3+ weeks in the UK, with my last couple of days in London, which were scheduled as days off/tourist visit time!

I'm a nerd. Always have been. I read lots of Sherlock Holmes and other British literature as a kid and devoured hours of British comedy on TV, in film, on record, etc., so given the chance to explore a bit of London was a dream come true. My hotel (recommended to me by a local travel agent here in Pittsburgh) was in Paddington, which he failed to inform me was in the heart of prostitute central! There were business cards and pamphlets in the phone boxes, stuck under doorways, tacked up on bulletin boards, everywhere! Yet, in London this just didn't look as tacky as one might imagine. I had adventures to pursue, just not of that particular nature. So, I took my day off and walked through the area up through Marylebone to Baker St and ventured all over. I visited the fictional home address of the aforementioned Holmes, saw Madame Tussaud's, Trafalgar Square and managed to get lost a few times as I was traveling on foot. Being a full-blooded American male, I was not about to stop and ask directions!

I eventually made my way to Hyde Park (after relieving myself on what turned out to be the back of Scotland Yard but that's a whole other story) to see a place I've heard about, read about and seen on TV so many times. It was everything I imagined and as it was early spring, everything was starting to bloom. The weather was pleasant by British standards...meaning not pissing down rain and not biting cold. By my standards, it was a good day for a leather jacket, which thankfully I had.

I'm an American. We are, contrary to what some might believe, friendly by nature. I'm from Pittsburgh. We take being friendly to new levels. We say Hi to everyone. Come to Pittsburgh and it's not unheard of to meet someone at a bar or restaurant or a shop and in short time be invited to their home for dinner. That's just how we are. Well, I said "Hi" to someone in the park, from a bit of a short distance and without my specs. Turned out to be a trans person (nothing wrong with that) who upon closer sight was a bit older and a bit leathery looking (again, nothing wrong with that. People age. It happens).

Well, it appeared that my natural friendliness was mistaken for something else. Maybe that part of the park is a cruising spot, I don't know. I was more concerned with the pollen induced reactions I was having to the spring-time plants. Metric tons of snot was filling my sinuses and my head felt ready to burst. After my initial, misunderstood friendliness, Miss Thing wasn't taking NO for an answer (hell, she didn't even bother to ask the question) and was following me everywhere and making sure I saw her as she tried her best to be cute and alluring. With how I was feeling, she could've been Elizabeth Hurley offering up her body, soul and a bucket of chicken! I was feeling less than wonderful and wasn't enjoying being stalked by anyone. So, I picked up my pace (which escalated the reaction I was having to all of the pollen in the air) and finally got shed of her...or so I thought. She apparently knew the park. She ended up ahead of me and heading my way. She obviously had her sights set on me and wasn't about to accept any substitutions! This is probably the only time my allergies have ever been useful. She came up to, looked me squarely in the eye and gave me an attempt at a seductive "Helloooo" (sounding not unlike Barry White with a British accent). I gurgled a thick, phlegmy but pleasant hello in return and then did what I had to. Placing a finger against one side of my nose, I launched a liter or so of goo out of my nose and onto the grass. The look on her face was just pure horror. I then cleared the other nostril and gagged up the slimy postnasal drip from my throat and spat yet another glob on to the grass. She was gone by this point. I must have seemed less attractive up close and personal and in my soggier-than-usual state. She could have at least offered me a tissue or directions to the nearest chemist! 

Thanksgivus 2021

 I bet you thought I wasn't gonna post this year! Ha! Fat chance!

It's been a crazy year for sure but still heaps to be thankful for. That I'm still alive and kicking is definitely in the top 3. I hope YOU have many things to be thankful for. If you're not sure, stop and think about those less fortunate. You'll quickly realize it all ain't so bad. Just don't have a stroke. Those suck. And now...the annual post.

Thanksgivus: that's what she called it. The 'she' in question would be a very short, loud, middle aged black woman with retardation who I supervised for years. Her name is Omega...fitting because she truly is THE END!

Omega didn't exactly have a speech problem but I think her hearing wasn't 100% on the mark, as certain words would get slurred together such as "Thanksgivus". Another fave was her version of Social Security, which often sounded more like "sociable secretary" (of which I've known a few).

Thanksgivus (which is what I now prefer to call the US holiday Thanksgiving) is the last Thursday of November (this is for my overseas friends who may not be fully knowledgeable of the subject). It is the holiday where we Americans give Thanks to God for giving us BIG tasty birds, punkin pie & cranberry sauce...all courtesy of a tribe that we soon took great pains to wipe out. In short, when those Pilgrims (essentially English religious nuts) 1st landed at Plymouth Rock, they didn't have a CLUE what they were doing or what they were in for!

After that 1st winter (what do you mean "No Central Heating"???), most of the Pilgrims had died off. A few hearty ones remained (probably by eating the others...but that story seems to have vanished in the annals of history) and it was looking bleak for them, as they didn't know SQUAT about farming North American soil. Luckily, the Indians (bite me, I will NOT be PC) took pity on them, showed them what to do and the Pilgrims survived. They did sooo well, in fact, they had a big feast and invited the Indians. When the Indians showed up, they realized that white folks are either really bad at planning feasts or are just stingy, so they sent some braves to go kill a half dozen or so deer....gotta make sure ya don't leave the table unless yer ready to burst....STILL an American Thanksgivus tradition. NOWHERE on the menu was green bean casserole....PLEASE make note of that! (the Americans reading this will get the humor)

Finally, sometime in the 19th century, after decades of confusion as to what this "New England" holiday was and when it was supposed to be observed, some mad woman wrote everyone in the colonies suggesting the last Thursday in November...just in time to mark the start of Xmas shopping season!

Now, contrary to what some of my English colleagues have been lead to believe, Thanksgivus is NOT the American Xmas. Trust me, NO ONE on this planet overdoes Xmas like the Americans! Here it is, the Sunday BEFORE Thanksgivus and I'm looking out my front door at my neighbor's Xmas lights! 1 month 5 days before we celebrate the Man's b-day (even though we have the date wrong)...1 month 5 days of looking at those damned lights! Don't get me wrong, I love the holidays as much if not more than most people...but I like things to be done for the right reasons...not just to be the 1st, best or brashest.

For the holidays, I wish you all peace, happiness and a full belly. May your homes be filled with laughter (and not just the canned version coming from your TV). May your pockets never be empty, maybe your fridge always be full (with at least 1 6pack of decent beer...in case I should stop by lol) and may your troubles be few & far between.

In fact, I don't just wish you these things for the holidays...I wish them for you all EVERYDAY.

I'm having a few friends over (as usual) this year for Thanksgivus (2021 - actually, the better half's mum and brothers...thats it this year) . It might not be the fanciest dinner but I hope to guarantee all a good meal, a full belly and someplace to sit and digest and enjoy some good company after (and before...as long as they stay OUTTA MY WAY in the kitchen.).

We will revel in the death of a turkey. We shall take delight in the taters, which will be mashed. The rolls will hopefully not be slightly burned on the bottoms (2021 making honey butter crescents this year!) ...but if they are, that's what butter, gravy & butter knives are for! The veggies will be plentiful and not overcooked. The pie will be chocolate cream...NOT PUNKIN! (my tradition...not yours, OK? ) And yes Virginia...there will most likely be cranberries of some sort...JUST NO DAMNED GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE...PLEASE!

Thank You For Giving Me A Chance!

The passage of time ultimately comes with the passing of friends and loved ones. It's the nature of things. We all die sometime. It's never easy to deal with for those left behind. 

I'm not exactly young and I've definitely passed my share of caskets. It never gets easier.

Today I was informed of the death of my friend and one-time UK booking agent Mike "2 Tone" Russell. He was in his 70s and his health hadn't been great for some time but damn, you're just never really ready to hear it. 

I can tell you lots of things about him. He loved 50s rock & roll. He loved rockabilly. He dug the whole old school Teddy Boy scene. He dug old cars. I doubt he loved anything as much as fishing for carp! (to those of us in the US, I know just how bizarre that sounds. No, he didn't eat them. In the UK, especially in Wales, carp fishing is all about catch & release. Very humane really.) He had a carp nemesis, Buster, who resided in a muddy pond just outside of Cardiff. Buster was a big ol' sumbitch and you had to be tough and crafty to land him. Mike did on a couple of occasions. I like to think Buster had the same respect for Mike that he had for Buster.

I could tell you lots of stories. Tales of his wild youth, our visit with 'the world's oldest hippie', loads of drinking stories, etc. I could tell you of the kindness he so often showed. He would hate me destroying his perceived tough guy image like that, so I'll try not to.

If Mike Russell did nothing else during his 70+ years, he completely changed MY life and its direction...simply by offering me a chance. Had it not been for him and his faith that the folks in the UK would like my music, I probably never would have toured overseas. Sure, I'd already toured most of the southern 48 and a few spots in Canada and Mexico but going across the pond is different. For starters, ya can't just drive there. As similar as people everywhere may be, going overseas, expecially for a musician, is a big deal. If it weren't for Mike, I probably never would have had the opportunity.

Let's face facts: I'm not everyone's cuppa. I'm a short, fat, (usually) loud guitar picker from Pittsburgh. I'm the least trendy person on the planet. Musically I don't fit anywhere. Too bluesy for rockabilly, too hillbilly for blues, and too damned loud/annoying/punk for the lot. My 2nd or 3rd show in the UK, I heard an old Ted refer to me as "too loud, too frantic" and my favorite, "practically punk!" (which was definitely not a compliment). I've had more than my share of oddball success but Lord only knows how or why. I've done thousands of shows, hundreds of hours of studio work, and pissed off more industry types than most will ever get the chance to. The 1st time I was offered a contract I actually read the damned thing. I flatly said NO, much to the chagrin of my bandmates. My writing, primitive as it is, was what was wanted. It was deemed to be of some commercial value and the company wanted control of it. Not a chunk of it. All of it. I've said NO to a number of different labels since then. I've had A&R and PR types try to get me to change my look, my sound, my hair. I had one guy tell me if I lost 30 pounds he could get me this and that. If memory serves, I spit beer on his shirt...but I digress.

RHOF 2001

I met Mike Russell at the 2nd annual Rockabilly Hall of Fame fest in Jackson, TN. He and his (then) wife June had made the trip to the states for the 3 day festival. I had been scheduled to perform with 2 acts. I ended up performing with all but maybe 2! It seems that no bass players managed to find the venue. Word got out that I could play. Every time I stepped off stage, I was stopped and asked if I could sit in with so & so. A bass would be handed to me and back up I went. Made for a long weekend. 

During one of my few breaks, I was having a beer and this older, VERY rock & roll looking couple asked if they could join me. They told me they enjoyed my playing and were impressed that I was gigging with everyone. They were really surprised to find out I was just winging it. We had a few beers, and chatted until I was due back onstage. We chatted throughout the weekend and made plans to keep in touch. Mike really liked a song I played for him ("Diamonds & Cadillacs") and asked if I had a recording of it. I thought I'd recorded it but hadn't. I later released a live CD which included it, and there's where it all came together. We were both pretty new to the wonderful world of email back then but we managed to stay in touch.

Mike was a disc jockey. He had an occasional radio show, plus he DJ'ed at rock and roll clubs, concerts, festivals, etc. He played my stuff and folks seemed to like it.  He started asking if I'd want to do some shows in the UK. I was thrilled at the idea but had lots of questions. This was not long after 9/11 so airfares were pretty low. It was still gonna cost a bit. Did he want me to bring the band? How many shows? How much were we gonna make? Did I need a work visa? 

We decided to keep it simple. A handful of shows in England and Wales, different bands would back me, they (allegedly) would know my stuff (most didn't). I'd stay at Mike and June's house in Cardiff and it was like a crazy road trip with a wild aunt and uncle. I did shows in Wellingborough, Cardiff, Newport, Barry, and Cleethorpes. I got sick as a dog in London. I met a ton of people, made some good friends and good contacts and those few weeks completely changed the direction of my life. People in the states took me (slightly) more seriously. I started to get calls and emails from all over to do shows. Later that year we recorded the BACK FROM THE DEAD disc, headed to Australia and my world got crazier. I was playing to thousands a night. I still tried to balance living in both the 'normal' world and the musician world. By age 40, I was pretty literally falling apart from it...but I can tell you I wouldn't change a damned minute of it. 

All of the blessings I've had in the past 20 years, I can trace them back to that crazy Welshman (ok, he was a Brummy but he'd tell you he was Welsh) taking an interest and offering me a chance. It's amazing what one person can do without even realizing it. 

Rest easy my friend. You definitely earned it. I'm sure the ol' Staffie Mob was there to greet ya. You will be missed, as irritating as you could be. It was my honor and privilige to have known you and called you my friend. Gorffwys Mewn Heddwch!